by Chad Norton
Roger Blum was not a chick magnet. He was too short to be tall, too thin to be fit and too forgettable to be memorable. He had normal body odor and average body hair. His breath was fine. His teeth were straight. He had a respectable job as a software engineer and sported a relatively full head of hair – all his own. Still, somehow, as acceptably bland as he was, Roger just wasn’t meeting the ladies.
Since his twenties, things had changed, opportunities then taken for granted had recently begun to disappear. The Manhattan bar scene had gotten old, meaning young. There were no invitations to dinner parties being passed his way and therefore no hopes of fresh romance popping up over bread-bowled spinach dip. Friends who had married did things with other friends who had married, their wedding bands acting as admission tickets, their matchmaking days gone forever. And dalliances into the world of personal ads both printed and web-based left him feeling even more isolated and socially bruised. Although, after meeting several “ad” women he did discover that, in fact, he was not the least magnetic person in the dating galaxy. It was true. There were bigger losers out there. And some of them had breasts.
For all of these reasons and others, such as long-winded messages from his mother regarding so and so’s cousin’s available and “spunky” lumberjack daughters, one day Roger came to a decision. He took a long look at his average reflection in the bathroom mirror, hitched up his Dockers and gave his love life a good, swift, four-legged kick in the ass. Roger Blum went out and got a dog.
The shelter was jam packed with dogs that day – Labrador mixes, an old Schnauzer, two rescued Jack Russells, a dirty Samoyed and too many mottled, junk yard hounds from indeterminate gene pools to count. Roger was led through a labyrinth of holding pens and sanitized corridors lined with cages. The rotund, white-smocked volunteer ahead of him rambled an inaudible guided tour over the barking, growling and playful “take me home” yipping of the flea-dipped inmates.
From all directions came the animals’ non-verbal stories of abuse and neglect, of abandonment and tragedy. Families had moved away. Fires had destroyed homes. Landlords had threatened eviction. And a large number simply said they were lost. But as cage # I-39 came into view, their cries and pleas, their tireless auditions and sales pitches were all mute, silenced by Roger’s unhearing ears and stolen vision. All of the shelter’s other deserving occupants vanished behind the glare of perfection inside cage #I-39.
Hugo was a stud.
Roger knew that the minute he saw those big, brown, fur-rimmed eyes. The dog had women-getting potential written all over him. Part Rottweiler, part Golden Retriever, his canine ancestors blessed him with an extremely handsome build. And that face! Hugo’s mixed features were so adorable that owners of more exclusive dogs would be forced to look away in shame.
The dog’s pink tongue stuck out expertly below his wet, black nose in one of the most tried and true examples of doggy manipulation known to mankind, the “Aren’t I Just The Cutest Little Thing You’ve Ever Seen?” pose. And his repertoire was flawless. When those ridiculous brown eyes worked in tandem with his thumping tail, the endearing prodding of his head and the classic “aw shucks” tap of his forepaw – it was over. No human being could possibly withstand the force of such charm, such pure and powerful collared-charisma.
Roger was no exception. Though at that moment, his grin was self absorbed. He was envisioning the spell he would cast with the dog over hordes of unsuspecting women, a regular Don Juan of the pocket protector set. He saw the dog fetching women like far flung frisbees, obediently returning with new love interests one after the other. He pictured his lonely nights coming to an end, his empty life becoming full, his dream becoming a reality… when Hugo snapped him out of it.
The dog commanded attention with a slurpy lick to Roger’s cheek followed by playful digging at his shoes. Then, with the use of some strategic panting executed impeccably with a tilt of his irresistible head, Hugo had Roger right where he wanted him, scribbling a signature onto adoption papers.
The dog was a master.
For the first few days after their arrival home, dog and dog owner got along fine, without too many mishaps or outrageous adjustments. Hugo was content to sit or lay on the carpet in the living room gnawing on a cowhide bone or licking his privates. His eyes and nose became attuned to every object and every room and his tall ears perked up and his tail beat happily whenever Roger said or did anything. The dog came when he was called, sat when instructed and shook hands, rolled over and played dead on command. He was smart beyond his dog years and seemed an extraordinarily idyllic pet.
Obviously, someone had trained him very well, but little information about Hugo’s previous life was made available at the shelter. The morning receptionist had told the woman at the front counter who assisted Roger that a man had dropped the dog off that very morning saying, “he didn’t need an animal like that in his life.” She had gone on to say that the man’s wife came in from the car at one point all teary-eyed to hug the dog one last time and thanked the man for coming to the shelter with the animal. The receptionist had thought the man initially had other plans in mind.
“Some people just don’t like dogs,” the woman at the counter said as she handed Roger the dog license. “I can’t understand people like that.”
“I can’t either,” Roger said. “I can’t either.”
Roger waited until Saturday to put the animal’s true qualities to the test. About 9:30 that morning, he attached a sturdy green leash that the shelter had recommended to the dog’s metal, choke collar, not the more decorative leather one, and the pair made their way outside into a gloriously warm and sunny day. It was perfect weather for a jog in Central Park and the perfect opportunity for pretty, tanned women to go ga-ga over an adorable dog and the adorable-by-association guy at the other end of the leash.
The dog’s spell was apparent immediately. People loved Hugo. Kids loved Hugo. Men loved Hugo. Couples loved Hugo. Even blue-haired seniors loved Hugo. But having a gorgeous dog was surprisingly cumbersome to Roger at first. Absolutely everyone seemed to stop them, to scratch and pet the canine ham at his side. And Hugo ate it up.
“Great dog.”
“He’s precious. Where’d you get him?”
“What kind is he?”
“What’s his name?”
“He’s so cute. Can I pet him?”
Ten blocks of that was enough. Roger quickly learned to pick up the pace, slowing only when a fairer-sex object of desire came into view. The funny thing was, Hugo seemed to have the same idea. Sometimes before Roger spotted a woman, the dog rotated his ears like radar dishes, raised his head and appeared to strut as his body pulled in her direction. By their second trip around the park’s reservoir, they’d met a half dozen women easily, a few discovered by Roger, the majority zeroed in on by Hugo.
But at the end of their second lap, they both saw her at once.
She was leaning over a shaded water fountain holding her long, brown curls away from the water that flowed up to her lips. Her willowy, tanned legs were exposed by a light breeze that raised the hem of her flowery dress toward her hips, unveiling powder blue panties that barely covered enough of her bottom to be considered an undergarment. She seemed to enjoy the breeze.
Hugo made the first move. With every ounce of Milk Bone muscle at his disposal, he launched forward like a hairy rocket, ripping the leash from Roger’s hand. The dog flew at full throttle in the direction of the unsuspecting, thirsty woman while his owner stood gawking, half his focus on his pet, the other half still on the snippet of blue cotton in the distance. Then Roger started to run.
“Hugo! Hugo get back here!”
But the dog was already closing on his target. As the woman tossed her curls to the other side of her head and sipped at a second drink, the fuzzy intruder slowed a few strides behind her, stuck his head under her flowing dress and planted his frothing snout against the source of her identifying scent. Hugo had introduced himself.
There was no scream. No yelling. No cursing. The woman merely stopped drinking and glanced with mild shock behind her. And when Roger arrived a second later and reached for Hugo’s leash, she was making no efforts to dislodge his new pet. He yanked a hooded Hugo out from under her dress.
“I’m really sorry. He just got away from me.”
Hugo’s long tongue hung loosely from one side of his mouth. His eyes were dizzy as he sat and steadied himself on his front legs.
“That’s okay. I love dogs, especially mixes. I’m a bit of a mutt myself.” She crouched over her sandals and looked at Hugo. “What’s his name?”
“Hugo. I just got him. From the shelter.”
“Well, hello, Hugo,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “I’m Cheryl.”
Hugo’s tail swept dust from the dry grass.
“Who are you?” She patted the top of Hugo’s head without looking up.
“Me? I’m Roger. Roger Blum.” He braided the leash between his fingers.
“I’m Cheryl Johns,” she said as she stood to face him and pulled her hair behind her ears. She had two golden eyes, both beautiful. “Nice to meet you.”
The woman took hold of his hand and shook it lightly, then sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “So now what?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Roger Blum…” A stubborn curl flipped back across her face. She blew at it with her lower lip. “Your dog just copped a feel. That’s gotta be worth something.”
“Oh,” he fidgeted. “You want money or something?”
She smiled. “I’ll settle for lunch.” And then she added, “I’ll take your money when we get divorced.”
Over burgers, cokes and dog biscuits at a pet-friendly sidewalk cafe, Roger, Cheryl and Hugo got to know each other better. It turned out that Roger and Cheryl were from the same part of upper New York state, just 200 neighborly miles apart.
While Roger’s parents had both worked for the local school district – his father as a history teacher, his mother an elementary school principal – Cheryl’s folks traveled a lot selling their own line of clothing to boutiques across the country.
“Thor and Daisy were never around,” she said between sips of her Diet Coke. “They were always off peddling their hippy rags from this heap of a VW van they’d had since, like, the first Woodstock.”
Roger shifted in his chair and gave her an optimistic smile. “Entrepreneurs, huh?”
“It was more like the acid never wore off, “ she quipped and flexed her straw back and forth above its corrugated bend. “It was okay though. My aunts and uncles kind of took me in.”
When strawberry and hot fudge sundaes arrived, Cheryl explained that she had been left in the care of her dad’s family who were black or her mom’s family who were white while her parents were away for months at a time. Roger said he had a brother he never saw and Cheryl said she had a sister she didn’t know.
In the midst of it all was Hugo, who sat panting between the two of them. Every now and again the dog added his two cents in the form of a paw on a knee or a lick at the salt on an arm. His eyes asked for more biscuits all through lunch and he continued to beg for food and affection on all of the dates that followed.
Cheryl moved her things in quickly.
Within six weeks she was a permanent fixture in Roger’s apartment and he was happy. It was exactly what he wanted, he had a pretty girlfriend in his life. They laughed and cooked meals together, sang along to 80’s hair bands and in the beginning had sex as often as three times a day – until Hugo put an end to it.
It began as simple whining.
Roger didn’t like Hugo watching the new couple’s most intimate moments. He felt like the dog was judging him, as if he could do better. To Roger, those brown eyes weren’t shallow and puppy-like, they were deep and knowing. And although Cheryl seemed to get off on the voyeuristic quality of it all, Roger began to insist that the dog stay out in the hall when they made love. The hallway was where Hugo started to whine.
But it grew throughout the apartment and their lives. Whenever the couple became affectionate, the dog would whimper and sulk. In the kitchen, in the park, in the living room or even at friends’ homes, the smallest bit of tenderness, the lightest caress or kiss was accompanied by Hugo’s objections.
His protests took many forms. The dog had the sorrowful look and “what about me” yelp combination down pat. His long, continuous whine proved to be an excellent mood breaker, as were his numerous attempts to simply put himself physically in the way of their affection. His head found laps, his tongue found shins, his paws found feet. And, when all else failed, he simply dropped the bomb: he passed the most horrific, wretch-inducing, eye-watering gas ever to fry a nostril. Aromatically, it was grotesque brilliance.
Unfortunately for Roger, Cheryl fell for all of it.
She went to comfort the dog at the expense of her human relationship. If she heard a whimper, Cheryl flew to Hugo’s furry side and scratched at his ears or rubbed the scruffy patch of yellow on his chest. In no time, the tiniest little canine moan meant that Roger was left to his own naked needs while the dog received a full body massage.
“He’s afraid,” she said. “Who knows how many homes he had to go through before you picked him up.” The dog’s head pressed into her therapeutic fingers. “I know what it’s like. He needs to feel secure.”
“He’s a dog. He’ll get over it.” Roger sat across the room in his Lay-Z-Boy. “I’ve taken damn good care of that dog.”
“All you wanted to take care of was your sex life!” Her golden eyes were on fire.
More and more of their conversations were tinged with similar barbs and snares, so much so that the couple rarely stayed civil long enough to give their hormones a fighting chance. And whenever their more base instincts finally did begin to stir, so did the hairy, panting subject that divided them, by raising his well formed head into Cheryl’s crotch. A classic “cock block” if ever there was one.
In truth, it became Hugo’s home. Roger just paid the bills. The dog acquired full ownership of the man’s every possession. His drool was dried onto every cd, book and magazine. His smeared and snotty nose trails were the graffiti of every reachable window and formerly shiny appliance. His fur was found on every rug and cushion, within cracks in wooden floorboards and clinging like glue to any piece of clothing that came anywhere within range of his shedding. For a while, he even took up residence in Roger’s favorite chair, until he had an “accident” and graciously gave it back to its rightful owner.
The dog kept everything else.
Within a month, Roger regularly came home from work to find his doting roommates lying with each other in front of the television watching Animal Planet or Scooby Doo, Cheryl liked to knead the sweet spot just above his tail and Hugo loved to drool lazily into her cleavage. On these occasions, Roger called Hugo to go for a walk in a feeble attempt release Cheryl from the clutch of those paws. But the dog didn’t listen.
Instead, Hugo gazed up at Roger from the corners of big, brown, fur-rimmed eyes that said, “You go pee in public. I’ve got better things to do.”