On a warm afternoon in the hills of Aptos, I was playing music at a long-delayed wedding reception for two lovely men who married hastily last year just before the “marriage protection” (projection?) crowd managed to prop a #8 wrench snugly into the gears of progress. Finally they were having a lavish party for 130 well-wishers to celebrate their good fortune.
Present at the event was best friend Sydney, a handsome gold German/Australian Shepherd serving as ring bearer. The jewelry was stashed in a little pouch tied to Sydney’s collar and he performed his duty admirably at the appropriate moment, to the delight of all onlookers.
But, to be frank, Sydney seemed rather nonchalant about the whole affair. If his role in the event was meant to show his importance in the family unit, clearly this was not news to Sydney. Nor was he at all verklempt about the couple’s vows of commitment. The 18 years of commitment the men had already demonstrated made the occasion redundant, in his view.
For him, this union was not about tear-streaked hopes, it was a testament to trust and loving confidence. What was all the fuss? Life would be more of the same premium dog food and country fun with his two best buddies for a long stretch of years to come. As far as Sydney was concerned, the most important part of this whole to-do was the appetizers… duh – especially those that happened to slide off the celebrants’ plates. (If this is the kind of relationship John Ensign and his ilk are protecting marriage from, methinks they doth protest too much.)
I get the feeling that the almost universal human desire to hang out with dogs is hardwired into our DNA. Whenever I see some errant mutt meandering down the street, I’m distracted from whatever I’m doing, like my cell membranes have just been injected with a massive dose of nuero-puptides.
I recently witnessed this primal process operating in a toddler near the Ferry Building one bright morning. She was dancing deliriously on her pudgy legs, exclaiming “Bloot!” and “Gleep!” while pointing at a couple of pooches on leashes pulling a roller blader down the Embarcadero (apparently they were practicing for the California version of the Iditerod).
Of course, toddlers have even more in common with doggies than we grown-ups. They, like dogs, don’t speak English all that well, plus with them a pooper scooper is standard equipment (albeit an attachable one of fibrous construction). Then there’s that unbridled enthusiasm we all love in babies and canines.
For sure, delight at cuteness in whatever form is installed deep in the human genome. We’ll cuddle just about anything furred or feathered.
I recently moved, and in the process came across a crate of old New Yorker magazines. I couldn’t resist revisiting some of the cartoons, of course, and here’s one I particularly liked: One dog commenting to another (and I paraphrase), “I love meeting people over the Internet. No one knows you’re a dog.”
Some single women friends of mine who frequent Match.com assure me that this joke highlights an annoying problem that occurs frequently with online dating. A personal-ad man can seem gorgeous and intriguing, his photo in soft focus and his bio carefully edited. On the first date, though, he barks at a waitress or scratches himself in inappropriate places. Soon, they say, you realize that you’re dealing with a whole other species than the one depicted on the website.
That’s when you remember with a start that you left the oven on at home and race off. If you’re lucky, there’s a true prince of a fellow waiting for you when you walk in the door, somebody named…well… Prince, or Sparky, or maybe good old-fashioned Bowser. At a time like this, he’s not so much a dog as the boy of your dreams with a tail.
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