Grand Theft Elevator

Hi, it’s me Marcy the dog! Honestly, I’m offended that I haven’t been invited to write a post before now, but there’s simply no time like the present. Speaking of presents, I like to get them. Sometimes I get giant boxes full of food and treats shipped right to my door! But then my parents put them away and only let me have a little at a time. It’s very rude. So sometimes I have to give myself presents. Socks are my favorite! I am very sneaky and talented at snagging them from the laundry.

Marcy in Central Park
Here I am watching squirrels in Central Park!

Much like my hero Beyonce, I am from Texas and now I live in New York City. It’s different, but I like all the squirrels and rats I see in Central Park. One day, I hope to catch one and give it a real good shake, but my parents always tell me to “leave it” when I try. My friend Rosie the dog out in Colorado snatched a bird right out of the sky once, so I know it can be done and I’m not giving up yet.

My parents are pretty good at being parents, but that’s not saying much because it’s obvious that I am a blessing and a joy and an angel, so it’s not like they have to do much. Once, my dad gave my mom flowers and while they were out, I very gently bit the heads off all the roses and scattered the petals around the house. How romantic am I?! My mom says I am the canine version of the smirking imp emoji 😈 but I don’t really text so I don’t know what that means.

Marcy's Selfie
I don’t text, but I can take a really good selfie. It’s blurry on purpose.

Anyway, it’s nice to have parents now. I had people in Texas, but they ditched me. I was fine living on the streets, but then I got collared by the Feds. They put me behind bars and then into a prison van, and next thing you know, I’m on an island called New York!

The first time I laid eyes on my new dad, whew. It was like that feeling when you see a squirrel across the field and your eyes zoom in all super fast and focused and all you care about is chasing it up a tree. A modern woman needs to be assertive, so I sat right down in his lap and asked if he would please take me away from those rotten Feds and free me from life on the chain gang once and for all. And he did! I love him so much. My mom is pretty cool, too, but my dad. Oh, my dad. He is handsome and fun and plays with me and sneaks me treats even when Mom says I’ve had enough.

Something weird happened this week, though. My dad said he had to take a “business trip” which is related to “working” which is the lousy excuse my parents give for not hanging out with me 24/7. I wouldn’t necessarily say I have Daddy Issues, but it is true that my human dad is the only one I’ve ever had. I don’t know anything about my dog dad. Was he a labrador? Or maybe a border collie? Was he a crime boss running the streets of Dallas? That would explain why the Feds got me. Crimes of the father, am I right? If those dog snatchers ever catch my dog dad, I’d like a turn in the interrogation room. I want answers. Like, why didn’t he stick around to raise me? Okay, maybe I have a few Daddy Issues. Can you really blame me if I thought the alleged “business trip” was an excuse for my new dad to ditch me just like my dog dad did?

The first day, I was moody and started scheming. I ate half a roll of toilet paper and a foam roller and my mother’s hairbrush. That was the start of my crimes, but honestly I thought that I could convince Dad that Mom was the chewing culprit, and then he’d invite me to sleep on the big bed while she slept on the couch and I’d finally be the #1 girl in the family. Except Dad didn’t come back that night, so I had to take responsibility for my actions. Mom let me sleep on the big bed anyway, though.

Day 2 without Dad is when I really lost it. One day, I can forgive. But 2? Leaving Marcy for 2 days is unconscionable. I hate to admit it, but my criminal past came raging out. My best human friend Mikaela comes to visit me every day for a walk and play time while my parents are “working” and I really am sorry I got her mixed up in my crime spree. Then again, I might have gotten away with it if she hadn’t tattled!

You see, when Mikaela came in and said hi to me, she turned her back while the door was still closing, and I jumped into action. I only had half a second, but I slipped right out the door when my best human friend wasn’t looking! As I’ve said, I am very sneaky and talented. I knew I didn’t have much time, but the elevator was still open from when Mikaela got off, so my big adventure was practically fated. That’s right, I charged onto the elevator and went on a joyride! It was amazing. I mean, talk about a thrill. I made it to the lobby and that’s when I learned that my other best human friend Adam has been holding out on me. He is always very calm and professional, but it turns out he can run and play and yell! I did not even know that! We were having so much fun, zooming all around together. A lady came up to the front door and Adam yelled, “NO!” but I yelled, “YES!” and she opened that door right up. I zoomed outside!

Everyone was looking at me and yelling, which was very fun and made me feel like a glamorous celebrity. Except then I saw my friend Adam and he looked very scared. I think he is nervous about running the streets, but I’m a very accomplished teacher so I would have showed him the ropes. I felt kind of bad for his nerves though, so I went back and let him know we could keep on zooming in the lobby together. Except when I got back to the lobby, my best friend Mikaela was there and everyone was doing crying and yelling and nobody wanted to zoom with me anymore.

My mother says I have committed an act of, “Grand Theft Elevator” and that it is not nice to be a sneak and scare our friends and endanger our own lives. I felt a little bad, but then she said, “Wait until your father hears about this.” So then I knew Dad was coming home after all! Right now I’m working on a cover story to somehow pin this all on Mom and get myself a permanent invitation to the big bed.

xoxo,
Marcy 😈😈😈

Marcy's Apology Letter


How to Make an Enemy

A simple guide to recreating Lydia’s Worst NYC Day Ever:

  1. Take your new dog, the one you haven’t fully established top-notch communication skills with yet, for an after-work walk, right at Peak Commuter time.
  2. Disregard the warnings about Raccoons riddled with Distemper and proceed into Central Park.
  3. Spot a raccoon.
  4. Realize a raccoon should not be out and about in this sunshiney time of day.
  5. Notice the raccoon is acting like it’s a bit drunk.
  6. Realize the raccoon has Distemper.
  7. Notice your dog noticing the raccoon.
  8. Scream as your dog yanks her leash out of your hand, taking quite a bit of your skin with her.
  9. Scream more as your dog charges the raccoon.
  10. Into the bike lane.
  11. Everything is moving in slow motion.
  12. You are screaming.
  13. Your dog has just tackled a bicyclist.
  14. You rush to the bicyclist.
  15. This is the worst moment of your entire life.
  16. The damn Distemper Raccoon meanders over a fence.
  17. Your dog pants after it.
  18. A crowd forms and begins berating you.
  19. You exchange contact information with the man who skinned his elbow in the fall.
  20. Strangers continue yelling at you.
  21. You must accept their criticisms and admonishments on your character, because you are Responsible for this Event.
  22. Go home and cry.
  23. Feel miserable and cry more when the dog who caused this whole mess tries to comfort you.
  24. Regret ever moving to New York.
  25. Spend the next several months dreading the messages that keep coming from The Bicyclist, with updates about his various ailments.
  26. Feel like a horrible person every time you get those texts.
  27. Contemplate what will happen if the texts keep coming. JAIL?
  28. Give the stress ulcer you’ve formed a name, maybe Distemp-Ulcer.
  29. Begin to feel better as quiet weeks pass.
  30. Ding! Another text. Distemp-Ulcer awakens.

Marcy (and The Masturbator)

Our very best boy Dylan died in April, before we moved to New York. Living without him has been agonizing. Dylan was the kind of dog people write novels about. He was a Lassie, Where the Red Fern Grows, Old Yeller kind of dog. Dylan was the kind of dog who only seems to exist in fiction,  who changed his people irrevocably, had a preternatural intelligence and loyalty that ran deeper than oceans. He was also exceedingly handsome, to the point where it was unusual to be out in public without garnering compliments. He was the kind of dog who makes you believe in God. Dylan truly was the best damn dog who has ever lived.

We waited a long time before adopting another dog. It was hard. We resisted the urge to rush into adopting out of grief. We made ourselves really feel and process the loneliness and the utter emptiness of life without Dylan. Those first few hours and days were all but unbearable. We laid on the couch clutching his toys and each other. We drove to the secret spot in the mountains where we got married, just the two of us and Dylan, and spread some of his ashes in the icy winter river.

God, it was awful. And it was beautiful. We found that elusive grace that can only emerge from grief.

We waited until we were in New York and the sharp edges of our pain had dulled. And then we decided to adopt a pup. We spent hours perusing rescue organizations. We found a dog. A labrador basset hound mix who looked absolutely ridiculous and I loved instantly. We had a Skype interview to prove our merit as dog parents. We signed up for the next adoption event.

Adoption Day was the gloomiest, stormiest day I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A longtime desert-dweller, I was not accustomed to the kind of persistent torrential downpours that are somewhat common here. It was miserable. We thought about our trek all the way out to Brooklyn, about slogging a new dog all the way back. We thought about cancelling. We thought about Dylan, and we knew it was time.

Around the corner and onto the train, cold and sopping. But on our way! And then it happened. The thing all women Subway riders are warned about. The masturbator appeared. He came in from another car and sat right across from me. He looked me dead in the eyes and stuck his hand down his baby blue sweatpants. He leered. And he started stroking.

And I froze. I was furious at myself, but I didn’t holler at him. I didn’t stand and deliver a triumphant feminist manifesto. Instead, as it always does when I’m uncomfortable, my face turned into the grimace emoji. I turned my dripping wet grimacing face to my husband who, still chattering away about our Dog Day, hadn’t noticed The Masturbator. I reached out. He looked at my Grimace. He looked at The Masturbator. And then Daniel stood and delivered the Feminist Manifesto for me! Gosh, I love him.

Daniel hollered and berated and all the while, The Masturbator kept jerking it. He didn’t stop, not even while Daniel loudly yelled, “We can ALL SEE YOU. Get your hand off your junk. You don’t do THAT in HERE.” My beloved husband, protector of all. At the next stop we, and everyone else in the car, promptly exited and reported The Masturbator.

We were now cold, soaked, sexually harassed, and late for the adoption event. Maybe it was all a sign that today just wasn’t the day. But, we had to. We just had to keep going. For Dylan. All the way to Brooklyn on the delayed trains. Off at Marcy Station, on to a little dog store by the river.

There were puppies. There were oldies. There were tinies and mediums and bigs. All kinds of dogs! There was a scaredy in the corner, refusing to look at anyone, and a Happy Lab who charged at me with a full erection (honestly, I couldn’t escape men and their boners that day). And then, there she was. That weird-looking beauty. A stubby little basset hound with the head of a Labrador. A Bassador. Our new best friend!

I turned to point her out to Daniel. But he was on the floor. And the scaredy from the corner was creeping into his lap. The little girl who had refused to look at anyone all morning nestled into Dan’s lap. She was a black lab with a fresh pink heart-shaped scratch on her nose and a splotch of white fur on her chest. Our new best friend.

We named her Marcy. After the Station and the highest peak in New York. A peak her big brother Dylan loved to climb.