not much of an animal person. I haven't had many pets. As a kid, we were often in apartments where we couldn't have pets. In hindsight, we could've had fish, but at the rate I kill them, it's just as well.
I had a dog when I was five, but he bit me and later died (not from biting me!), so that made me pretty uneasy around dogs until my early '20s. Indeed, that incident probably cured me of being a neat freak. Pando, a gorgeous black and white husky, bit me because I was cleaning up the food he got all over the place when he ate. In his little doggie mind, he thought I was stealing.
Within the first year or so I lived in San Francisco, two more dogs bit me. The first was a stray my roommate's boyfriend found near Ocean Beach. The dog was gorgeous -- a Rottweiler mixed with something else, we thought German Shepard. He had the distinctive chocolate and black markings of a Rot, but not the goofy round head. It was the perfect combination. My other roommate's girlfriend had wanted a dog, so the other's boyfriend let her have it.
I feel for the dog having to be around her all day. At least the rest of us got to go to school and work. She was moody and very particular. One minute she was inviting me to have a slumber party in her room, insisting I get in the bed with her instead of on the sofa, the next she said she wasn't comfortable having me in her bedroom at all. (I may be bi, I may have cut off all my hair because I'm allergic to straightening chemicals, but I'm not at all aggressive and am too naive to think of most people as potential conquests).
She was very particular, too she ate Jif, and only Jif peanut butter all day. She scoffed at my Skippy, I didn't understand the big deal. She ate open-faced sandwiches with half an inch of peanut butter on each side and almost as much jelly with a pint or more of milk at a sitting. She also put peanut butter instead of butter on pancakes. At first, this seems like the grossest thing ever, but it melts in and is yummy with just a touch of syrup.
She was 6'1" and, despite all the peanut butter, very, very thin (130 pounds -- she said her doctor wanted her to weight at least 150, but she couldn't figure out where to put it) with pale skin and hair dyed blackest black. When we went out, guys fell all over her, but at home she took codeine and hardly ever got out of her bathrobe. But hey, at least she was home to take the dog for a walk.
Unfortunately, her relationship with our other roommate deteriorated rapidly once he was off tour for a few weeks. After she left, the dog was locked up in the apartment most of the day because no one wanted to take care of it. The Anal One left us condescending notes when the dog pooped at the bottom of the stairs -- "While it is wonderful to have a puppy, it is a big responsibility..."
This was the anal roommate whose flat it was. Everything was his and expensive, as he constantly reminded you. Nevermind that I was told not to bring my own dishes, that there was no room -- it was all about having control. He bought a set of $36 fish plates from Williams-Sonoma and told us that if we broke one, we'd have to replace the entire set.
At the time, I made $6 an hour working part time on campus with occaisional temp jobs downtown, so that was more than a day's pay to me at the time. I decided it best not to use the fish plates at all, but my other roommate insisted on using them and I just knew at some point she'd break one and I'd take the fall. (For some reason, when you're messy, people tend to think you're completely careless and inconsiderate as well, when in actual fact, I'm pretty anal about common areas like the kitchen and bathroom).
I'll remind you dear readers, I didn't like dogs, so I avoided him as much as possible, and wasn't about to clean up shit off the stairs on my way out to work in the Financial District. Most irritating of all, it was his girlfriend who wanted a dog in the first place, so why was he leaving notes addressed to all of us? I didn't want a dog in the first place, thankyouverymuch.
In time, the dog somehow reverted back to the other roommate's boyfriend, Spot (yes, the dog was owned by a man named Spot), the guy who found the dog in the first place. Unfortunately, he could not keep the dog himself because he lived in some half-way house because he was freshly out of prison. He had been a junkie for a decade and was now an Anonymous Aholic. I really didn't much see the point of being sober and going to NA meetings, because he was still a major asshole.
It took a while for a name to stick to the dog. I can't remember the earlier names at the moment, but they finally settled on Zeus. It was strong and could be said firmly while giving commands. Also, this dog, even as a little puppy, could strut. He was the king of Haight Street and when we walked with him it seemed to me that "Stayin' Alive" should be playing.
After a few months, the dog won me over. He was smart and could be cuddly. I was amazed when he started to lick my face and neck instead of biting me. That was refreshing. Still, I could take him or leave him, as I was working 30 hours a week and carrying 15 or 18 units by that fall. I didn't have much time for a dog.
I remember the day Jerry Garcia died, for example. I heard the news while having breakfast in the Pork Store that morning. The guy sitting nearest to me at the counter said, exasperated, "Shit, they're never going to leave," referring to the wanna-be hippies who lined Haight Street. How right he was. I worked in the Financial District all day and at the answering service until 10:30 and by the time I got home, the streets were packed with people and film crews. That was a typical day for me -- out early, back late.
One night, after another such long day, I came home late and when I opened the door, Zeus jumped on me, bit me and took off down Ashbury. The flat was dark, so I figured no one was home, especially since he seemed like he'd been in all day. I tossed my stuff inside, locked the door and ran after him. I was terrified he'd get hit by a car. By the time I caught up with him, he was in the Panhandle (of Golden Gate Park). Relieved that he was safe, I tried to catch him. He kept nipping at me and running. It is such a wide open space there was no way to pin him in. Finally, a man out walking his dog put Zeus on his leash and helped me get him home.
When my roommate and her boyfriend finally came in that night, I told them what happened. I reminded him that it wasn't my dog and that it shouldn't be in out apartment at all. I was willing to put up with it, but not when I had to suffer from his lack of responsibility toward the dog. His response? "It's called not letting him out." No, it's called not leaving a dog locked up in the flat all day while you sit around drinking coffee so he doesn't jump me like a wild fucking animal when I come home after a long day. What an asshole. Dogs are like children...they can be great, but it depends on who raises them.
Around this time, I was enrolled in the journalism program at SF State and taking the most challenging class, reporting. The class required a 20+ hour time commitment outside of lecture. The grading standards for the program were strenuous -- an A was nearly impossible, it meant a story could be printed in a major daily newspaper with no editing at all.
Moreover, the program was sequential. If you didn't pass a class with a C+ (departmental rule), you could not progress to the next semester's coursework. I had the most strict teacher in the program, famous for giving students Cs so that they received credit from the University, but had to take the course over again in order to go forward in the program.
Basically, we were to choose a city and be cub reporters covering the sort of local stories typical of first year reporters. We were not allowed to cover San Francisco or Oakland because they were too large and a first year reporter would not likely cover them. The next best city was Berkeley because it was very accessible on BART and always had plenty going on. A friend of mine snatched that up, even though he had a vehicle and could have covered any other city. There was a rule that you could not cover your own city, so even though he'd gone to Cal Berkeley for years, he could cover the city of Berkeley because, as far as the instructor knew, he lived in Oakland.
I ended up covering a small city near Berkeley called Albany. Luckily for me, it was just a long walk from either of two BART stations and only about a mile square. It was lovely and quiet and pretty early on I met my "magic source," a city planner who referred me to many other sources for different stories I had to do.
One day I was walking around Albany, trying to get a feel for what kind of place it was. It reminded me a bit of some quieter parts of Indianapolis or the suburbs of Southern California. I remember walking so much I wore out my loafers that day. I was minding my own business, walking up a residential street when I noticed a man out in his front yard with some dogs. I thought, "I'm so glad I lived with Zeus for a year, now I'm not afraid of those dogs."
One of his dogs was named Toby. I know because it was the last thing I heard before I felt his teeth sink into my ass. I kept walking because I was afraid I'd be bit again, since the man didn't have the dog under voice command. I made it through work that night, but the next day I went to the campus health center to have it checked out. They had to report it to Animal Control, who called me a few days later. If he'd bit anyone else before, they were required to put him down. They never called to let me know what happened to Toby, but I always hoped he'd been released. It wasn't his fault, I am just too tasty for dogs to resist.
I tried to keep some fish when I had my own place, but they were never long for this world. I interviewed a guy in Berkeley around that time who sold snakes, geckos and such and really wanted to buy a fire-bellied newt from him. They just seemed smart and interesting, but they're so small I figured they'd get lost in my messy apartment. So we come full circle...
When I moved back here, my brother had a cat. My dad is probably rolling over in his grave, he detested cats for some reason. Curiously, cats loved him -- they always climbed all over him. Probably a control issue -- he was more of a dog person. He thought it was rude that you could feed and care for a cat and it could still remain aloof.
I love this cat, Salem. It's the first pet I've been around for any length of time. He's funny, interesting, and sometimes very sweet. Other times we play box, which is hilarious to see -- him with his furry little dukes up. At least I'm play boxing, he ends up giving me the evil eye and hissing after a bit of this.
So I guess, in the end, I'm a cat person, and it took 29 years to find out. I like that he's pretty independent, but can be playful sometimes, too. I really want to find a job in New York making good money so I can afford an apartment in a year or so. I want to settle in, have all my stuff in the same place and get a kitty or two.
not much of an animal person. I haven't had many pets. As a kid, we were often in apartments where we couldn't have pets. In hindsight, we could've had fish, but at the rate I kill them, it's just as well.