E G O S P E W

July 25, 2005

My wife Laurel, dog Harrigan, and I moved from a dungeon-like apartment on the famous Upper West Side of Manhattan and bought a house in a charmingly funky part of Brooklyn — not as far up as Crown Heights or down as Flatbush, neither as hip as Dumbo nor as stuck-up as Park Slope — a neighborhood where it’s actually rude to not say ‘Hi’ to passers-by or ‘Good Morning’ to your neighbors. Where cute 3-year-olds hang out on the sidewalk under strict parental orders not to get hit by cars while their mothers work in the hair braiding salons. Where many folks compliment your tree pit flower garden — while others drop bottle caps into it. It is a neighborhood rich with cultures.

And wealthy with noise, from Friday night stoop parties, to booming window-rattling ghettocruisers, to summer firecrackers, to car-alarm-triggering thundercycles, to the dollar-vans hurtling up and down Flatbush Avenue serenading bystanders with sour air horns trumpeting the theme from The Godfather, to competing ice-cream trucks driving you up the wall with their relentless ditty torture. They call this neighborhood Prospect-Lefferts.

So this morning I am trotting up Flatbush, heading for the Subway, late for work as usual, when, approaching from the north I perceive on the next block, not only a fellow minority male Caucasian, but one walking what I would swear is the same breed as our Harrigan: a Tibetan Terrier, a rara avis in any neighborhood, except maybe center-city Lhasa.

Back when I lived in Manhattan for all those decades, this kind of encounter had become, by the ’90s, a pleasant, if increasingly frequent experience. Harrigan came into my life in early 1989 and my companion and I felt for many years like pioneering breed homesteaders, waiting for the rest of the cool people to catch up. Still, he was a companion dog, not a carte d’entrée. (When you’re cool, you slip in French and Latin whenever possible.)

At this point, I must reflect on the strange process that compels one to identify a Tibetan Terrier from a distance. There is clearly some primitive part of the brain that assimilates one’s perception of the physical characteristics of a crucial species, when primed by the excreted endocrine that determines: “Live/Die, Love/Wither”. The brain goes, “Bear, Big, Hurt, Death.” Or, “Chicken, Small, Roastable, Yum.” Or even, “Woman, Leopardskin Bikini, Huggable, Yum.” That sort of thing. My younger brother and I developed the uncanny ability to identify, from a mere glint of chrome or tailfin swoosh, any American automobile make, model and year from 1954 to 1980, not to mention several European genera. No doubt, this was crucial to the survival of our ancient forebears, Nascar fans all, I presume.

Moreover, I have extended this ability over breeds one might encounter walking around an Upper West Side Manhattan block, dog run, or possibly even the American Kennel Club Westminster show. This latter ability certainly developed from my girlfriend’s and my search back in the 80’s for “the perfect dog”. To cut a long tale short, we discovered that Tibetan Terriers were really cool: laid-back, bred for personality, intelligent, playful, spiritual, expressed in many colors, not too big, not too small. . . simply, perfect. The AKC thumbnail description says, “The Tibetan Terrier is a medium-sized dog, profusely coated, of powerful build, and square in proportion. A fall of hair covers the eyes and foreface. The well-feathered tail curls up and falls forward over the back. The feet are large, flat, and round in shape producing a snowshoe effect that provides traction. The Tibetan Terrier is well balanced and capable of both strong and efficient movement.” Annoyingly, they don’t even give mention to the ancient Tibetan monks actually responsible for it all this breeding perfection.

Having raised Harry from a mere slip of a pup, it was funny and impressive to see him develop into the “powerful build and square proportion”. What a truly apt description that is: a TT manages to combine both poofiness and powerful squareness into a single package. Plus I was indeed amazed by his sure-footed cavorting over the alpine peaks and valleys of the living room furniture.  As to poofiness, we really were not great at brushing his long, non-shedding coat.  My evil girlfriend encouraged his inner girly-girl and insisted on ribbons at the groomers.  He could look pretty gorgeous with the long flowing fur and all, for about one day.  60 bucks plus tip.  I preferred him in a sort of medium battle trim, ready to take on the neighborhood pit bulls.  Once in awhile, he got matted enough to require what was euphemistically called a “puppy cut” but often assumed the severity of a Parris Island buzz.  Except they always left the tail fluffy.  Imagine a Marine with a bouncy curly pony tail, that sways with a wiggle when he marches.

We didn’t weigh him constantly or particularly document his development. We were too busy enjoying him, and besides, it all went by too fast. But a favorite incident that did measure his growth, limbs dreaming of greyhoundom, was while executing his customary high-speed puppy cruise into the living room. He would gallop across the floor, effortlessly swoop under the coffee table then up, onto to the couch and U-turn on its backrest without breaking stride.  This would scare the hell out of my not-so-rambunctious visiting sister.

Except, one day, for the very first time, at said coffee table, he thwacked his skull, suddenly requiring more headroom.  Ha!  Classic lesson.  Sucks to grow up, doesn’t it?

Even now, at sixteen years of age and trimmed of all that annoying matted fur into a strange summer/puppy/pseudo-saluki cut, it is amusing to see his defiant stance, front elbows sticking out like an anorectic Popeye the Sailor, as he anticipates the customary “which hand?” game and subsequent cookie reward.

So anyway today I smile pleasantly and approach this guy on Flatbush Avenue and his dog with the standard old, “Excuse me, but isn’t that a Tibetan Terrier?” line. (It used to work wonders on women — all two of whom actually had TTs.)  And the guy looks at me with serious New York City mistrust, “Yes, it is. How do you know?”  So I go into the usual, “Well I have one too. He’s sixteen years old now. We live on Fenimore Street.”

He eyes me and says, “Why haven’t I seen you walking him here?”

To which I counter, “Well, we walk him in the yard. Sixteen years old, y’know.” Jeez, what a suspicious fish.

What I don’t say is, one of the main reasons we decided not to walk him on the street is the incredible availability of chicken bones. Why do people think they can scatter their gnawed carcasses across the sidewalks like Popsicle sticks or bottle caps? It was bad enough on the Upper West Side with random bagels and discarded dollops of caviar (ha, just kidding — it was foie gras). That stuff drove Harry to distraction; all dogs are looking for a free lunch. They can’t help it, it’s genetical. Here on Chickenbone Alley (er, Fenimore Street) he’d be absolutely impossible to deal with.

So this owner and I discuss where our dogs came from, i.e. who were the breeders. That is an inevitable part of such encounters, and actually good for the breed. You don’t want any dog that is produced for pure profit. What with vet bills, medicine, overhead and papers, most breeders barely break even. Whereas puppy mills abuse dogs and disregard genetics. Know your breeder; go to visit him/her; understand what is best for the breed and for your very special future friend.

This other dog’s name was Chip. As it turned out, both Chip and Harrigan were born in Pennsylvania, though Harry heralded from Rocky Hills Farm and Chip from somewhere else — I don’t remember, Somerset county? I mentioned Harry’s breeder’s name, Michael Harrigan (funny coincidence, as we’d come up with the name before we’d found the breeder), but it rang no bells.

I greeted Chip, let him sniff my hand briefly, then patted his head. He was the usual, “Yeah, you’re a human and I will acknowledge your attention, even return two seconds of cursory affection, but frankly you’re interrupting my round-the-block with my buddy — who thinks he’s my master. Be thankful I don’t bite you!  No, just kidding — you’re okay.”

Plus, Chip knew I was late for work.

I made motions to plunge ahead into the day. We owners reconfirmed my Fenimore Street origin, and his Rutland Street. He never really smiled. This was more like an UWS Manhattan encounter than a Prospect-Lefferts one. I figured, when we needed to establish any further contact, we could stake out the corner around 9:00 AM and take it from there. Plus I prefer to leave that socially complex human contact interaction to Harry and my wife Laurel. They have all that scary stuff down, just like real people.