I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship by Wade Rouse Page A

but he wasn’t having any of it. When other dogs approached, Linus remained aloof, barking a few times, as if to say, “If I throw a stick, will you just leave?”
    â€œOh, go on, Linus. They won’t bite.”
    â€œ . . .”
    â€œFine, I’ll go first.”
    I approached a man whose first name was Bland. He struck me as the type who’d brag that his truck didn’t come with seat belts. I’m embarrassed to say that I was wholly off the mark.
    He bragged about his trailer. Specifically, the trailer he’d attached to the back of his pickup. Inside were his “bird dogs.” Bland was waiting for the last of them—a tricolor beagle—to finish up. Aside from the dogs I’d seen in oil paintings, I never truly associated dogs with anything other than companionship. But after seeing how animated Bland became speaking of his German pointer and retrievers, I realized that to be happy, dogs didn’t need bottled water, doggy ice cream, or fleshy raw meats from Lobel’s on Madison. Dogs could actually be treated like dogs and still thrive. It was enlightening. So much so that it inspired me to remove Linus’s sun visor.
    I took a seat on the bench beside my little antisocialist, ready to explain that from now on he was going to be a dog. And dogs are pack animals, which would mean he’d need to get off his rump and hobnob. I knew he wasn’t going to like it, so I wanted to be sure my approach was particularly sensitive.
    â€œDude, stop being such a puss.”
    And just like that, Linus leapt from the bench and ever so skittishly approached a bulldog in a bandana from behind. With a deep inhale, ready to acquaint himself, Linus suddenly came careening back, skyrocketing through the air into my lap.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a freak show!”
    â€œMe?! That redneck’s beagle didn’t even look for a Wee-Wee Pad; he just did his business on the grass all willy-nilly. I’m sorry, but these dogs are fucking animals!” Or at least that’s what I think he said. I didn’t write it down.
    I told Phil that I was really beginning to worry. I joked a lot, but I genuinely liked the people I’d met in Texas. Sure, I’d prejudge them and think because I was a savvy New Yorker that I was somehow worldlier than, say, a man named after an adjective. But I was mostly dead wrong. Bland wasn’t a redneck. He’s a retired oil tycoon . . . who unfortunately lives up to his name. Perhaps he’s not my best example of the friends I’ve made. Point is, I was making them, but Linus just wasn’t coming around.
    Mid-mopefest he’d sometimes break into a begging howl, as if to say, “I’ll do anything; just send me back to a place where the mailman doesn’t drive an unmarked Tundra.” But Phil pointed out that this was only the grief talking, because dogs don’t actually speak. Ah, this was the bargaining stage; it just came out of order.
    I don’t know if acceptance ever truly cropped up for Linus. Though I’ll allow that a brief respite from the suffering came in the form of just three consonants: BBQ. I can’t say that he preferred smoked beef ribs to New York strip, or sauce from the Salt Lick to Peter Luger, but he at least seemed sated, if not happy.
    In the weeks that followed, I held my ground. The designer dog carrier was stowed away, leaving Linus to fend for himself as he walked from the car to his acupuncturist. “Sorry, kid. You’re not a baby; you need to learn to do things for yourself.” So, like it or not, from then on, Linus had to sniff his own balls.
    Just as we were all acclimating to the new state of our union, a fortuitous thing happened. Phil went and knocked me up but good.
    With twins.
    We rejoiced with family and friends. I shopped for hideous clothes. Phil began to count our savings. We couldn’t stop smiling, apart from