raybear | Stories from the City, Stories from the Hudson River

I have to talk about this dog. Not that I could ever imagine forgetting this dog, but there are lots of things I swear I'll remember until the day I die but don't.

I stopped by the headquarters office on Friday around 4 pm -- this time I had a bit more confidence in dropping by since I actually knew a couple folks in person, including Former Intern (aka Katie) and Devo Music Geek (aka Amy). I finally got to meet Lauren in person. I can't come up with a clever nickname for Lauren, and at my most descriptive, I'd call her Sweet New York Hot Dyke. Or something. Or maybe Devoted Dog Owner.

We were meeting that evening for soft-serv-machine, floor-hitting margaritas at Cowgirl's, as well as dinner. But first she had to travel to Brooklyn to walk her dog. Because I love Brooklyn and love dogs, I asked if I could tag along -- she warned me that her dog was an animal only she loved. No one in her family was willing to care for the poor creature and she even brought her dog with her to attend college. That is impressive major committment.

I kept asking what kind of dog it was, and she kept insisting that not only did she have no idea but no one else did either and just sort of deemed her "cute ugly". When we arrived at the standard Park Slope walk-up, I saw the animal and sure enough she was correct. If I had to make a guess (and I'm pretty bad at dog breeds), I'd say she was part shepherd, part border collie and part chow. She basically looked like a strange bears -- a wildly fuzzy brown body that was perfectly egg-shaped, and four stick legs jutting out that she waddled around on (she had medical difficulties and arthritis, so she walked at an angle and crookedly). She was maybe 50 pounds and just taller than my knee and her face was somewhat wolf-shaped. The strangest aspect was her eyes -- one brown and one blue. It almost appeared that her eyes were causing the crooked nature of her movement.

We walked her about 10 yards. That's all her poor 18 year old body could handle. During the brief consitutional, two children came up and asked if they could pet the dog. Lauren said yes, affirming them thay they're smart to always ask the owner first before touching a dog. The older one (about 6 or 7) tentatively touched the head and shoulders, while the younger one hid behind her squealing that the dog would eat her and she was scared to pet it. I would have been scared to pet it too -- those wicked eyes and furry body and off-kilter walk were very disarming. I crouched down and showed her how to pet the dog's back, away from the mouth and teeth (which were probably rotted out anyway from old age). She stroked the puff of fur a few times then jumped up and down excitedly saying "it's not eating me! it won't eat me!"

I was impressed these children approached this dog. Benji or Lassie she was not. I can't help but think they'll grow up to be good people with that sort of enthusiasm for a creature so frighteningly disturbing by society standards.

After the walk we shared a couple of gross dog stories and anecdotes, mostly from her since she has a lot more history on the subject. But in the end, I told Lauren that her dog was completely adorable and meant it. And I also said I hope I'm as good as a dog parent when my baby is 18 years old.

I adore Lauren and she told fabulous stories at dinner about her Italian mother. And we're also both mildly obsessed with the kinky nature of Mormon underwear. Katie and I didn't end the evening with her at Henrietta's because we were too poor to pay the cover, but I spent enough time with her in person to make conference calls and interoffice e-mail more fun in the future.