Damn it, it's time to get a dog!
Most of the dogs shown are giant beasts. Some are strange hybrids cooked up in ghetto basements in the psychotic search for the perfect fighting machine. Others are exotic animals discarded when their yuppie families decided that they didn't really need a thousand-dollar canine bred to hunt lions. Nearly all are beautiful, lovable dogs, but my dream pet is small enough to smuggle into a bar stuffed in a clutch purse. Unfortunately, an entire city full of condo dwellers feels the same way, so competition for these snack-sized pals is as fierce as a foam-flecked Cujo.
So, when I hear about the "Animal Control Dog Days of Summer Adopt-a-thon," I'm less than hopeful. The event is being held across from the Bathhouse Theatre in an idyllic, sun-dappled clearing set up like a carnival with informational booths and picnic tables. The whole place has the manic energy of a half-off bra sale, as dozens of frantic shoppers mill around, pawing at the furry merchandise. There are 30 pooches present, wearing fetching little yellow-and-blue vests emblazoned in a spunky font with the words "Hi! I'm adoptable!" Each dog has a volunteer assigned to stroll the dog around on a leash while casually chatting with interested passers-by. Nearly every one of these volunteers has the clear-eyed gaze and grin of a Krishna convert trying to sell the Bhagavad-Gita in the airport. These people are true believers. In their world, THERE ARE NO BAD DOGS.
I scan the wagging throng for something small. That's when I see him snorting through the underbrush like a pig searching for truffles. It is far and away the ugliest dog I've ever seen. He barely looks like a dog at all, more like an unholy union between a pit bull and a felled log. It hears my gasp and strains against its leash, huffing and wagging its tail.
"This little guy's name is Bolo," says his volunteer brightly. "What's wrong with his eyes?" I ask in horror. "Oh, that's cherry eye. He'll need a series of expensive operations to correct it."
Maybe it's because Bolo has been assigned the hottest volunteer at the event, but I hear myself asking if I can walk this medical anomaly. While the volunteer murmurs optimistically about his special needs, Bolo promptly squats over a delicate little flower and poops on it. The volunteer wipes off the posie's defiled petals with a Safeway produce bag. I ask, "Can I think about it?" As if I'm merely pondering the purchase of a garish brassiere, not a 15-year-long responsibility.
I make a break for it and jog over to the relative normality of Uno, an amiable, fluffy dog without any discernible genetic mutations. As I pet him, his volunteer whispers in my ear. "At last year's event we had 30 dogs, and 29 of them were adopted. The only one who wasn't was mine. So when they tried to assign me to Bolo this morning, I said, 'No way.' Two years in a row with a lemon wasn't fair." I nod sympathetically and move on, before all the best bargains get snatched up.
The only other small dog is black, with pointy ears and a freakishly intelligent gaze. A bickering suburban family surrounds her. "It's got long hair. I hate long hair. It gets in your mouth," says the father. I edge in closer. What's this moron going to do? Lick her? And judging from his hideous mustache, it seems like he'd be accustomed to a little fur in his mouth. "We'd definitely want her to be an outside dog," the mother says through her pinched mouth. What is this mad woman yammering about? This dog is the size of a loaf of bread! A strong rain would wash this animal away! This dog needs a heart-shaped pillow and constant personal affirmation. As soon as they blink, I snatch her up into my lap.
"I'm ready to see an adoption counselor," I bleat self-righteously. Moments later, I am sitting at a picnic table with an animal-control officer, filling out what appears, in my dazed condition, to be a marriage license. "That's a good dog you got there," he says. "She's a schipperke." "Pardon me?" "They're Flemish dogs bred to catch rats on canal boats." Who knew it was so easy to breed for such freakishly specific purposes? Perhaps I could breed a race of dogs capable of changing the oil in my van, I muse, clipping the leash to my new reason for living.
We pass a family filling out an adoption application, clutching the wheezing and wiggling Bolo. I overhear the father explaining to his volunteer, "I've never seen anything so ugly in my entire life. And I want to take care of him." Holding my dog to my chest, I grin. Don't ever doubt it. There really IS somebody out there for everybody, no matter how freakish you may be.
