Taming the Retarded Bear

Bear came into my life through screwed up circumstances. My friend Bridget felt that I was unbearably dull after parting ways with one in a long string of Mr. Wrongs. She arrived on my porch one day with a strange, brown, furiously panting creature on a leash. "Isn't he cute?" squealed Bridget, warming up for her overly-enthusiastic-pep-talking-cheerleader-for-the-downtrodden bit.

"His eyes don't point in the same direction." I intoned, getting set for my this-curmudgeon-can-not-and-will-not-be-cheered bit.

"I know, it is so hard to find a dog like that."

"Just like it is so hard to find a really large wart or a rabid bunny rabbit. What is the world coming to?"

Her smile died a little and I heard the corner of a glare inching into her perky talk. "I think he's wonderful." She wandered into my loft apartment and I made a half-hearted effort to clear away the dinner rubbish from the night before. "What do you call that thing?" I asked.

"His name is Governor Sweetpea." she informed me.

I couldn't help myself, the beginning of a smile mapped its way across my face in quick strokes. "Governor... are you joking? Holy geeze, bridge, you're going to give him a superiority complex which isn't going to serve him well with looks like those."

"Well, you can call him whatever you want." she said, "I'm leaving him with you for awhile."

"Ah..no."

"Yep."

"No."

"Yep. Its time to shake you out of this blah, antisocial rut. "

"And a stinky mutt is going to do that. I see. Well, I cant have pets here, and there's no way on earth I'd consider taking that thing-" my attention was distracted suddenly when 'that thing' lifted its leg and peed all over my overstuffed suede chair.

"Augh!" I ran at it, swiping my arms like he was a particularly large sort of bumblebee. The dog looked up at me with his walleyed gaze and panted, as if we were having a friendly tête-a-tête. "Thats almost NEW!" I shouted at him. "Look what you did! That's leather! It will never look right, ever, EVER again." The dog continued to pant up at me and then he rose and walked toward the kitchen. I wheeled toward my friend, "Get that thing OUT.." just in time to see the door shut. I ran across the room and opened the door shouting "Briiidget!" but she was gone. Disappeared as coolly and neatly as a phantom. Of all the mean, rotten tricks to pull.

I lunged at the dog but he reared away, mistaking my intention and eager for a good game of tag. I chased him futilely around the apartment in a circle: Living room, kitchen, living room, kitchen, a full ten laps before giving up. I sighed and sank down onto the carpet while the dog continued to lope another lap before disappearing on the other side of the apartment. I eyed the dark stain that had spread outward across the skirt of my beautiful chair.

"I suppose I could throw a luau. Roast him with an apple in his mouth." When I regained the emotional energy to tackle the stain, I did a quick surveillance of the apartment and located the back-end of the dog having a nice refreshing drink out of my toilet. I sat with a damp rag and attempted to rinse the doggy pee away. I didn't know what cleaners would work on leather, and I didn't know if suede would have been scotch guarded, so a haphazard rinsing job was all I dared for the time being. The dog wandered in while I was working and sat beside me, evidently much enchanted with his handiwork.

"I'm not calling you Sweetpea." I informed him, buffing away. " Your pee is anything but sweet. It's rancid. It's awful. I think I'll call you Horrid Male. Only a guy would pee all over leather." He made a sort of questioning sound in his throat and I turned to him. "Oh, that doesn't suit you? We could try Igor or Dimwit." He yawned and I got a look-see at rows and rows of whitish gray teeth. "Gosh you're a big boy." His tail thumped and I realized it was the first verbalization he'd heard from me that didn't sound cranky or overtly menacing. I took one of his ears between my fingers and rubbed thoughtfully. "Well, you're brown as mud and you're huge. Lets call you Bear."

He cocked his head at me.

"You're Bear." I repeated. The dog started making doggish vocalizations. "Bear." I growled it like a bear and he made a gravelly sound back at me. "Good Bear." He took off loping across the apartment again. I watched him skid on the kitchen tiles and thump headfirst into the pantry. He rose, shook his head from side to side and then resumed his vapid panting.

"Bear, I do believe you're retarded." I announced, before turning back to my work.

*************************

Over the course of the next day I found out what a pain in the bum a retarded animal can be. Bridget had dumped a grocery bag full of supplies by the door before making her getaway. In it I found a leash, a large bowl full of dog chow, a small, empty bowl, a brush, a thick roll of plastic bags and what looked like a child's sand shovel with the menacing words 'Pooper-Scooper' written on the handle.

"You've got to be kidding me." I murmured. I went in the kitchen and filled the empty bowl with water. Bear came hurtling in and dunked half his head in it like a man in the desert who had found an oasis after days of searching. He drank half the water and managed to get most of the rest of it on the floor. I waited for the dog to leave the kitchen before placing the food on the ground. I did not wish to lose a hand in his enthusiasm. I called, "Bear...here boy". He ran toward the food with even more energy than he had attacked the water. Small chunks flew across the kitchen floor as he feasted. I watched bemused, and then grew worried as it appeared he was not about to stop eating.

"Hey, slow down there, buddy. That's all the food we have for you."

He did not acknowledge me but continued to feast. An idea occurred to me then, and I looked back in the paper grocery bag: Toy, ball, leash, something that resembled the remains of a dead thing, oh. Another empty bowl. Uh oh. At the very bottom of the bag I also saw an envelope. I pulled it out, and opened it up. There were instructions inside.

"Governor Sweetpea loves routine. He will wake you up bright and early to take his walk. Take the plastic bags and the Pooper Scooper with you. YOU MIGHT NEED MORE THAN ONE BAG.

Governor Sweetpea loves Puppy Fritter Chow the best. You can find this at a local grocery store. I brought enough food to last him about four days.

You can leave Governor Sweetpea alone for up to 5 hours. If you're going to be gone longer, leave him in the bathroom, its easier to clean up the mess.

If an emergency comes up and you can't take care of Governor Sweetpea for some reason, call my mom at (212) 309-1121. She will come pick him up.

I will be back in two weeks. (Cabo, Antonio from accounting. Me so lucky.) Thanks so much!

-Bridge"

I grabbed my phone and called Bridget's cell phone first. This was unbelievable. This was unprecedented. No one answered (of course) so I left a rather unpleasant message, and then I called her mother's number. The phone rang twelve times and no answering machine picked it up. I rang again. This time fifteen times, no message. What?! Who doesn't have an answering machine or at least voice mail in the modern age? I left another message for Bridget, this one a tad more polite, requesting that she verify her mother's number in case of emergency. I was all set to call my mother when a very odd sound caught my attention.

Bear was standing by his empty bowl, and if possible for a peculiar dog, he looked more peculiar still.

"Oh no. You ate the whole thing..." Bear gave me a watery look. "Maybe if you just lay down boy. Right there, put your mouth over the bowl."

Bear walked stiff legged across the kitchen tiles to the carpeted entry way in the living-room, and puked all over the floor. When he was done retching up half the food, he walked another two steps and puked again. When he was finished, he licked his lips, which made me nearly puke, and then he turned toward me and wagged his tail.

Bear spent the night in the bathroom.

I spent the evening trying not to retch from his absolutely disgusting vomit mess. I took the garbage out, I scrubbed and scrubbed, I burnt the rags that I used to clean with. I used deodorizing spray. That smell seemed to hang inside my nostrils, making me gag every couple of minutes.

The next morning I tried to call Bridget's mother first thing. No answer. I had woken up after eight, and by the time I retrieved bear for his walk there was another mess on the bathroom floor. "At least its not carpeted." I said philosophically, dumping the doggy poo into my toilet and flushing. Bear watched. "That's how it's done." I informed him. After bleaching, we opened every window in the place, and then I took him for his long awaited walk.

Rather, he took me for his long awaited walk.

Very nearly yanking the leash out of my hands he took off the minute the door was open. I had to yank and pull him to go the other way so we didn't pass the landlord's office. It was such a struggle to change his direction, I fell down in the process. Fighting him, I managed to wrap the leash around my arm and stick my fingers through the loop. I stood, and he waited while I locked the door and then we were off again, in the other direction.

Indian rope burn; that's what his leash around my arm felt like for the first 30 minutes of our outing. The tugging, the pulling, the burning. I would have shouted at him if I could have caught my breath. He dragged me through parts of the neighborhood I hadn't seen before. We had a raucous game of tug-o-war when a small boy on a bicycle whooshed by. I won the battle but lost some skin on my wrist. After about half an hour his wild energy waned enough that we were able to trot along at a steady lope.

I tied him up outside an Internet café and marched in to find Bridget's mom through reverse directory. The process took about twenty minutes, but I was cheered to discover she lived just the other side of town. I probably couldn't walk there with the dog AND all his stuff, but I could unload the dog and then make another trip with my bicycle. Yay!

When I went outside, the dog was gone. The leash was there, but the part attached to the collar was snapped, frayed ends revealing that this had been a caper in the works for quite awhile. I didn't know whether to feel panic or relief.

"Bear?" I called. "Bear? Where you at, boy?" I took the leash, and pretended to call for the dog, keeping my voice rather quiet. Bridget would just have to understand, you don't dump a retarded dog on a rookie. This was not my fault. I called very, very softly, "Bear? Come on buddy." Trying for all the world to look like a concerned dog owner. I could play the part, just don't let the dog come back.

"Lady, did you lose your dog?"

"Huh?" Dark, tough looking guy in an apron, standing outside the pizza joint.

"Did you lose your dog?"

I looked down at the frayed leash in my hand and then looked up with the appropriate panicked dog-owner's expression. "Yeah, he's gone. Big guy, probably miles from here by now."

"I know you're upset, but you're not calling loud enough to hear. I can help you out. What's his name?"

"Bear." I replied automatically. I could have kicked myself.

The man popped two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill, high pitched whistle, the way boys in grade school used to do. "Bear! Get your butt back here, come on Bear!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. I stared at the man rather dazed. Was this happening?

The torpedo hit the center of my back like a mason's brick and I was down; face down on the sidewalk, in fact. His paws pinned me, and I could feel his tongue on the back of my head. I tried to howl, but couldn't breathe. Then the weight was lifted off me and the man was saying, "Okay, boy. Okay. She gets it, you missed her." Even face down on the sidewalk I could hear the retarded dog's silly panting. I pushed myself up off the ground and tried to dust the dirt off my shirt and pat my hair back in place. The man was petting the dog and looking at me, his eyes creased attractively at the corners. They were both laughing at me, I could tell.

"Thank you, so much." I said, trying not to sound murderous.

"No problem, lady. I know how awful it can be to lose your best friend."

That caught me funny, and I kind of took in his face for a minute before I said, "Oh, you mean the dog."

"Yeah." Now he looked confused.

"Oh yeah, I'd hate to lose him." I think a little of the facetious came out that time because the man stopped petting the dog and stood up straight again.

"So, how you gonna get him home?"

"Just tie the leash around his collar."

"It will just snap again. Look at it, it's threadbare."

"Oh." It was pretty frayed and worn.

"Here.." the guy unbuckled his belt. Something about the movement, his head tucked down, a lock of hair falling over his forehead, the fumbling motion of his fingers, was unbearably familiar to me. I felt sad. I missed my ex. I missed his weird focus on simple gestures. I missed someone knowing my birthday and how I liked my tea.

"I couldn't take your belt." I said.

"You gotta. You gotta get this guy home." He handed over the strip of leather and I took it, letting it hang limply in my hand.

"I'll bring it back."

"Naw, you don't hafto..." I think he suddenly saw how sad and miserable I looked because he said, "That would be real nice. Thanks."

"Thank you."

I unhooked Bear's collar and looped it through the belt buckle, and we were on our way. Both me and Bear's mood seemed to have changed , and we walked quietly back to my apartment, him padding politely beside me as I held the makeshift leash. We did not take the trek to Bridget's mom's house. It no longer seemed that important.

We got along after that, Bear and me. I didn't overfeed him, and I woke up for his walks. He let me be what none of my friends would let me be: sad. We went to the dog park most days, and I'd unhook his leash and let him run. He'd go tearing off down the green, and I'd sit and watch quietly, until he'd come tearing back to make sure I was still there. He'd jump up, messing up my pants, panting in his silly dog way, and then he'd go tearing off again for a new adventure. When we got tired of this we'd walk home, sometimes stopping for ice-cream on the way. I liked chocolate, Bear got butter brickle. If he was going to throw up at least he could do it outside.

I took the belt back to the guy in the pizza place, Mitch. Mitch looks kind of tough until you get a good look in his eyes. He's a New York kid, a Brooklyn transplant. He was the first guy I'd been aware of in months. I gave him my phone number one day and he called that same night. I didn't know if he was more enchanted with me or with Bear; so just in case, I asked Bridget to keep Bear a little longer when she got home. She gave me that weird, knowing smile that usually annoys me so much.

"I thought maybe you'd get attached. Governor Sweetpea worked his doggy magic."

"No. No, I cant stand that mutt. I only wanna keep him around cuz of a guy."

"Suure you do. A guy. You being interested in an actual human, that'll be the day."

I made furious death rays at her with my eyes, and patted Bear surreptitiously behind my back. He lapped my fingers noisily, giving us both away.

God, he's retarded.