driving. He turned onto the block and cut the lights a few houses down. We silently rolled up alongside the curb and shut off the engine. We all looked at each other and started to argue about what to do. I was scared. It was all very Pulp Fiction/Seinfeld to me.While my GBF was arguing with his GBF, I looked out the car window up at the house. It was an older looking house. It was unkept. There were only a few lights on inside. The house was scary. The neighborhood was scary. Gay guys can argue forever so I finally said, “Let’s just go around back. See if there’s a ton of dogs or anything going on back there. If that doesn’t work, you two can knock on the front door, while I hide in the bushes. I’ve got the cops on speed dial, if we need them.” We quietly got out of the car and ran up the side of the house. There was a lock on the fence into the backyard so we had to hop it. I had on high heels. Dog ownership can be brutal. This was turning into a nightmare. The backyard was empty and an overgrown mess.
East Coast Milan stuttered and stammered from shock and from my demands, but before he explained anything, he introduced me to his father and brother. As I started to calm down, I noticed his father was in a wheelchair. He brought my dog up to see his wheelchair bound father. As it turned out, his father loves Dachshunds, and he thought it’d be a nice thing to do. His brother is also a dog trainer. All of them love Dachshunds. This is what I get for having a pure breed.
I realized I was standing there in front of three grown men and that one was in a wheelchair, and maybe that should’ve been enough of an explanation, but it wasn’t. I yelled at him for not calling me back. For taking my dog out of the city. For worrying me to death. It was very unprofessional. How could he do this? My friends chimed in and backed me up.
East Coast Milan didn’t know what to say, and his father who was in the wheelchair felt bad for me. He apologized and told me how much he’d enjoyed spending a few days with my dog. It reminded him of when he was younger, before his stroke, when he could walk. Then I felt bad. Really bad. As soon as anyone pulls the “when I could walk” card, they could puke on your face and you’d be apologizing to them.
Then GBF, GBF’s GBF, Me, East Coast Milan, and his Dad and brother were all hanging out hearing stories about when East Coast Milan’s Dad was a dog trainer and some of the dogs he trained. He and his sons both had taken such a liking to my dog. They were really nice, and I was happy my dog who had disrupted and barked at everyone for months brought joy to someone else’s life. We ended our visit/kidnap/rescue mission with hugs and directions on how to get back to NYC. East Coast Millan assured me that my dog was now a quiet well-behaved dog.
Driving back to the city nobody spoke. I had really been wrong about East Coast Millan. He was weird, but he was all heart. The best part was that my dog was cured. My friends dropped me off a few blocks from my apartment. I walked my
dog, and she was quiet like a mouse. Wagging her tail. Happy as could be. It had all been worth it. I walked into my building, and I was talking to the doorman. Usually my dog would be going nuts, but she was calm. It was so nice. But then a Doberman walked out of the elevator and my dog barked and barked and barked some more. And then a woman walked out of the elevator without a dog, and she kept barking. All the way up to my apartment, over to her bowl, she stopped to drink some water, and then she barked over to her bed. I started cracking up laughing. After all that, but I was just glad she was back.
