Don't Mince Words

I’m pretty sure I’m never getting laid again, and I’m ok with it.  Here’s why.  My dog is in love with me.

It was a long courtship of walks, parks, car rides, and movies on the couch.  He waited to sleep with me for six months.  Then one day when I came home on crutches from foot surgery and he sprung into action.  While I was konked out on painkillers with my iced foot propped up on the couch, he climbed up and laid on top of me, like a hen on her chick.  I woke up when my dog walker came in and exclaimed, “oh my god Marna, are you ok?”  He reluctantly left for his walk.

Later that evening, my K9 nurse climbed into bed with me and slept with his head on my stomach watching me.  We’ve pretty much been sleeping together ever since – me and my 85-pound dog in a queen-size bed.

After Christmas, our relationship went to the next level.  He now wants to put his head on my shoulder and the pillow.  I was too tired to protest and move him the first night, then I realized his light snoring (similar to this dog) puts me to sleep faster than a wave machine.

I’m not sure what I’m doing right in this relationship, but it’s working.  I’ll take an old, rescued dog over a middle-aged man with baggage any day.  Tex is in it for the long haul.

I realize for most parents, one of their early happiest days are when their kid can wipe their own ass and make a meal.  For me, it’s the two- to three-year old age bracket when they’ll repeat a cuss word unexpectedly.  I laugh, the parents cringe.

Today I was in Petco with Tex, my only begotten son.  We were on a quest for pumpkin-head sized reindeer antlers.  I know, it’s gay and he’s going to kill me in my sleep, but I live in West Hollywood where the average dog weight is six pounds.  This 85-pound American Bulldog can’t compete with the sweater-wearing purse puppies except with seasonal accessories.  So we were in the aisle with the pet pee squirt bottles, rug piss shampoo, smell be-gone, etc.. My dog lifted his leg and pissed on the bottom rack of urine sprays.  Ironic, I know, and glorious at the same time.  I began laughing, then I quickly looked to see if anyone saw.  I thought about cleanup, for two seconds, and then figured someone else would enjoy the pee puddle irony and laugh too.

My dog doesn’t bark or cuss, but it is little things like this that make him more fun than a toddler.

Tex and I were strolling back from our walk to the coffee shop on Melrose. We were in the home stretch, the last block, where Tex always lags behind. He’s not slow because he’s sniffing everything. He’s just old and tired. His hips try to keep up with his mind, but often fail him.

Half-way up the block I noticed an old man going about the same pace as Tex. As we got closer, the 80-something had on a blue wife beater, a full adult diaper, and gray-blue loafer slippers with dark blue piping on the top, just like my dad used to wear. He was holding a bush with each step he took as he headed north to Santa Monica Boulevard. I said good morning as we passed. His face looked like he had not shaved in a week. I remember that old man look from my father. Why bother when you are ill and the folds in your face make it even harder to shave? As I fed Tex, I called the West Hollywood sheriff and explained there was a semi-ambulatory old man with dementia out for a stroll on my block. I’d never seen him before and didn’t know which building he came from. They said they’d send a patrol car over. Tex retreated to his day bed to look out the front door.

The old man shuffled past two more houses before he stopped to rest on a brick wall. Approximately 40 minutes elapsed and his caretaker had finely come out to find him, about the same time the patrol cars rolled up. I walked out and talked to one of the sheriffs.

“Thanks for coming. I realize this was a less-than-desirable call, but I just couldn’t let this guy wander on Father’s Day,” I told him.

“God, I hadn’t thought of that,” the sheriff said. He laughed and continued with “it did look like he was making a break for it didn’t it?”

When Tex becomes incontinent and in pain, he’ll get the shot. My dad, when he realized his life was tied to a dialysis machine, elected to discontinue treatment and fade away. But I think the cruelest death is living in a shell of a body not knowing who you are and reliant on others while you look for life.

The wandering old man deserves to be in a better place.

It’s official. Tex is my longest running relationship since arriving in LA. He’s emotionally available, he’s big, he doesn’t flake on me, and me makes me smile every day.

We’ve been together a little more than a year and April Fool’s Day is his designated 11th birthday since it’s easy to remember and it reminds me how foolish I thought I was for adopting an old dog. But Tex is a combination of Jeff Lebowski and Flounder – there’s a casual, cool, perpetual goofiness about him that makes him my one true love.

While my favorite, four-lettered word is N-E-X-T, Tex’ word of choice is W-A-L-K. But sometimes he can’t walk. After some severe bouts of lameness, I discovered that Tex had an advanced case of hip dysplasia as well as some lower back issues. Now doggie meds keep the inflammation down in addition to glucosimine and Omega-3 infused food. He doesn’t hike as much. In fact, he now gets more pleasure walking to Whole Foods so he can be the exit greeter while I’m inside shopping.

Last weekend a woman commented at a coffee shop that he was an “obvious old soul.” I don’t know about that new age hippie bullshit. I do know he’s old and kind of looks like Yoda. And he is wise. He’s the dog everyone wants to pet. Small kids want to hug him. He’s happy to be alive. I’m glad I fostered/adopted him. It’s a pleasure to keep him comfortable in his senior years.

The dude abides. Happy birthday man.

I spent the first four years in Los Angeles dating voraciously, trying to make up for my career-first East coast days. I’m now a dog owner, which has kind of changed my outlook on dating. You are going to have to be better than my dog and my vibrator to get me out of the house.

That rule quickly changed on Thursday for the veep debate. I had a gentleman caller (GC) over for drink Palin Bingo. GC and I were re-introduced a few months ago by a mutual friend and have had a great time bitching about dating in LA, getting fit, writing, and everything in between. It was nice to have a man over. I didn’t have to leave my dog.

But Tex quickly established who was top dog when he crawled on to the sofa and pressed his nose up to GC’s hip. I was permitted to sit sideways beside the boys. After a few “mavericks” and “main streets,” Tex realized this guy was ok and he demoted himself down to his day bed on the floor. GC was approved.

Tex is the big brother I never had. He watches my back. Thankfully, he leaves the room when he hears the vibrator.

When you have a good dog, and a good vibrator, is there any need to date in LA? Today I came to my senses and decided, ah, no thank you.

On Thursday night I was coaxed out of my canine enclave to see a 70’s-style punk band. When they opened with “I’m not your stepping stone” and closed with a Ramones song, I was happy I got out. Fat Tire on draft and I got a little pogoing in.

My girlfriend and I decided to hit the Rainbow Room on our way home. The last time I was there, I saw Lemmy from Motorhead (but I think he lives behind the bar). It’s a total rocker bar. If I were younger and dug guys that weighed less than me, I’d be in business. But it’s fun to see the leather and the Alice Cooper eyeliner and think, “see you in the corporate monkeyspank soup line in five years, novice.”

But my stance on musicians didn’t stop me from immediately noticing a Fabio longhair-type at the end of the patio wearing a white wife-beater.

“Hello 12 o’clock,” I said to my girlfriend after I had made the mandatory five-second hello-I’m-available-eye-contact.

I turned and she said, “Oh, he’s checking your ass out,”

Five minutes later, he passed us going to the bathroom and said hello to me. “That was a direct hit, right? I suck at this flirting shit,” I admitted to my girlfriend.

Not too long after that, Fabio and Friend sat down with us. I had a nice time talking and listening to the panty-melting south american accent. We know how the latins like me… Marnasita with the galaxy-sized hips and infectious laugh. Fabio was petite, but attractive and, more importantly, a great kisser.

I relinquished my phone number with the promise of a date in the near future. We chatted a couple times Friday when I discovered he worked part-time and he didn’t have a car. He requested I pick him up Saturday night for our date and we’d do something mellow.

On Saturday, after a spending Friday night with Tex barfing up his hip dysplasia meds, I decided Fabio wasn’t worth a commute. I’ve done underemployed musicians before.

I called and canceled the date. Afterwards, Tex approached me with his sad eyes and I told him he was still my main man. Later than evening I took him around the block for his mark-all-things-vertical walk. In our short spin, two people approached me and asked me if he was an American Bulldog and told me what a good-looking dog he was.

Yeah, I know, he’s hot. He’s the dood I stayed in for.

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.

I’ve ramped up my Internet dating again. After last week’s happy hour fiasco, I’ve gone back to the horrid 20-minute coffee date. Tonight I added a twist. I brought a dog, or as I will now call him, my “get out of jail free card.”

Tex is an 80-pound American Bulldog I’m fostering and he is probably my new surrogate boyfriend. I brought him with me because I just had a sense I would need distraction to get through the date. By god, my instincts were right. My date was probably around for Eisenhower’s inauguration, not that there’s anything wrong with lying about your age or looking like a craggily dirty hippie wannabe.

As you would expect, it gets better. When I was making shitty 20-minute coffee date small talk, I decided to ask him what he did in his free time.

“Fuck,” he said.

Honest response, but creepy coming from an old man. That’s about the time Tex came to the rescue and began flirting with the passers by. I ended up meeting a lot of nice young men (probably WeHo gay, but I did say YOUNG), who wanted to pet Tex. Gramps was still on a mission to know what my tattoo said. I told him twice it wasn’t funny unless seen in context.

“I’m never going to see it, am I?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

We got up and said our goodbyes. His final words were, “So call me if you are interested in going out again. I’d like to see you all dolled up and get you drunk.”

I smiled and crossed the street. Tex took a massive shit on the other side. I laughed and told him he was a good boy, “Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get out of there either.”