FRESH YARN presents: My Life with Her Dog ... by Meredith Scott Lynn

FRESH YARN presents:

My Life with Her Dog
By Meredith Scott Lynn

Before I tell what has been, for my therapist(s), a harrowing tale, I wish to clarify its title. Firstly, by "My Life" I refer to my love life, the last 14 years or so that just so happen to revolve around significant and various regular contributors to PETA whom I collectively refer to as "Her." "Dog" is a catch-all concept for any species of the animal kingdom that might be owned -- or in some cases possessed by -- any species of the lesbian kingdom or vice-versa.

While I personally never owned a copy of the ubiquitous "Hang in There Baby!" kitty poster, I feel compelled to emphasize my genuine appreciation for animals as well as for birds and the ladybug. Even I would be at a loss to dispute the necessity and purpose of unicorns, dragons and other magical beasts. I've read about the use of animal therapy on prison inmates and, apparently, a serial rapist can find much needed self-esteem in the sweet snuggle of a scruffy spaniel. It's irrefutably beautiful! I must have seen Academy Award-worthy Benji a hundred times and often gave inspired discourses on its value during recess and nap time. I'll bet Tony the Tiger is in fact Grrrrreat! and that Pooh is, as some suspect, the second coming of Christ. Come to think of it, who would Bam Bam be without the flight of the Pterodactyl as inspiration? Hey, I even lent my voice to the straight-to-video opus The Lion King Part 2. And recently I was horseback riding and told my willful (that's trainer euphemism for psychotic) pony that he was, "Such a good boy!" while I patted his saddle horn. I even did it in baby talk for emphasis.

Animals and I go way back. Throughout childhood, I loved and cared for multiple shitzsus, two cats, three parakeets, four hermit crabs, (another story entirely), countless goldfish and a ball can of fireflies. To quote Golde in Fiddler on The Roof, "If that's not love what is"?

What I have learned in the years since my fireflies tiny lights winked out is that pets are fine!… it's the owners who should be spayed and neutered! That registered, whatever affection I had for the household pet population has been repeatedly and violently side-swiped by, what in my admittedly unsolicited opinion, had been my partner's imbalanced pursuit to fulfill a desperate desire for real intimacy by projecting it onto a four-legger incapable of it, instead of creating it where it is possible… with me.

Many years back, the actor Harvey Fierstein personally told me that, quote, "I had better reincarnate, as a cat" so that a love-starved women would happily rub me all the time. I quickly set him straight by explaining that cat owners aren't love-starved at all, but rather love-stuffed and need a place to express their love where it might be received unconditionally and not met with the complications so often associated with relationships with humans.

That being said here's the rundown, in sound bite vignettes, of some of my experiences. Please note: The names of all women, lesbian or lesbian adjacent, and their pets, have been changed just enough that anyone who's ever met me or sat next to me on a subway, can still know exactly who I'm talking about.

Back in '92, pained poet Janice and her muse, a Tonkanese named Stanley, took turns hiding under the bed and behind the piano…but never just for fun. They shared an agoraphobic response to the world and my regular visits to the apartment (I lived there), pushed a few of their delicate buttons.
Karen and her "boyfriend" Chippie, a Terrier mix, ate tri-tips, from Smith & Wollensky's, at the dinner table. Together. I imagine they still do. Chippie likes a nice cabernet.
Sarah couldn't stand her husband but took care of him anyway and this was also her position regarding his cat Camelot. The husband moved out before Camelot did. Just my bad luck, I guess.
Margaret-Ann and I fell for each other pretty hard weeks before my journey to Nicaragua to help poor people build houses. And I mean poor. An entire family shared one tattoo. Anyway, during my stay there, Margaret, who remained in L.A., was busy doing her own good deed and rescued Tammy the Tabby from the three things that plague all felines: flea infestation, homelessness and crystal-meth amphetamines. Margaret and I stood a chance at becoming a loving, conscious couple but our last moment alone, well, without Tammy, was at baggage claim carousel 2 the night of my return.
(I am starting to feel nauseous.)
Allison's two "children", Annoying and More Annoying, shunned their litter box and preferred to pee in the bathtub. "Bad cramps, Meredith? Should I make you a bath?" "Uuuhh, actually, I am having a pretty good hair day, honey, and I should probably keep it dry, but…maybe next time like if I am menstruating in a hotel room or, ya know, in my tub!"
Lisa's cats had their own email address and quite possibly their own account and password. We had a hard time sending and receiving instant messages. Lisa and I simply had different servers, I guess.

But one experience stands out for me as wholly bizarre. I read somewhere that experience is the worst teacher because it gives us the test before presenting the lesson. How fucked up is that?!

Patience, a direct descendant of the Mayflower folk who never felt there was enough time to live up to her name, saw me at a friend's birthday party and then shortly thereafter again at a dinner party she herself was throwing. (I later came to understand that this woman could cook up anything… in the kitchen and out.) After an attraction was quietly considered, we simultaneously whipped up some witty banter and a lotta yada yada and presto! Instant "us!" A tantalizing dish that compelled me to dig right in, clear out a drawer, and pack up my fancy Fred Segal fennel flavored toothpaste for an indefinite sleep-over at her place.

Months later, Patience and I were to celebrate our first Chanukah: fine, Christmas… whatever, and though we had been through a few gnarly patches, I was committable -- I mean committed. She challenged my comfort zones while her self-proclaimed "better half," a tiny Westie named Big Guy, challenged my olfactory passages. On Thanksgiving, Big Guy sat at my feet in, I shit you not, full Pilgrim regalia! Now it was Christmas and it was my deepest and only desire to honor the holiday season with a shared mindfulness of God and some kick-ass presents! I had secretly and sneakily created her gift weeks before she would open it. It was very personal, a bit historical, and just what she needed to assure her I was there… that and a million other things I could never give her. A real pine reigned in the living room. It was twinkly and friendly like the menorah ablaze in the silverware nook of the dining room. Menorahs never get as much play as Christmas trees. You'll never drive by a menorah market at the corner of Franklin and Highland just after Thanksgiving. Note to self: research menorah market upside and potential profitability.

Patience and I sat down, Indian style, on the living room floor to begin our gift giving transactions. First me, then her, then me, then her. A set of off-white Donna Karan towels, bath and hand sizes; a clunky coffee table book entitled You Are Being Lied To, which addresses political issues, but was oddly appropriate for our relationship; and many other thoughtful tokens. As it worked out, she would be the last to receive a gift that fateful night. I won't share what it was, or is, as it still exists, because it doesn't matter for the story. If I did describe it, you would immediately side with me, and Patience would be without objective supporters. Because the gift was that good. Reeeaaallly special. The "coochy-coo" of tangible generosities! The Mona Lisa of misplaced manifestation energy! A real doozy! I reached into the pristine pile of professionally wrapped presents awaiting shipment to disappointed parents who want to understand but "just can't" and I pulled the gift out from the middle.

My thoughtful, authentic and genuine expression of true love without true discovery… (I'm presently healing the pattern)… was swaddled in recycled brown paper and string. I felt a gift of that nature should be presented naturally. I held out my arms, my obvious aspiration to forge into the future of our fondness was evident in my open hands when she suddenly spoke: "Wait! You have to stop! I need to give Big Guy his traditional Christmas dinner. Right now! Don't I Big Guy? Don't I? Come here my little man-man. I love you so mucheddy much- much. Yes I do-do."

Big Guy scurried over in his newly pressed Santa suit. I was shocked silent, which, to Patience's credit, is not easily done. If I could draw at all I would illustrate the scene in one of those pen sketches you see in the New Yorker. The caption would read: If she hadn't been so sure that her cool gift would heal her lover's childhood wounds, she might have been single. "Uuuhh, okay, sure. So, you mean traditional dinner like turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy traditional?"

"Yes Meredith. That's what I mean. Big Guy and I always have Christmas dinner together so get used to it. Okay?"

Hard as it is to believe, I kept talking. "Can he eat that stuff? I mean won't he get wormy or worse, gassy? Isn't stuffing like…stool binding? Won't the cranberry sauce make him hyper?"

At this point in the downwardly spiraling conversation I was admittedly too engaged, as well as uselessly invested, in getting her to see how hurt I was by the constant diversion of her attention to the dog. Making inquiries into the possible health risks of Big Guy's consumption of an entrée and two sides was a loving way to manipulate the communication and really, who can fault me for trying to be loving!?

Needless to say, my defense was going to land me behind the proverbial bars of my own imprisonment. She marched into the kitchen while I sat lips-zipped beside the illuminated tree. I felt deeply sad and terribly worried that no love in me was big enough for the three of us… and her two cats about whom you will be spared any details. Forty minutes later, after Bug Guy's feast fit for a king, I surrendered to the reality of the moment and gave her the present. That it moved her was diffused by my upset, but I kept that to myself.

Many sexless months later, in one of three tactical couples therapy sessions, I heard the five stunning words that would collectively be my ticket out of Big Guys-Ville. Our intrigued mediator, a gay man who was fascinated by the dilemmas of our kind, asked Patience a question akin to, "If you can only save one of them… whom would you pull out of a burning building, Meredith or Big Guy?" Allowing for the sickness inherent in his proposing this scenario, I can say with relative certainty, that her response trumped all. "Well, Doc, I have to say…it would be Sophie's Choice." WHAT? I swear on all the blintzes in Boca those words were spoken. If you are saying to yourself, "Yup, Sophie's Choice…sounds 'bout right," then it's possible we've dated and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you by being homo-sapien during our encounter.

One afternoon, I received a tip from an anonymous caller who must have known something about our pooch problem. The phone rang and when I answered it the voice on the other end whispered, "Watch Dr. Phil. Today." Click. Curious, I leapt toward the Tivo remote, and later that afternoon I would cuddle up on the couch with a chilled peach Snapple tea and become witness to an unprecedented sense of belonging in me that would resonate throughout the Dr. Phil segment.

A couple was on the show airing a huge problem. The wife of a clearly embattled man had been sleeping with a stuffed puppy, a synthetic one of course, (although you never know with these people) pressed against her chest and had been doing so since their honeymoon night. The husband was bravely weeping openly about how much the doll's presence in their bed, and more so his wife's need to have the doll there, made him feel less valued. He wanted to be the source of her comfort at the end of the day and felt the stuffed puppy had cornered the market. Dr. Phil, who is generally off-putting to me, explained that until she "lets the dog out" she would never have the marriage she claimed to desire. He made the point, and remember he's got a PhD, that the lovers' bed is for the lovers only and that even her doggy doll has a lot of energy. Then he blatantly avoided an opportunity to make a joke about doin' it doggy style and I hated him again.

And so conclusively, I figure that if an inanimate cotton-filled animal can stir a resentment issue, worthy of daytime television, one could assume the problem isn't the animal at all who is really just the security K-9 at the home of the real issue.

In an effort to explore the rewards of my own furry, wet-nosed, musty and shedding buffer zone, I momentarily considered acquiring a pet for myself. But instead, I've decided to eliminate my judgment and my need to understand and to release those lovely pet-rescuing women from my subjective opinions about what is elementally required for a sustainable love relationship… I mean, what the hell do I know? I've only mentioned half of my failed attempts to attain one.

Meow.