LIFE
Canine Musings
Just love me already, will you?
When my dad named me Gatsby, he had Fitzgerald in mind. The great one. I try to live up to the greatness, although I’m more of a Swifty than some rich playboy. I want to be called good. I want people to like me, and they do.
Most people fall in love with me right away. Those beauty pageants that I won weren’t for nothing. I come from a long line of beauty queens. We’re renowned as much for our goodness as for our good looks. My mom was gorgeous in her heyday, and so was my aunt. All of their kids went on to win several contests.
How are you so cute, people ask. Genes and intermittent fasting, I mumble.
I can feel their gazes on my back as soon as I walk into any room. My brother, with his charming smile and an athlete’s body, thinks it’s for him that the women stop when we’re out in a park. But I know the truth. I can feel their heads turning even moments after they walk away from us. They all love me.
All but one.
She trots in to sit next to me in the office. Every morning, she’d acknowledge my existence with a ‘Good morning, Gatsby.’ But she successfully fends off all of my attempts to get close, taking a step back as soon as I stand next to her.
She isn’t beyond my charms. I could feel the warmth in her hug on my dad’s birthday. I’m grateful for the couple of glasses of wine that made her tipsy around me. When I stood next to her, I smelled not fear but pure joy. I was beyond myself when she asked for a picture with me, one that she flaunted on her WhatsApp profile for weeks.
A couple of times after that, I caught her secretly taking my pictures. It was my bad side. Had she asked me, I would have happily switched sides and posed for her. Even so, as soon as I stand next to her, she takes a step back.
I know it’s her childhood trauma. I’ve heard her recount her harrowing experiences of being chased by guys like me in India. That one time, coming back from work late at night, she was stalked by a group of them, and she barely made it running to her hostel.
The experience made her hysterically afraid. And those mad, rabid ones she had to vaccinate herself against! I won’t blame her for being so scared. I would be too.
But can’t she see that I’m nothing like them? I treat women with respect. I want her to get over that fear. Those are the moments I wish I could speak. I would tell her that I’m harmless. Even if she petted me on the face, I wouldn’t bite. I’ve been brought up well, with hours of training, never to bite anyone.
When my dad, who I always hated the term ‘pet dad,’ found me in Poland, he was taken by my mom. She was the winner of the national dog show in Warsaw. So, he filed the paperwork, got me the right vaccinations, and flew me, his kennel of cuteness, across the world to his home.
Just as my namesake, the great one, said, ‘Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.’ — we flew from Poland to the US when the leaves turned golden.
I hated flying. I don’t understand why people do it so often. The airport was so brightly lit, noisy, and crowded. I was getting confused with all the smells. It was so large, but I couldn’t even run around while waiting.
All the while we were waiting, my parents entertained themselves with food. But I wasn’t allowed to, in case, you know, I have a digestive malfunction up in the air. So, I entertained myself by watching people eat.
But the worst part of it was being imprisoned in the crate for what felt like an eternity. Thankfully, they didn’t put me on the conveyor belt with all their suitcases. I was in the cabin with my family. Even though I couldn’t play with them during the flight, it was reassuring to know they were there. Finally, when we arrived, the freedom tasted delicious.
Since then, I’ve been my dad’s constant companion at work. Walking into the elevator with me has turned out to be my dad’s sure-shot way of making friends in the building.
I don’t particularly enjoy staying inside a boring office for eight or nine hours a day. My adoring fans make it bearable. Even so, seeing them type away their lives is unbearable to watch. I can smell stress on them even while the sun shines outside. Whatever happened to the good old days of throwing a ball?
I don’t mind the boredom as long as I can go out every few hours. My dad takes me for a walk around his office, letting me mark my territory. But there’s no use peeing around that block. It has barely any dogs to sniff. Yet, I hold on to my optimism.
It’s the rainy days that screw up my plans. I come back smelling like a wet chicken that nobody wants to pet. It’s no longer cute, Gatsby. It’s the wet-stinking Gatsby. On those days, I remain home.
My brother is more than happy when I stay home. After school, he takes me out on walks to play with me and talk to his girlfriends. I’m a chick magnet, he says. I blame it on his hormones; he’s going through some adolescent sh*t.
They all love me — my parents, brothers, their friends, and other dogs in the neighborhood. I am happy. As my favorite, Taylor Swift, says, “No matter what happens in life, be good to people. Being good to people is a wonderful legacy to leave behind.” I want them all to say that Gatsby is a good dog. He’s good to everyone.
