Part-Time Dog 1103

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by Tom SeltzerPart-Time Dog

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Text and images ©2009 Thomas Seltzer. All rights reserved.

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So I got a job as a part-time dog.




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The bookstore had cut back my hours, and I needed something to fill

the gap until I finished my thesis. Columbia had made it clear that they

wanted it done by the end of next semester.

The ad was pretty straightforward:

“WANTED: Young (20s-30s) M or F to be part-time dog for young boy.

Flexible hours, overtime.”

I made an appointment for the next day.




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The kid’s parents lived in a huge brownstone on Dean Street, with a

lot of nice rugs and antiques, which is why they didn’t want a real pet

running around. But they made the mistake of promising their kid a

dog, though, so they thought maybe they could get somebody to do it

part-time.

The kid’s mom seemed pretty embarrassed by the whole thing,

but the dad had no problem with it whatsoever. I think he’s an invest-

ment banker.

We agreed I’d be their dog Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturday morn-

ings, and if they needed me to be a dog other times, I’d get time and a

half.




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The kid’s dad introduced me to the kid. “Here,” he said to him, “this is

your new dog.” The kid did not look very impressed. Well, that goes

two ways, kid. I can read Hegel in the original German. You don’t even

know when you’re peeing. Superciliousness from you I don’t need.

The kid very gently scratched me behind the ears. Maybe he’s not so

bad. I licked his face. He looked thrilled. The dad looked oddly pleased,

too.




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We spent most of the rest of the day inside (it was raining). We played a

game where I would jump up on the couch and he would shoo me off.

His dad made a big deal about telling him that he could swat me with

a rolled-up newspaper, but the kid wasn’t into that. He just shooed. We

may end up getting along.




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Wednesday we went to Prospect Park. We had a great time galumphing

around the meadow, although it gets hard on the knees awfully fast. I

may buy some kneepads and expense them later on my Schedule C

come April.

Playing fetch was less successful. The kid is too little to throw

very hard, and I don’t really like the taste of bark. “Look,” I told him, “you

don’t want the stick and I don’t want the stick, so let’s forget it.” He was

cool with that, so we galumphed some more until it started to drizzle

and we headed home.




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His mom asked the nanny to make the kid some hot chocolate when we

got back. I wanted some too, so I tried whining a little. “I’m sorry, sweet-

ie,” she told me, “but chocolate is bad for dogs.” She seemed genuinely

concerned. Odd woman. Are the edges of her realities blurring?

I just shook myself off, sat in a corner and rested my head in my paws.

Hands. Whatever.




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Saturday morning I got pretty good at rolling over. I spent the evening

re-translating Hegel and thinking about if the a inherent to the Treaty of

Ghent was in conflict to the Dialectic. My concentration was intense.




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Monday we hung out in a little park up

on Clinton. There were a lot of other

dogs there, and I sort of felt profes-

sionally obligated to mingle.

“Arf,” I said to one dog, but I got no re-

sponse. I tried explaining, “Look, I’m a

dog too,” but that didn’t go over either.

Finally, I broke down and sniffed his

butt. I knew it was inevitable and I

wasn’t looking forward to it. I wasn’t

even sure how a dog’s butt was sup-

posed to smell. Better than that, I

hope. Still, for whatever reason, it

broke the ice.




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One of the dog’s owners came by, stared at the kid’s mom for a minute

and then said, “My, what an unusual breed.”

“Arf,” I added. The kid’s mom looked pretty embarrassed, but hey,

it’s all part of being a pro.

I wanted to reassure her some, so I licked her face. This may have added

to her ambivalence.




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Wednesday I showed up fifteen minutes early and thought I would just

sit down and read the Times for a few minutes. The kid’s dad told me

that “breaking character” around the kid might confuse him. I was going

to tell him that I wasn’t on the clock yet, so he didn’t have the right to

criticize, but instead I bared my teeth and growled.

After he left, I chewed off the cuffs of his favorite pants. No breaking

character there, pal.




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We tried to learn sitting up in the afternoon, but I didn’t really do too

well (sore knees). The kid kept giving me treats anyway. “Good doggy,”

he’d tell me. “I like you too, kid,” I told him. Then he licked my face.




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You know, that Scooby-Doo is a vastly underestimated character.

(Is there a journal article in that somewhere?)




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Slow day at the bookstore. I read about dogs. Turns out that they’re

color blind, and now I keep staring at my shirt, trying to decide whether

it’s yellow or green. Also, I think my ears are perking up whenever I hear

a high-pitched noise.




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The kid’s dad keeps rolling up newspapers whenever I walk into the

room. But he must know that if he swats me, I’ll just have to bite him

on the ankle. I want to tell him, “Look, you’re a grown man. I’m a grown

man. Neither of us wants this to escalate. Let’s work it out.” But I’m on

the clock, so I just walked up to him, said “Arf” and tried to look both

mature and resolute. This is pretty tough to do when you’re face is eye

level with someone’s crotch. I don’t think I pulled it off.




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That day at the park the kid and I were tearing it up. He’s finally got the

hang of throwing the stick, and I’ve gotten to like the taste of bark. He

clapped his hands when I brought it back to him the first time and said,

“Good dog!”

I AM a good dog!




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There was a really cute girl in the park yesterday and she came over

to coo at the kid. “Arf,” I said. The kids’ mom mumbled, “He’s being my

boy’s dog.”

“Confidentially,” I told her, “I’m a talking dog.”

That girl couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The kid’s mom

looked mortified. But I don’t get it: who wouldn’t be impressed

with a talking dog?




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Saturday morning was not fun. It was rainy again, so the kid and I

stayed inside and watched Sesame Street DVDs. But the dad was

there too. He sat down on his chair and told me imperiously, “Dog,

go fetch the paper.” I didn’t move. “Dog, don’t you know how to

fetch?” I’m two chapters away from my PhD, from an Ivy, for God’s

sake. I’ve completely refuted the idea that Hegel’s “Phenomenology

of Spirit” was propaedeutic to philosophy instead of an exercise in it.

Of course I know how to fetch.

So I got him his damn paper, but I gave him a look. Baleful. A baleful

look. I hope he’s ashamed for lowering himself like that.




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I think my other job is starting to affect my work.




Part-Time Dog 1103

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