Shaq Attack, Part One
The death of our cat, Gabby, hit us hard, and me most of all. She'd been my familiar for the better part of 11 years. I still expected her to mew around the corner and launch herself onto my shoulders. But now that she was gone, I was, at least, enjoying having one fewer animal in the house. It was a small house, and Elijah was a wild boy, which made it feel even smaller.
We were left with only Hercules, our adorable little Boston Terrier who had the bad habit of publicly masturbating whenever company came over, and Teacake, Regina's 15-year-old male tabby, who was exhibiting early signs of kidney failure. Excretory fun abounded daily. But so did sadness.
The animals also seemed to be mourning Gabby. Teacake roamed the house, mewing woefully, and Hercules lay on the sofa like a lump of brindled coal. We had to drag him down the street and up mountains. He seemed to live only to lick our dinner plates.
One day, Regina was on the Internet, always a dangerous thing.
"Neal," she said.
"What?" I said.
"I found our new dog."
"We're not getting a new dog," I said.
"Oh yes we are," said Regina. "He lives with a professional dog trainer who's putting him up for adoption. He's a Boston Terrier."
"Do you really want another dog?"
"It's either that or another baby," she said.
"Hmm," I said.
At that moment, Elijah screamed from the bathroom: "I'M READY TO WIPE!!!!!"
"Let's do the dog," I said.
Regina showed me the dog's picture.
"His name is Shaq," she said.
Actually obtaining Shaq was a bit of an ordeal. The dog trainer took applications. We faxed one in. His office lost it. We faxed another one in.
"I hope we get Shaq," Regina kept saying.
"If we get him, we get him," I said. "If we don't, we don't."
Regina looked at me in a certain way and I realized that I was not to repeat that sentiment, not if I wanted to have sexual relations with her anytime in the next five years.
But we didn't get Shaq. Someone else got approved first. Regina went about her daily business, but now she was the sad one. Then one day, she called me back to her computer.
"Shaq is back on the site," she said.
She'd spotted Shaq almost the minute his picture had returned, so she had me call the trainer immediately. Shaq is a great dog, the assistant said. He's the trainer's personal dog, and he's as well trained as a dog can be. But he sustained some kind of weird injury when he was a puppy, and because of that he sometimes hobbles on his left leg. X-rays have showed no deterioration. His bones are just fused together wrong now.
"Oh," I said.
I called out to Regina: "Shaq has a weird left leg!"
"That's OK!" she said.
"That's OK," I said into the phone.
We re-sent our application.
Then, while I was on my book tour, Regina called me.
"We have an appointment to meet Shaq next Friday while you're home," she said.
"Um," I said.
It was the only full day I would be home for three weeks. We kept Elijah out of school so he could go meet Shaq as well. Hercules, at the trainer's insistence, joined us.
We drove to an industrial area on the city's southwest side. It was pretty raggy, and it made me appreciate my somewhat annoying, kind of noisy, but still relatively clean and well-kept patch.
The trainer ran a caring business staffed by competent professionals, but he was obviously a little low on cash. He was a sort of bargain dog-whisperer, the type of guy who got left behind when Cesar sealed the market. In the foyer were a half-dozen leather couches that looked like a dozen dogs walked on them daily. There was a small patio with a non-running fountain. The whole place, unsurprisingly, smelled like pee.
The trainer brought Shaq out. Immediately, we noticed differences between him and Hercules. First, he was bigger. Second, he was uglier. Third, he was much better behaved.
Shaq went over to Hercules and immediately established his dominance by bonking Hercules on the head. He gave Regina and I kisses and slurped Elijah up and down. We looked him over.
"What's up with his tail?" I said.
Sure enough, there were two big ugly dried-up lumps of skin on his tail. Ew. No one knew exactly what they were, but the trainer assured us that they weren't tumors. Thank goodness, because that would have probably been a deal-breaker.
We took Shaq for a walk down the block. The trainer wanted him to say goodbye to the neighborhood mailman.
"We love him here," said the trainer. "But I've got so many dogs. I just can't give him the attention he deserves."
"We can," said Regina.
So we took Shaq home.
Comments
what, no pictures?
Posted by: Amanda | February 9, 2007 3:33 AM
Aren't you a bit anxious about having a dog named after a famous black man? You know, that's a tradition in the South, where I live. You hear all these white people yelling "Sambo" and "Remus" and up trot these black labs. I find it, well, disturbing. Of course you didn't name Shaq, so what are you going to do about it.
Posted by: Ralph Wiggum | February 9, 2007 7:08 AM
Shaquille O'Neal is hardly "Sambo." I mean, Sambo is a walking stereotype of black masculinity, and...oh. Well, the trainer was African-American, so what are you going to do?
Posted by: Neal Pollack | February 9, 2007 7:30 AM
I'd be more afraid of offending Kobe Bryant.
Posted by: Bud | February 9, 2007 7:59 AM
I'd be more afraid of offending Kobe Bryant. But, then, the dog is somewhat lame.
Posted by: Bud | February 9, 2007 7:59 AM
Neal, I can where your book career is heading (After Alternadad II). Look at Marley; and you're a much better writer!
Posted by: Debster | February 9, 2007 8:12 AM
my condolences re the cat. the love of my life (before my son came along) was a very wise cat; i can empathize. and i can empathize with the events of "alternadad" which i just finished. forgive that i feel justified in stating mho just b/c i paid retail. but i do. sure, i loved it--there's almost nothing out there about the all-consuming aspects of parenting as applied to middle-aged, well-educated, ironic, flawed, self-obsessed, interesting, outnumbered and summarily and universally scorned alt parents. Even if there were more writers braving this area, your book would stand out. i like your voice. but it could have been great, and it isn't (imho) because you didn't go far enough. it's darker, and we both know it. "regina on the internet" indeed. the internet, where you will find virtually no reputable information that smoking pot while breastfeeding (or pregnant, for that matter) will harm your child. so of course she was smoking while she breastfed--not just once a year. i mean, you're too broke to pay for a $12 medline call, but you're always holding? and you bought a vaporizer! no way the regina i read would let that happen-- unless she was smoking, too. if only you smoked, it wouldn't have made ecomonic sense to her, and you're selfish, but not that selfish. (hmmm. buy castle toy or weed for just me?) no sireee! never happened. so you both smoked, and you both needed to, and let the judgement chips fall where they may. soccer moms--save it--we're not talking to you. you did the best you could.
problem is, you didn't say that. you gave us a version of the truth, just like you gave your neighbors when you determined to move. need to know basis--hey, you put in plenty hip funny alt stuff--no promises it was a tell-all... true. so our generation will just have to wait for the modern classic that blows the bullshit lid off 21st century parenting. but it's a nice start.
Posted by: outsider mom @ 41 | February 10, 2007 12:15 AM
Whoa. If you pay retail you get to rant in lowercase letters and sporadic abbreviations? That's hawt! How dare you tell a version of the truth, Neal? You're not entitled. We need a Bukowski novel here. You know: truth man.
By the way, nice dog. but i don't know, imho, whether it's a great name. there is darkness in an injured animal. we both know it. i mean, you got him in an industrial part of town. why not tell us about the fact he was injured when he got his leg caught in a metal-stamping machine that he was working as forced labor for cruella deville? you only tell a version of the truth. we'll have to wait for a post-modern classic that blows the bullshit lid off 21st century pet adoption.
Posted by: PhillyD | February 10, 2007 5:49 AM
It was obviously fate. Congratulations on the adoption of Shaq.
Posted by: shoppista | February 10, 2007 8:04 AM
outsider mom,
I don't care for pot, and I don't partake of the vaporizer that Neal bought for himself for his birthday (except for that first time he describes in the book). I just don't get much out of it, so I don't do it. Also, I would never, ever have done it while breast feeding. I had already weaned E when Neal purchased his surfer. I prided myself on keeping my body as healthy and toxin-free as I could while pregnant and breast feeding.
Sorry to disappoint, no dark side here.
Posted by: Neal's wife | February 10, 2007 10:23 AM
bullshit.
Posted by: outsider mom | February 10, 2007 12:27 PM
Outsider mom:
It sounds like you were looking for the book to validate a struggle/belief you already had ("it's darker, and we both know it"), and that somehow, you sought Neal's book out in the hope it would tell *your story*. We all have places where we overlap. But Neal Pollack's experience is uniquely his, and telling Regina that her truth about *her* parenting experience is "bullshit" reveals some much deeper psychological issues.
Posted by: Mieke | February 10, 2007 1:09 PM
I hate to seem like I'm ganging up on you, outsider mom, but I'm with Regina. I also have a kid, and I got my husband a vaporizer because I care about his lungs (and I hate bong smell, even if it's confined to our deck), but I've never smoked in my life. It's possible to be tolerant without partaking yourself (or, in other words, not all straight wives are assholes).
Posted by: Tammy | February 10, 2007 1:51 PM
Outsider Mom:
Maybe you didn't really read the book. I'm not sure you did. Neal made it pretty clear that Regina was all about being sure she was healthy during the pregnancy.
Hmrf.
I use to smoke, I don't anymore - I haven't in years. I have certainly cut down on drinking since Ella and Sam were born. Of course, smoking is a lot less harmful than drinking is.
Don't sweat it.
Here's that Buk quote Philly, "When something good happens you drink to celebrate, when something bad happens you drink to forget, and when nothing happens you drink to make something happen."
Peace
D
Posted by: Dave Delaney: Two Boobs and a Baby+ | February 10, 2007 6:32 PM
Sorry, forgot to wish you my condolences for Gabby.
Cheers
D
Posted by: Dave Delaney: Two Boobs and a Baby+ | February 10, 2007 7:30 PM
Apparently stalkers are the downside of fame.
Posted by: How About Two? | February 11, 2007 8:08 PM
Who'da thunk it?
Posted by: Neal Pollack | February 11, 2007 8:35 PM
No L.A. Times bestseller list this week? Wha' happened?
Posted by: Bud | February 12, 2007 10:48 AM
You know, Ms. Outsider, you could always write your OWN book (or start your own blog) about being a pot-smoking mom. . .
And actually, I think in the Leche-fied political climate of parenting today, a pot-smoking nurser would still be more PC than a formula feeder. Go thee and figure.
Posted by: kat | February 12, 2007 6:12 PM
I think everyone is missing the point with this post. Neal is about to bring an animal into his home that is named after a former-LA Laker. Neal, I suggest you consider changing the dog's name to something more appropriate, like Nash, Amare, Barkley, Sweet D, KJ or Al McCoy.
Posted by: Matt | February 13, 2007 2:52 PM
Ha! I had to laugh... I used to have a pug named Hugo that used to masturbate in the middle of the room when we had people over. Very embarrassing..
Posted by: sarah | February 16, 2007 8:18 AM