by Lillian DeVane
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/willeecole
They say a dog is man’s best friend.
But a woman’s? Well, that’s where it gets a little more complicated.
When I first met David Barkowitz it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. I’d just spent the last few months on a post divorce vacation in the same desert where Fleetwood Mac filmed their music video for “Hold Me.” It had been quite the rejuvenating experience, and a blessing to be away from my three children and personal butcher for longer than the usual two weeks. Sumptuous massages and constant heat stroke had melted away the stress of my twenty-five-year-long marriage, along with all of my possessions that weren’t steel or merino wool.
Back in the city I strolled, tanned and tawny, down a row of shops, looking for something to quench my thirst. Not water though because I was on a no water cleanse since my indulgent water gulping desert vacation.
Groping my way towards my favorite Parisian café I stumbled over an earthenware dish filled with water. Instinctively I gagged at the sensation of liquid and dropped to my knees only to find myself face to face with the smugly drooping jowls of a sizeable English bulldog. He held my gaze, and my mind flashed back to my Chelsea Girl days of sticky fur and permanent eyeliner. I’d seen a hundred dogs just like him, walking down Wall Street, running through the park with the bravado of a youth’s first successful equestrian jump.
Sure, we’d all gotten swept away at one point or another by those flashy collars and luxury rawhide bones, but it always ended the same way, low barks echoing off cool brick walls and disappearing by next sunrise. So instead of cooing a “who’s a good boy?” or issuing a playful ear scritch like I would have thirty years ago, I stepped back, and let my common sense rule for once in my life. His eyes broke away from my face and, testing the limits of his leash, he proceeded to lap up the remaining water with relish, as if he knew how many temptations he embodied.
I walked on but foolishly looked back, just in time to see an elegant young woman untie his leash and promenade into a lush, hidden garden. I said goodbye to the ghost of doggy bags past…or so I thought.
Weeks went by, mostly in the hospital because of my allegedly “dangerous” no water cleanse. I celebrated my release with a new cleanse to rid my body of all the toxic saline solution I’d binged on intravenously. After a rinsing a paste of chardonnay and crushed up valium from my entire body I dined alone at a restaurant that lets me smell their seaweed as an entrée.
There he was.
Alone. Untethered. Sitting on his ample haunches on the sidewalk outside my smelling table. He sensed me because he is an animal, and our eyes met once more, this time in danger and anticipation. A swirling gust of evening air and me nearly passing out from lack of nutrients temporarily blinded me, and it seemed all a dream when we arrived at my fourth townhouse (I’d forgotten the address of the other three).
I wish I could say that memories of whatever my children’s faces look like entered my mind. That my ex husband’s hideous hands appeared before me in pleading prayer. But that night there was nothing on my mind except the few remaining neurons in my brain and the weighted presence of a heyday hound at my feet.
The next few weeks were some of the happiest weeks of my month. Fetch, roll over, shake hands, play dead oh my god are you dead wait haha I get it…light and lively and electric. His collar gleamed the name David Barkowitz, its golden sheen bouncing off the glass of the orchid library at dusk. His collar also had a number on it, I presumed an office number, but I didn’t ask questions. There was no room for questions. Everything was fairly silent the entire time except the hum of my oxygen tent’s motor.
But in the flash of an auction paddle, it all came crashing down. One afternoon after a particularly unsettling flea bath (my skin is actually 55% paper so I have to be very careful about the products I use) the doorbell rang. After several minutes of struggling I managed to open the door and in front me stood the elegant woman I’d seen an emotional eternity before.
“Hey someone told me they saw my dog running around here? He’s an English bulldog? David?”
“Barkowitz.” I whispered.
“So you have seen him!”
Her glee was matched by my misery.
“Seen him? Why dear, he’s been living here by his own choosing”
“What? He’s a dog, that is super weird that you just took my dog and kept him when you had my number and everything.”
Unable to speak because I was in renal failure, a single tear spoke for me. David appeared from the shadows, succumbing to the comfort and security of his old, younger master. I watched them trot away into the August light, and in a fit of passion I threw his favorite rope toy as hard as I could after him, but it landed limply at my feet. It was over. He didn’t look back.
A year later, I was imagining brunch one morning, and found my thoughts returning to my weeks with Barkowitz. Where had his travels taken him? I flipped through the Sunday times, anxious for news of any kind that would settle my stomach, and who should I see, the largest picture, the most detailed description in the entire wedding section: David Allen Barkowitz and his beaming bride, Susan Sarandon.
A smile flickered across my sunken face, for it seemed he had found a truly satisfying treat, not the pills I wrapped in cheese and massaged down his throat, but a lasting treat that would never leave his side except maybe at a doggy park. No husband, no Barkowitz, I think my children died, but I have so many memories to sift through, so many tightly leashed walks to cherish in my life.
So to answer the question, can women and dogs be just friends?
Well, if diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and dogs are man’s best friend, and women are from Venus, then who are we to judge the illegal diamond mining business or matters of the canine heart?
**flatlines**