No cancer, but he's on diet since he weighed in at 117 pounds. And he has allergies, so he's taking doggie Claritin.

I have to worry about him barking again, so the neighbors don't complain.  

It?s Wednesday and I?m walking my chocolate Lab, Gino, down Sycamore Street for the third time this morning. He?s going along with it, but I?m sure he wants to know what?s up and if I?m using him as a prop, as an excuse to lurk around outside instead of puttering around in my garden. He knows I hate gardening.

What a nosy dog. Yes, it?s true: I?m divorced and I want to meet my new
neighbor, Harrison. He?s small, my size and weight, and a jockey at the New Orleans Fairgrounds from what I hear. The lady next door bumped into him at his mailbox. I saw them talking from my window and made a point of bumping into her to find this out.

Monday I dressed in a little pink shirt, my pony skin clogs, and a short skirt, to feature my legs. Tuesday, I wore a slim black chemise and stillettos, brushed my bangs in my eyes for mystery. Gino?s been playing along with every wardrobe change, just sniffs a little at my clothes.

Today I?m out of clever outfits and how stupid is this variety show I?m putting on if my jockey?s not looking out his window?

I see Harrison leave his house in the late afternoon. He?s dressed smartly in dark blue jeans, a gray polo. He?s got a dry-cleaning bag over his shoulder with his silks. And a red nylon carrier for his boots.

I pull on my jeans and a Neville Brothers T-shirt, some tennis shoes for the hike. The Fairgrounds is sixteen blocks from my house and I enlist Gino for walk number four. I tell him it?s to watch the horses work out, but this is not Gino?s idea of fun. He barks and strains at the leash. Why can?t he run around the track? He?d do a better job than these prima donna thoroughbreds who look unready and nervous about getting to work. Until they start running. Then Gino and I stand still, in awe, and listen to the velvet thud of hooves, no two ever hitting at once. Harrison looks perfectly balanced on his horse. His stirrups are so high that his knees hit his chest, and he doesn?t use a whip, just words. I tell Gino it should be illegal to hit a horse to make it run.

Harrison heads to the stable. I guess he?s busy tacking and grooming. We sit in the stands and watch the horses run. Once they hit full stride you wonder how long they would go on if they were left on their own. And when they finally stopped, would it be because they were tired or finished?

Gino and I walk back home. I pick up a burger at Bud?s Broiler for me and some short rib bones for him. We eat in the kitchen and watch the local news. The school board?s in shambles. Twenty million dollars has turned up missing in an audit. Teachers have been stealing from kids. I tell Gino that sometimes New Orleans feels like the most hopeless city in America. Why do I live here instead of Atlanta? He rests his head on his front paws and looks at me, bored.

At eleven o?clock I?m in bed reading my book on ?Early Elementary School Teaching Techniques? when Harrison comes by my yard and calls my name. I sleep with the window open so I can hear the first bird chirp. I like being there for the beginning of things. Harrison asks if I?m awake. He says he saw me today with my dog and the lady neighbor told him I was nice. He can?t sleep. Do I feel like talking?

I invite him in and go to the kitchen to make mint juleps - Southern Comfort, mashed mint leaves, a dash of 7-Up ? and put them in short pebbled glasses. The ice cubes are shaped like stars. My mother bought me the trays to cheer me up after Brian left. Also, bamboo cocktail stirrers. And small linen napkins bordered with fringe. She thinks I should entertain.

Gino's in the corner, waching us with his head on his paws. He's keeping his distance from me so I know his jury is still out.

Harrison and I sit in the living room and sip our drinks. We cover our childhoods and where we grew up, check on marriages (he?s not) and children (none) and talk until two. The time blazes by and I still have a hundred questions about racing, want to know what he eats to stay tiny, if he?s been thrown, kicked, how much does a horse weigh, when you?re riding full out do you bump boots with the other jockeys, who?s his favorite horse to ride? My questions tumble out. He answers every one, (her name is Lady Luck), and wants to know about my job, too. I tell him I want to teach elementary school kids to read.

Gino leaves us for the cool basement where he sleeps.

I kiss Harrison's small face. The pomade in his hair smells like jasmine and makes my hands soft. I think of the things we can do next. Sex, yes, and then I can make him cinnamon rolls and get the house smelling like a family. I?d like to fresh-squeeze orange juice, brew coffee, snuggle beside him on the couch and page through old magazines, read him a story from Arabian Nights like he?s my student. My heart has a list. Maybe tomorrow Harrison will let me try on his orange and green diamond silks.

Harrison yawns, and says he should head home, but I hate to stop for sleep when I?m feeling so good. I ask if he wants to take a walk. The moon is bright.

Before we're out the door, though, Gino has come up the basement stairs. He?s at my side with the ropey blue leash in his mouth. I tell him, ?No,? but he cocks his head and looks at me like I shouldn?t forget that he?s the male in my life who won?t quick-fuck the lonely neighbor, who won?t leave for Pimlico and bigger purses after this short season at the Fairgrounds.

I put my face close to Gino?s so he will lick my face. I won?t make the same mistake. I've found a friend, is all, who makes nighttime a different kind of day. I don't want to fall in love. Gino needs to know that this weekend we will stand on the rail and watch Harrison ride Lady Luck and bet on them to win, but if we come in dead last, we start over.

Harrison rubs him under his chin and Gino's butter. I take the leash from his mouth and we walk down Sycamore Street three across.



 

You see that post under this one? Well, Terry Bain wrote that, and he's writing a whole book of beautiful bits about dogs, and if we're lucky he'll post more YAaDs (which is the acronym for You Are A Dog) and we'll feel better for having read these.
 

When you are on the sofa, and it's one a.m., and He Who Is Restless in the Night finds you there, you do not move. You pretend to sleep, but he is alert at this time of night. He sees your eyes, maybe, how they are open, and it occurs to you again, this time for the first time you're sure, though it seems you maybe have had this thought before, you cannot see without your eyes open. At this thought you lift your head. He does not ask you to get down from the sofa. He bends over you and touches your ears and kisses the top of your head, then moves off toward the stairway. You follow him with your open eyes. Your eyes are open. Then you step down from the sofa. You follow him to the stairs. You follow him up. Just to be near him.

YAaD