Live Fast Die Hot (25 page)

As much as I loved Teets, the truth was, I kind of needed him out of the way so I could focus on my new life with Sid. Every time I pulled Sid next to me, Teets found a way to squeeze between us; if Sid left a toy on the floor, Teets would take it outside to bury it in a mass grave he'd dug. Instead of taking Teets to Tahiti, I decided to leave him in L.A. He was no longer on death watch and we needed a few days apart. When I returned, he looked younger and spritelier than ever. The facial hair he'd lost from the radiation was filling back in. He was starting to look like the dog I had ten years ago.

Jason and I couldn't help but resent him for it.

“Can you believe you were basically ready to put this dog down six months ago?” Jason shook his head as we drove home from the sitter. I looked at Teets, who stood on Jason's lap as he drove, his head hanging out the window. “
LIVE STRONG
,
BITCHES
,” I pictured him bellowing at the top of his doggy lungs as we passed a pack of Rottweilers. For a split second I had a dark fantasy of pushing him out of the car. It was all just too much! The roller coaster of emotion, the tug-of-war between my past and my future, the fact that I still wasn't sad enough to stop eating. Something needed to change.

By February we were back in New York. Teets was still an egomaniac and I was still trying to adjust to a polygamous lifestyle. He'd breezed past his fourteenth birthday with ease and was about to make it past Sid's first when I reached my limit. The vet had told me months earlier that when he was ready to go, I'd know it.

“Are you by chance ready to go?” I asked him one night before bed.

Teets looked up from a giant bone he was hoarding in his dog bed. “Not even a little bit,” his eyes replied.

“I mean, I love him. You know how much I love him, but how long is this going to last?” I was in bed next to Jason and whispering under the sheets. Teets was drinking water in the living room, so I was certain he couldn't hear us. “I just…it's February and I always pictured Sid's first birthday having a sort of Circle of Life theme.”

“Like what, you would have made our son's birthday double as Teets's funeral? Are you sick?” Jason whispered, too, equally scared of Teets's wrath.

“NO! God, no!” I gasped in horror. “More like his wake. Super-chill. Lots of dancing. Maybe a piñata in his likeness.”

Against all odds, Teets and his nasal tumor Lived Strong all the way through to July, when finally he started slowing down again. Sure, in concept I was ready for things to end. After all, I was only one death in the family away from my goal weight. But as eager as I was for a grieving widow body, losing Teets would undoubtedly be the most painful thing to ever happen to me.

By August, his nasal congestion was back and worse than ever. Even at his most sedentary, his breathing sounded like a Jewish guy in a down comforter store. I tried to teach him to sleep with his mouth open like I did, but the vet said it was impossible. He dropped from nine pounds to five, so thin I could count his vertebrae from a foot away. I'd sworn the first time I did the radiation that it would be the only time, but the second I saw him struggling, I was on a plane back to Los Angeles to do a second pass. All the skepticism about cancer-beating miracle drugs went out the window. My apartment became filled with Metacam, Yunnan Baiyao, Proin, Endosorb, metronidazole, turmeric, green tea, stasis breakers, omega-3 fatty acids, Rx Biotics, Clavamox, and a neoplasia support dog food. I would let Teets go peacefully but not painfully.

The day before his second treatment in Los Angeles, he lost all interest in food. Even the Umami burger I'd picked up for him from the Grove lay cold and untouched on the bathroom floor. I didn't think he was strong enough to make it through another round of radiation, but the oncologist insisted his blood work looked good. So in a last-ditch attempt, I went for it.

Teets narrowly escaped cancer the first time around. He'd outlived his prognosis by nearly a year. I was proud of him for fighting as long as he had. And as frustrating as it was at times, I was eternally grateful that he'd gotten to know Sid and that Sid had gotten to know him. Whether or not Sid would remember him, I had photos and videos and silly stories that would be indelibly etched into my memory.

Sitting in the waiting room of the VCA hospital on Sepulveda Boulevard, I started to wonder if maybe Teets had stuck around as long as he had just to make sure things were serious with my new beau. Once he was sure I was going to be okay, maybe he'd be ready to let me go…

Not the case. At fourteen and a half now, he's beat cancer twice and has already made it clear that he has no intention of letting me go anywhere. For his
quinceañera
he has requested a life-size piñata of Sid. When RSVPing, please be forewarned that he does read my e-mails.

Harry should have been a one-night stand. The type of dog you watch for the day, then never see again. He wasn't hostile or mean. His personality could actually be quite charming if you caught him at the right moment, and his looks were unrivaled. He was a gorgeous male model of a miniature pinscher who, like all male models, is best enjoyed at a distance, in his underwear on the back of a passing bus. Taking him into your home and trying to domesticate him is only asking for trouble. Harry and I lived together for the better part of eight years not because I wanted to but because I had no choice. Aside from enjoying long walks on the beach and having little to no patience for candlelit dinners, we had nothing in common—besides Jason. Harry had come with my marriage, and as cold of a bitch as I could be, I would have never forced Jason to give him up—until I did.

I met Harry a couple weeks after I met Jason and I could tell right away he was hot but not my type. He had a great body and an adorable face but he had rocks in his head. He was needy, high-strung, mildly homicidal. He couldn't sit still long enough to listen and if left alone would devour underwear, shoes, wallets, and trash. One time he ate an entire bag of fertilizer and vomited shit all over Jason's brand-new carpet. Another time he devoured a giant pot brownie and spent the rest of the night fucking all the cashmere throws. Next to Teets, who was patient, respectful, and could probably qualify for Mensa, Harry was a total himbo with separation anxiety. He never wanted to be left alone. At night he expected you to spread your legs and let him burrow in. If you left him outside the house, he would bark at the top of his lungs until you opened the door. If a piece of food fell on the ground he would turn into a complete savage, willing to take your arm off in order to consume it. If you invited guests over he would suddenly be compelled to shit in the spot most likely to get stepped in. Like an asshole stepson who was either going to end up moving out of state with his mom or stabbing you to death in your sleep, you just had to keep your mouth shut and keep all your valuables hidden. On more than one occasion I asked Jason's ex if she'd be willing to take Harry back, but even Baz knew better than that. In my most desperate hours I probably offered to throw in her beach caftan to help sweeten the deal, but she still wouldn't budge. Harry was a problem child and everyone but Jason could see it.

I always knew that Harry's demise would be of his own making. As many times as I was tempted to lather his body in chicken fat and take him on a leash-free hike through Runyon Canyon, I refrained. Harry was Jason's dog and the burden of breaking up with/murdering him needed to fall on Jason. Though it was annoying and cost me thousands of dollars in obedience school, steam cleaning, and boarding, I refused to be the bad cop. Instead, I mentally checked out, allowing entropy to take hold until Jason saw fit to do something about it.

For most of the first year and a half of Sid's life, Harry was boarded at a place in Sylmar. I never feared that Harry would intentionally harm Sid, more that his reckless behavior would somehow lead to our house burning down. Unlike Teets and Gina, who are basically throw pillows with eyes, Harry needed constant supervision. He was like that emotional guy at your house party who spends his night on the roof threatening to cannonball into the swimming pool. Unless you were willing to devote your entire evening to looking at his sketchbook filled with
Hunger Games
fan art and hearing about the time he tried to kill himself, he was determined to make a scene. In L.A., Jason and I had space for these kinds of antics. At least there, Harry could channel his restless energy into hunting squirrels or digging mass graves with Teets. But in New York, we didn't have the luxury of outdoor space or playrooms filled with enough toys that you wouldn't notice five or six missing. We were living in an apartment with a baby, a nanny, two other dogs, and three Elmos. And if any of those Elmos were to get chewed apart and spit out under a couch, it would affect all of us dramatically.

Still, once we'd committed to the East Coast full-time, Jason insisted that we bring Harry out of boarding to join us.

“He's my dog, Jenny. He can't just stay in L.A. indefinitely.”

I wasn't opposed to Harry staying in L.A. indefinitely, actually. But I
was
annoyed that he'd been with our dogsitter long enough that we'd paid for her face-lift. I had a face to worry about, too. And though I'd tried to block Harry out of my mind, he kept sneaking his way back in. Like that annoying guy you accidentally slept with at a holiday party fifteen years ago who's still inviting you to his birthday drinks, he wouldn't let me forget him.

I tried to separate my own feelings from the equation, and the more I thought about it, the more moving Harry to New York seemed like a bad idea not just for us but for him, too. He needed a life that the city couldn't offer. He needed a life I couldn't offer. Before Sid, I had more patience, a higher threshold for chaos. Now I had a toddler who kicked and screamed and had just mastered the art of opening a door. There was nowhere to hide. Even when I was sitting on the toilet Sid would find me and threaten to stab himself in the head with a curling iron. Jason and I needed to be on high alert at all times, like two racquetball players with freshly minted nose jobs.

It was Sunday morning and the clock was ticking. In less than a week Jason was flying to L.A. He and Harry hadn't seen each other in more than nine months. Though he missed his dog, I could tell that even Jason was daunted by the repercussions his decision would likely yield. While Jason grappled with his conflicting emotions, I did what I do best: surreptitiously surfed Instagram and judged strangers.

I scrolled aimlessly through my feed before stopping on a picture posted by a woman I'd come to know as @Fleamarketfab. Jen, aka Flea, was a designer I'd bought an Icelandic sheep hide off months earlier when I'd decided I was an interior decorator. Jen had the kind of eye for décor that's so good it makes you want to gouge out your own useless eyes with the arm of a Hans Wegner wishbone chair. I loved her page and her home, and never failed to heart any pic she posted of an Africa juju hat casually hanging next to a fiddle-leaf fig. But on this day, she posted something different. It was a candid snapshot of a miniature pinscher dressed as a dragon. I paused for a minute, trying to remember if I'd ever noticed a miniature pinscher on her page. I knew she had a shepherd and some sort of redheaded foxhound, but I'd never seen a minpin. Maybe this was a new addition? Or maybe she'd had him all along and I just had a mental block that prevented me from seeing minpins in general?

I impulsively shot her a text. “Hey, Jen, Do you have a minpin?”

“Yeah…Why?” Jen's phone had the option turned on that tells you the exact moment she'd read your text, letting me know she was a way better person than me.

“Do you want another one?” Having never met her, I decided there was no point in beating around the fiddle-leaf fig tree. For all I knew, she was already living in her own personal minpin hell.

“Whose?” she wrote back instantly.

I looked at Jason across the room. He sat on the floor with Sid, counting how many blueberries they could balance on Teets's catatonic body. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gina sprawled out across a recent issue of
T
magazine, staring at her nails and sunbathing on the windowsill. For approximately two minutes, everything in my apartment was calm. I pictured Harry and what his energy would do to the rarely tranquil environment.

“Mine,” I wrote back.

I could see that Jen had read my text, but she refrained from answering. As the owner of a miniature pinscher, I understood how someone offering you another could be taken as a total fuck-you. So, taking Jen's nonresponse as all the response I needed, I turned my attention to a post of Lamby Dunham in a leotard.

A few hours later, Jason and I started our “leaving the house routine,” which usually took an hour. Sid was standing on the dining room table refusing to put on pants. I tried to coax him down by offering him a chia bar I'd disguised as a piece of candy.

Just then my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Jen. She told me that she'd talked it over with her husband and that not only was he open to taking Harry, he was giddy at the idea. Was she serious? I know I had offered, but seriously, what kind of person would willingly open their home to a ten-year-old problem child? What was the catch?

Ultimately, it didn't matter
why
Jen was willing to take Harry in. Only that she was. Now I just had one other person to convince.

“How do you know this person?” Jason stared at me skeptically as he finished his coffee and I soothed Sid by pretending to eat his legs.

“I've known her for months. She's the woman I bought that sheepskin from.” I was trying to keep things vague.

“And you've met her in person?”

“She has a big house, three other dogs, her kids are grown, just look at these pictures of her place.” I pulled up Jen's Instagram feed, showing Jason her
Architectural Digest
–worthy digs, then went to the kitchen to pack up Sid's diaper bag.

Jason perused the pics, impressed. “Where is this?”

“Umm.” I paused, pretending to look for a sippy cup.

“You don't know!” He'd caught me.

“I do,” I said, defensive.

“Jenny. You've never met this person, have you?”

“Virtually. Yes. Physically? No.”

“So this is a total stranger.”

“Who has nearly thirty thousand Insta followers. I think she's legit.”

“And where does she live?” he asked again, steering me back on track.

I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that Jen lived in Ohio, but I wasn't sure where, exactly. Fully clothed now, Sid climbed up my leg and demanded a horsey ride out the door.

“I think like Cleveland, Lorain, Paris, Cincinnati, Des Moines…” I grabbed the house keys as I listed a few cities that sounded plausible, hoping one was right.

“First of all, Des Moines is in Iowa. Second of all, there is no Paris, Ohio.”

“Yes, there is.” I wasn't sure there was.

“I think you're thinking of Paris, Texas.” The only thing Jason loved more than correcting my grammar, my spelling, or my math was correcting my geography.

“Google it,” I said, pretty sure there was a Paris in every state. Jason immediately stopped in place and got on his phone.

“You're right. It's a place,” he announced, disappointed. “But I doubt that's where she lives.”

“
WHO CARES
? The point is that she's awesome, with a great environment that she's willing to let Harry live in.” I opened the front door and as I did, Sid slapped me hard across the mouth. Gina bolted out dragging her leash behind her, and Teets started wheezing as if he were choking on a chicken bone.

“We can't have him come here,” I blurted out.

Jason closed his eyes, resigned. “I know,” he admitted weakly.

After talking with Jen on the phone and confirming that she was a dog lover who did indeed live in Cleveland, Jason felt better about the decision. Later that night when Sid vomited chia bar all over his crib, he was more convinced than ever.

There was just one catch: He couldn't be the one to hand Harry over. Jason explained that if he were to see Harry face-to-face there would be no way he'd be able to give him up. If I wanted Harry to be with Jen in Ohio, I was going to have to take him there myself.

The following week, Jason and I flew out to Los Angeles for my brother-in-law's fortieth birthday. After a whirlwind forty-eight hours, Jason boarded a flight back to New York while I waited at the hotel for Harry. The plan was relatively simple: His sitter would drop him off. I would spend the night with him in L.A. Then we'd board an early flight to Cleveland, where I'd meet up with Jen. The next morning, after the drop, I'd head back to New York.

My anxiety mounted when I spotted Maxine, Harry's sitter, in the valet area of the hotel unloading a bag of dog food from her truck. Harry's head popped out of the passenger-side window and he started barking. He looked older than I remembered. I couldn't help but wonder if he thought the same about me. His eyes were slightly foggier, his muzzle completely gray.

“Hi, Harry,” I said, my stomach twisting into a pretzel.

Maxine turned to me and waved. She pulled Harry out of the truck and gave him a long, drawn-out hug. For as much time as I'd spent with Harry, Maxine had spent even more. Before agreeing to give Harry to Jen, we'd offered him to Maxine, but she refused. She loved Harry, but she was already drowning in dogs and didn't need one more of her own.

“I'm gonna miss him,” she said, holding back tears.

I hugged Maxine tight, realizing that this was most likely the end of our relationship as well.

“You know he's gonna freeze his ass off in Ohio,” she said, handing me two doggy sweaters and a puffy jacket before eventually getting in her truck and pulling away.

As per usual, Harry seemed oblivious to what was transpiring around him. He dragged me by his leash, not so much as glancing in Maxine's direction as she drove off. When he was finished peeing on all four corners of the hotel, I walked him up to my room. Once we were alone and he was off his leash, he started racing around, smelling everything. I worried he could still smell Jason on my suitcase. What I knew and he couldn't was that he'd most likely never see Jason again. I was sad for Harry and also sad for Jason. This wasn't the way I wanted it to end for them.

Around six, my friend Adele stopped by to take me to dinner. I left a blanket and water out for Harry. Adele whined about what a bitch I was for abandoning her in Los Angeles and now Harry in Ohio. But she of all people knew the extent of Harry's issues. She stopped complaining the second I threatened to leave Harry with her.