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Men are dogs. I must confess
I’ve never understood this expression, although I’ve known lots of
gay guys who are real bitches. Not to mention a good number who like to
sniff each other’s butts.
But to liken men to
dogs is, well, kind of insulting to dogs, I think. Sure, dogs drool,
they smell, they’d eat cat poop if you let them, but nowhere else will
you find the kind of unconditional devotion they can give you.
Full disclosure: I am a
canine lover. Dog hair is a food group in my house. But what you don’t
know is that my dog is a superhero.
You wouldn’t know it
to look at him. Despite being named after a tank, Sherman is actually
just a ten-pound, black and white Pekingese, about the size of a
well-fed cat. When he’s asleep in a corner he could easily be mistaken
for an electric shoe polisher.
You see, my partner and
I aren’t like those outdoorsy gay guys who try to butch it up by
owning dogs usually associated with lesbians; dogs like Black Labs and
Golden Retrievers.
No, my friends, Floyd
and I are that vanishing breed of queens who will never own a large dog
because its wagging tail might knock over the Steuben.
Pekingese are
classified as “toy” dogs and I understand why. Sherman is less a dog
in the “sit/stay/heel” sense of the word and more like a stuffed
animal with a circulatory system. With his big round eyes and shmushed-in
face, he reminds me of Gizmo in Gremlins.
But he’s a superhero,
alright. He’s Sherman, the Amazing Vomiting Dog. He’s less likely to
“go fetch” than “go retch” and his barf is definitely worse than
his bite. What’s more, the very moment he’s emptied the contents of
his stomach, the first thing he does is run to his dish for more.
“He’s just
excitable,” Floyd says.
“No, he’s just
bulimic,” I say.
I blame myself, of
course. If I weren’t so weight-obsessed, I’m sure Sherman would
realize that he’s just fine the way he is.
So my dog is not a
likely candidate for superherodom. Not only did he flunk obedience
school, but he was rejected as a stud puppy because his legs were too
long. (Only in the bizarre world of dog shows would four inches be
considered too long.)
Sherman does pull his
weight, however, all ten pounds of it. For the five years that Floyd and
I had our business, Sherman came to work with us. His job was to greet
customers and be adorable, a task for which he is infinitely
well-qualified. While most customers loved him, we did discover that
very observant Muslims would refuse to step in the door until Sherman
had been locked in back. Apparently in Islam dogs are considered unclean
and coming into the slightest contact with them means you must
re-perform your ablutions. With the current state of heightened alert, I
say forget about arming airline pilots; let’s just park a Pekingese in
front of the cockpit door and call it done.
Compared to your
typical bomb-sniffing rescue dog (or even my friend’s mutt who can
fetch a beer from the fridge) Sherman doesn’t appear to be good for
much. But he did save Floyd’s life.
Floyd was infected with
HIV in 1984 and for over a decade remained asymptomatic. But in 1995 his
health began to deteriorate rapidly. At the time AZT was the primary
drug available and its toxicity only made him more ill, so we were faced
with the grim prospect of a long, debilitating goodbye. Floyd slept
through most of what we’ve come to refer to as the “Winter of our
Discontent,” sometimes as much as 16 hours a day; partly out of
depression but mostly because he was frail and weak.
But then the
Sherminator came to his rescue. The moment that ball of fluff came
rolling into our lives there was an immediate improvement in Floyd’s
health. You see, despite utter fatigue Floyd wanted to get out of bed in
the morning just so he could know what his little puppy was doing. He
wanted to hold him, and brush him, and play with him. I’m not
exaggerating when I say it gave him the will to live.
And he’s not alone.
In a study of 150 cardiac patients, for instance, 7% of those who did
not own a dog died within the first year, compared with only 1% of those
who did.
Of course, the triple
cocktail became available that spring and as the earth awoke from its
winter slumber so did Floyd, returning to new life and blossoming again.
But we both know that he was rescued by that little dog.
I told you he was a
superhero.
And that, my friends,
is The Gospel According to Marc.
Marc Acito would like
to hear about your canine superheroes. Write him at MarcAcito@attbi.com.
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