Day 14 (Part 1- PMS; the indulgence of my least favorite dog)
Day 14
This is what kind of a day I had:
I reprimanded a woman who jostled me on 1st Avenue this morning and didn’t apologize. Later, I yelled at a man whose dog was unleashed in Gramercy, and rounded out the day by giving the finger to a little girl in the West Village.
I have PMS. It takes a certain amount of introspection to realize it sometimes, to not automatically blame outside influences. Or at least acknowledge that while the outside influences are vexing, it is partially the blame of hormones that makes me react so vehemently and vocally. A sure sign is whenever one of the first words out my mouth in the morning is “goddamnit.” That’s how I know the reserve of patience on hand that day will be thin and worn, like a favorite bathrobe.
It’s the second day in a row that The Man with the Dogs called within 10 minutes of my alarm clock waking me up. I don’t feel as if it’s too much to ask, to have an hour to myself before I have to think about what I’m going to be doing with the next several hours in the freezing cold. The reason why he called was left on my voice mail instead of me dealing with it directly. He suggested that I should leave Dogs 1&2 for later, go instead to Dogs 3&5 first, then go up to 1&2, afterwards heading over to Dog 6, before going back downtown to re-walk 3&5. For the second day in a row, too, no mention was made of Dog 4. Yesterday I showed up to take her out, and she wasn’t there. So I figured no Dog 4 today, either, although I wondered when this would be made known to me officially. I would be much more annoyed if Dog 4 didn’t live directly next door to Dog 5. It really only results in a loss of 30 seconds of time. But still.
As soon as I got off the subway, I received a message from one of the owners of my least favorite dog, who coincidentally or not, are my least favorite owners. He asked me to call him at his office so we could talk “for 5 or 10 minutes” and he could give me some “pointers” about the dog. I wish to hell he was a Pointer, instead of a fluffy, indulged lap dog. He has embroidered pillows, for Christ’s sake. Come on.
When I called, he began by announcing that the Dog (3) had had some “accidents” in the apartment, so maybe if I knew a few of his idiosyncracies, and was extra-patient, and he were to get used to me, this wouldn’t happen. He told me that I should bring him to “silver grates”, where, presumably, he would feel more comfortable taking a crap. Either that or between two parked cars. Okay, I said. Sure.
“I mean, I know it just sounds so strange, but that’s the way he came out…and I don’t know if my wife spoke to you?”
No, I told him flatly. “It’s the first time I’ve spoken to either of you.” The subtext was that it would’ve made a lot more sense to cover this two weeks ago.
“Oh, okay. Well, if you have any questions, you know, just feel free to give me call.”
“Same to you.” I said.
When I hung up, I thought of how cool it would be if someone else walked that dog instead.
A half-hour later, I was still thinking of it as I slowly coaxed 3 to every grate in a two- block radius, with no result. I continuously tried to steer it between parked sets of cars, with no result. It made a point of thoroughly and repeatedly sniffing every scaffolding post and stoop that it sniffed each and every painful day, We were one block from the Hudson River, and the sharp wind that blew up the street made my eyes tear.
Every time another dog came into view, 3 would do his thing of either sitting firmly down on the pavement or straining at the leash, despite the fact that most of the dogs were easily twice his size. I bitterly regretted that a portion of the least was elasticized. It made it more difficult to drag him away.
“This is slow torture.” I said out loud, two or three times.
Eventually, I managed to get 3 home. I didn’t have all day for him to stand there on the sidewalk while my hands grew numb.
Up in Murray Hill, it was sunny. I walked from Park Avenue over to the FDR drive, stopping at a drugstore so I could pick up blank tapes and fresh batteries for my guerilla taping of the Pet CPR class.
As I was waiting to cross 34th Street with a few other people, a middle-aged woman pushed past me from behind, walking into me. She didn’t look back. I gave her an icy stare. “Excuse you.” I said tartly, and marched past her. Fucking rich people.
This is what kind of a day I had:
I reprimanded a woman who jostled me on 1st Avenue this morning and didn’t apologize. Later, I yelled at a man whose dog was unleashed in Gramercy, and rounded out the day by giving the finger to a little girl in the West Village.
I have PMS. It takes a certain amount of introspection to realize it sometimes, to not automatically blame outside influences. Or at least acknowledge that while the outside influences are vexing, it is partially the blame of hormones that makes me react so vehemently and vocally. A sure sign is whenever one of the first words out my mouth in the morning is “goddamnit.” That’s how I know the reserve of patience on hand that day will be thin and worn, like a favorite bathrobe.
It’s the second day in a row that The Man with the Dogs called within 10 minutes of my alarm clock waking me up. I don’t feel as if it’s too much to ask, to have an hour to myself before I have to think about what I’m going to be doing with the next several hours in the freezing cold. The reason why he called was left on my voice mail instead of me dealing with it directly. He suggested that I should leave Dogs 1&2 for later, go instead to Dogs 3&5 first, then go up to 1&2, afterwards heading over to Dog 6, before going back downtown to re-walk 3&5. For the second day in a row, too, no mention was made of Dog 4. Yesterday I showed up to take her out, and she wasn’t there. So I figured no Dog 4 today, either, although I wondered when this would be made known to me officially. I would be much more annoyed if Dog 4 didn’t live directly next door to Dog 5. It really only results in a loss of 30 seconds of time. But still.
As soon as I got off the subway, I received a message from one of the owners of my least favorite dog, who coincidentally or not, are my least favorite owners. He asked me to call him at his office so we could talk “for 5 or 10 minutes” and he could give me some “pointers” about the dog. I wish to hell he was a Pointer, instead of a fluffy, indulged lap dog. He has embroidered pillows, for Christ’s sake. Come on.
When I called, he began by announcing that the Dog (3) had had some “accidents” in the apartment, so maybe if I knew a few of his idiosyncracies, and was extra-patient, and he were to get used to me, this wouldn’t happen. He told me that I should bring him to “silver grates”, where, presumably, he would feel more comfortable taking a crap. Either that or between two parked cars. Okay, I said. Sure.
“I mean, I know it just sounds so strange, but that’s the way he came out…and I don’t know if my wife spoke to you?”
No, I told him flatly. “It’s the first time I’ve spoken to either of you.” The subtext was that it would’ve made a lot more sense to cover this two weeks ago.
“Oh, okay. Well, if you have any questions, you know, just feel free to give me call.”
“Same to you.” I said.
When I hung up, I thought of how cool it would be if someone else walked that dog instead.
A half-hour later, I was still thinking of it as I slowly coaxed 3 to every grate in a two- block radius, with no result. I continuously tried to steer it between parked sets of cars, with no result. It made a point of thoroughly and repeatedly sniffing every scaffolding post and stoop that it sniffed each and every painful day, We were one block from the Hudson River, and the sharp wind that blew up the street made my eyes tear.
Every time another dog came into view, 3 would do his thing of either sitting firmly down on the pavement or straining at the leash, despite the fact that most of the dogs were easily twice his size. I bitterly regretted that a portion of the least was elasticized. It made it more difficult to drag him away.
“This is slow torture.” I said out loud, two or three times.
Eventually, I managed to get 3 home. I didn’t have all day for him to stand there on the sidewalk while my hands grew numb.
Up in Murray Hill, it was sunny. I walked from Park Avenue over to the FDR drive, stopping at a drugstore so I could pick up blank tapes and fresh batteries for my guerilla taping of the Pet CPR class.
As I was waiting to cross 34th Street with a few other people, a middle-aged woman pushed past me from behind, walking into me. She didn’t look back. I gave her an icy stare. “Excuse you.” I said tartly, and marched past her. Fucking rich people.
posted by Unleashed at 8:00 PM
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