Part-Time Dog (as of 0806)

Part-Time Dog by Tom Seltzer

So I got a job as a part-time dog.

The bookstore had cut back my hours, and I needed something to fill the gap until I finished my thesis. Columbia had made it clear that they wanted it done by the end of next semester. The ad was pretty straightforward: “WANTED: Young (20s-30s) M or F to be part-time dog for young boy. Flexible hours, overtime.”

I made an appointment for the next day.

The kid’s parents lived in a huge brownstone on Dean Street, with a lot of nice rugs and antiques, which is why they didn’t want a real pet running around. But they made the mistake of promising their kid a dog, though, so they thought maybe they could get somebody to do it part-time. The kid’s mom seemed pretty embarrassed by the whole thing, but the dad had no problem with it whatsoever. I think he’s an investment banker. We agreed I’d be their dog Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturday mornings, and if they needed me to be a dog other times, I’d get time and a half.

The kid’s dad introduced me to the kid. “Here,” he said to him, “this is your new dog.” The kid did not look very impressed. Well, that goes two ways, kid. I can read Hegel in the original German. You don’t even know when you’re peeing. Superciliousness from you I don’t need. The kid very gently scratched me behind the ears. Maybe he’s not so bad. I licked his face. He looked thrilled. The dad looked oddly pleased, too.

We spent most of the rest of the day inside (it was raining). We played a game where I would jump up on the couch and he would shoo me off. His dad made a big deal about telling him that he could swat me with a rolled-up newspaper, but the kid wasn’t into that. He just shooed. We may end up getting along.

Wednesday we went to Prospect Park. We had a great time galumphing around the meadow, although it gets hard on the knees awfully fast. I may buy some kneepads and expense them later on my Schedule C come April. Playing fetch was less successful. The kid is too little to throw very hard, and I don’t really like the taste of bark. “Look,” I told him, “you don’t want the stick and I don’t want the stick, so let’s forget it.” He was cool with that, so we galumphed some more until it started to drizzle and we headed home.

His mom asked the nanny to make the kid some hot chocolate when we got back. I wanted some too, so I tried whining a little. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she told me, “but chocolate is bad for dogs.” She seemed genuinely concerned. Odd woman. Are the edges of her realities blurring? I just shook myself off, sat in a corner and rested my head in my paws. Hands. Whatever.

Saturday morning I got pretty good at rolling over. I spent the evening re-translating Hegel and thinking about if the a inherent to the Treaty of Ghent was in conflict to the Dialectic. My concentration was intense.

Monday we hung out in a little park up on Clinton. There were a lot of other dogs there, and I sort of felt professionally obligated to mingle. “Arf,” I said to one dog, but I got no response. I tried explaining, “Look, I’m a dog too,” but that didn’t go over either. Finally, I broke down and sniffed his butt. I knew it was inevitable and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I wasn’t even sure how a dog’s butt was supposed to smell. Better than that, I hope. Still, for whatever reason, it broke the ice.

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