We’re leaving the house. Burke is packing her bag and I am rolling down my checklist.
‘We have piskoty and a water bowl?’
‘Check, check.’
‘Bottle of water, cooling vest, cooling pad.’
‘Check, check, check.’
‘Benadryl.’
‘Check.’
‘Poop bags. Sweatshirt.’
‘Check. Check.’
We pat our bags with each ‘check’ to make sure we have everything. We are going into the deep field. Well, the ‘field’ is the park in front of our house and the ‘deep’ part means we’re going to the pub on the other side of it. We leave. The dog is in bliss, only understanding that we are heading out on an adventure, whereupon she may sniff, lick, and eat things we come across or, more likely, pee on them.
As we head out into the bright day, I peer into my backpack to make sure I have all of my things now.
When I was a bit younger, I left the house with very little concern over the things I was bringing with me. I would be out and about for hours before realizing I didn’t have a wallet in my pocket or a watch on my wrist. Or shoes on. Responsibility then was a word more likely to come up in a spelling bee than as part of a personal doctrine.
That has changed a great deal over the years. Now, I can’t leave the house unless I have a book, a notebook, a pen, backup pen, two pairs of glasses, and change. In hot weather add to this a baseball hat, sunglasses, a cooling towel or a handkerchief to de-sweat myself, and a bottle of water. I am obviously not including the phone, which is attached to all of us like a fifth appendage gained through evolution. Small comforts come in the form of an arsenal of minor accessories.
But it’s hard to ignore the fact that my dog has become another accessory. She is always with me, at bars and on public transport. She is an accessory that comes with her own accessories. Like a Barbie, only one that I have to feed. Or maybe like a child, except it’s not like that at all because my dog is likeable and people don’t roll their eyes when I walk into a bar with her. Also, they won’t call any governmental services if I get tipsy and then carry my dog out of the bar on my shoulders.
And my dog doesn’t care. She is just thrilled to be along for the ride. She gets cookies and she gets to chill out on a padded bench and sleep while her parents have wine and beer and slowly devolve the what’s-for-dinner conversation from cooked food to cold food to fast food. Then she gets French fries.
This is what I take from my lapdog: don’t care. If it makes you happy to bring a small arsenal of accessories out to a bar that’s a 9-minute-walk from your house, then do it. If it makes you happy to get a 9-piece McNugget menu on your way home, then do it. If it makes you happy to get a 20-piece McNugget menu on your way home, then do it. But go see your doctor sooner rather than later.
If she can do it, then I can do it. My dog has very little concern about what others think. She is too eager to meet company. She poops in public. She yells at other dogs she doesn’t like. She sleeps right in the middle of the day. She licks her hoo-hah right in front of company, during dinner, and – if we went to church – there’s no doubt that she would gobble on her own bits right while JC himself was showing up for Communion.
I care much less about what others feel about me now than when I was younger. But having a lapdog has executed any concern I had for others’ opinions. Who cares if people see me putting a sweatshirt on a dog? Who cares if they see me liking the salt off French fries to feed her like a baby bird?
Despite starting a tiff with a Scottie at the next table, our visit to the pub has been lovely. She has eaten some piskoty and is now relaxing for a several hour nap. We’re still discussing cold food for dinner (sandwiches), so there’s time yet to go. The bartender glances at my backpack; he knows full well that I live nearby. But if you can’t pack for a day at the pub with your lapdog, then who can you do it for?
Besides, I say to myself as I pull my dog’s sweatshirt over hear head, it would look weird for a man to bring a Barbie to the bar. And I don’t want to look weird.
