of. He’d been showing up at some garbage cans behind a restaurant, waiting for someone to drop something he could eat. Apparently the staff started ‘dropping’ more food than the manager liked, so he called us. Our vet thinks he’s part beagle, part Staffordshire terrier and maybe a dribble of pit bull, although you’d never know it by his disposition. We’ve nicknamed him Romeo because he’s so eager for love.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been abused because he’s nervous,” she continued. “But he’s also a survivor, no doubt about that.”
I stared at the little mixed package. His head, ears and soft eyes recalled a beagle, but his solid, stocky body and thick, shiny hair were reminiscent of a Staffordshire. His physical look reminded me of Sylvester Stallone of Rambo fame. His personality? Pure Rodney Dangerfield.
Of course, as Paul Harvey says, it’s easy to guess “the rest of the story.”
Bentley has come out of it beautifully—physically, that is. He’s black-and-white, with a black eye patch, one black ear and one mottled gray one. He has the stocky body of a strong dog thanks to that dash of pit bull in the soup, most likely. His nose is one great big black licorice dot and his expression is sweet. He’s all bark and no bite, although he can growl fiercely from the pit of his stomach if he’s frightened. He frightens himself quite regularly by looking in my full-length mirror.
But while Bentley has physical bearing, he’s a neurotic canine. He’s allergic to loud noises, most men and cheap dog food. At first, even my dad couldn’t get close to him without Bentley planting his feet firmly and rumbling from somewhere deep in his belly. A street dog has to learn to fight even if its true nature is more Romeo than Rambo.
When Dad finally got sick of all the dog’s posturing and took two steps toward him, Bentley dropped to the floor and rolled on his back, belly exposed for scratching, panting happily. Bentley has a highly ineffective force field of protection. Talk about being all bark and no bite.
Anyway, Bentley was at the door to greet me with the giddy, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-because-I-thought-you-had-abandoned-me act he does—a series of flips and circles, frantic running to and fro across the living room floor making excited woo-wooing sounds and finally, a dramatic collapse into a heap at my feet.
If I could ever affect a man that mightily—sans the running across the floor, of course—even I would get married.
Then, as I stepped from the foyer into the large living-dining area, my ears were assaulted by a nerve-jangling screech, a “Well, hello, baby!” and the excited flapping of wings. Again, if a man were to greet me with as much enthusiasm as Asia, my mynah bird—Asia, as in Asia Mynah—my heart would go pitter-patter.
As it is, the only pitter-patter I ever hear is the one making its way across my hardwood floor—my Flemish giant rabbit, Hoppy, coming to see what the fuss is about. He sat up and twitched his nose at me and gave me a look that said, “Lettuce, I must have lettuce”—I always imagine he’s speaking in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice—before bounding, as much as a fourteen pound rabbit can bound, to the kitchen to sit in front of the refrigerator and wait for me to do his bidding.
Fortunately rabbits get along quite well with dogs if introduced properly. Besides, Bentley believes that Hoppy is the Alpha dog in the family and the epitome of the canine species. Hoppy is also litter-box trained, a patience-trying process that involves ever-ready alertness and nimbleness—on my part. See Hoppy raise her tail, see Hoppy relax her ears, see Norah run for the litter box, see Hoppy train Norah…and so it goes.
Bribery is actually a very good way to train rabbits—children, too, I’ve heard, but that could be an urban legend. That’s why Hoppy’s box is always sporting a toy and a slice of apple or a sprig of parsley to make it the pièce de résistance. It’s also why I pet and praise her there for jobs well-done. It’s no wonder that she sits in the dumb thing just for fun even now that she’s got complete house-rabbit ranking.
I scratched Bentley, moseyed to the kitchen, gave Hoppy a piece of lettuce and was about to start supper for myself when the telephone rang.
It was my father. “Your mom and I are taking a few days off. We’re going up to the North Shore. She’s found a bed and breakfast she wants to try. If you need me, I’ve got my cell phone.”
They’ve been on a perpetual honeymoon for as long as I can remember. They hold hands, steal kisses, hug, and especially when I was a teenager, kicked up my gag reflex on a regular basis. Still, that’s what I want my marriage to be like, too. If…when…
After I’d gotten the details of the trip and had started to grill myself a cheese sandwich I realized that the theme of my entire day had been “I’d get married if…” Now what’s that about?
I took my sandwich and a cup of tea to the deck and ate it while staring out at Lake Zachary. Maybe Lilly was finally getting to me, making me worry that true love—the kind with bells—would never happen to me. Dating is one thing but finding a soul mate is quite another. Maybe that’s it, my soul is lonely—lonely for someone I can share my faith with as well as my life. Joe’s a churchgoer, there’s no doubt about that, so maybe…
A gull dive-bombed me, startling me out of my reverie. It had to be Lilly’s influence or Joe’s insistence that our relationship be allowed to grow more serious that caused this particular train of thought and brand of misery in me today. “When You want it,” I said, tilting my head back and imagining the God of the Universe caring about trivial little me. Comforted, I returned to the kitchen to dig into the refrigerator to see if I had any other food which hadn’t met and surpassed the expiration date on its packaging.
“Vavavoom!” Joe commented as I opened the front door. “Great look.”
I suppose it’s great if you’re going for the Electrocuted Idiot theme, but I didn’t say that. Instead I waved him into the house. “It was all Lilly’s idea. She thinks I should wear my hair loose and my slacks tight instead of the other way around. I feel like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”
I referred, of course, to my unfettered hair which, unrestrained, floats like black seaweed around my face. The slacks, also Lilly’s idea, were black, slender and cropped just above the ankle. She’d insisted I wear a red silk blouse with a mandarin collar, ornate black frogs and a delicate design stitched in gold thread. The best thing about the getup was the fact that she’d “allowed” me to wear black thongs on my feet so that, although I felt like a poster child for an Asian import company, my feet didn’t hurt.
Joe, looking incredible as always, sockless and in a white shirt and dark trousers, cupped my face in his hands and pressed a kiss on my forehead. “Maybe we should find a sushi bar instead of eating Italian.”
“No, thanks. This is a tribute to your ancestors, remember? We’ll eat pasta until we almost burst and then spoon spumoni and tiramisu into the crevices. Then we’ll roll home groaning and saying we’ll never eat that much again. But on the way we’ll run into a Baskin-Robbins and eat some more. It’s your family’s way, I’ve seen them in action.”
More than once, actually. Joe invites me to all his family’s get-togethers and I often join him. Other times, on holidays, when I know Auntie Lou is alone, I cook a big meal and invite her and, as Lou puts it, other “human strays” I can find to join us. Once, by putting it out there that I would be home for Thanksgiving, I ended up entertaining not only Auntie Lou, but an out-of-town pet food salesman, Barney of Barney’s Gas, Lilly, a courier who came to my door with a package from my parents, a new neighbor in my complex and three people from church who said they didn’t have plans
