Happy Fathers' Day

I'm not going to wish my dad a happy father's day here, since of course he's not on Facebook. I will share some stories, though.

The man who taught me how to program in Basic on a Commodore 64 somehow managed to creep back into the norms of his age group. He does check e-mail every few days. I managed to convince him to text message, but when his autocorrect sent me a message that just said "L.T. run." Once I calmed down and found out what happened, I figured maybe just talking in person was a better idea.

My dad was a pool hustler who never bet on himself. Instead he just hung out in a pool hall on Main Street in Flushing, besting all challengers while his friends cashed in on side bets and bought all his drinks as a thank you.

My dad was a bouncer in a dance club when he met my mom. With his nerdy 60s glasses (I now have the same pair, thank you hipsters) and novel in hand, my mom figured out pretty quickly that he wasn't your average street tough. He made money off his size (6'3") and strength, but underneath was the kind of mind that could do almost anything.

My mom, however, wasn't really interested in marrying a college dropout. She talked him into going back to college, and between Fordham and Queens college he got his bachelors, then his Masters, and certification to teach high school math.

While in grad school, he earned money working for Howard Hughes. He was a paralegal, and worked the overnight shift at Hughes' law office, manning a phone line that only Howard had the number to. You see, that was the only way the reclusive magnate could avoid ever getting a busy signal. He did speak to the man several times. He would get home from work in the middle of the night, at 4 or 5 AM. Newly married, he lived with my mom in a tiny apartment in Jackson Heights. At the time, the neighborhood was so dangerous that he would call her from a payphone in the subway so she could watch him walk home, ready to call 911 if anything happened.

He then spent decades as a rather unconventional math teacher. His students knew him as brilliant, tough, and hilarious. He cracked jokes constantly, but his strict classroom manner meant that few students ever guessed of his colorful Queens past.

Adventures in Dogsitting

Although Vinny and I both adore dogs, we're not in a position to get our own. Vinny's dissertation is enough stress, without having to worry about finding dogsitters, cleaning messes, and taking walks. Our compromise has been to sign up as dogsitters on DogVacay* and sit for dogs for weekends (and once, over two weeks).

After sitting for Butterbar for a cumulative year and a half, I've developed a particular affection for bulldogs. Since Butterbar loved to play with other bullies on the street, I got to know all the ones in the neighborhood, and noticed that they had the same overt friendliness and affection towards people that she has. Vinny needed no convincing, as he was already a big fan of the breed.

So when I got an inquiry on DogVacay to sit for a bulldog, I pounced. When they called and said they were in the neighborhood, I eagerly told them to drop by, leaving poor Vinny ten minutes to clean the apartment with me. He was just as ebullient and affectionate as the other bullies I knew, and immediately began jumping on me playfully. Of course, that's a trait I would train out of my own dog, but I happen to enjoy it when I encounter it.

I counted down the days. Vinny good natured-ly put up with my "30 hours 13 minutes, 19 hours 4 minutes, etc. countdown that I mercilessly kept out loud for the days before he arrived. Finally, Porky was here, as jumpy and playful as ever. His owners left, and he settled down to sleep in the dining room.

When he woke up, he looked dazed. He looked around, confused. I approached him and sat a few feet away, inching toward him, recognizing his wariness. When I got close enough to reach out my hand - snap! - he chomped his teeth threateningly and growled at me. Uh-oh. We had never sat for an aggressive dog before. I reviewed all the techniques. I tried to put a leash on him, figuring a walk would make him feel better. Vinny warned me not to approach him. Snap! Growl. Vinny was right. I conceded Vin as the official dog body language interpreter, and spent what was left of the evening (about half an hour) throwing treats in his direction and inching slowly toward him as long as Vin said it was OK.

We resumed the following day. More snaps, more growls. I wasn't too afraid, since the snaps were clearly a warning. If he wanted to bite me, he would have. Our sympathies went out to this dog. We both agreed that it was a scary situation, waking up in a strange house with people you don't remember. That sweet pup was in there somewhere, under the fear. I hadn't initially contacted the owners, figuring that there wasn't much they could do from out of the country. After a morning of this, though, I texted them, hoping they might have someone nearby Porky would recognize and feel safer.

In the meantime, we kept on. We moved the chairs so he could make a den under the table. We approached him in the living room, but he needed to know he had his own space where no one would bother him. He retreated under there, and we patiently waited until he was ready to come out. This cycle repeated. We jazzed up his breakfast with wet food and warm water, and he finally dug in. Appetite whetted, he finally started nibbling at the treats we had tossed. I made him a peanut butter Kong, and after a while he ate it. Vinny fished it back to us with his cane (which he no longer needs, thank goodness) and I refilled it. I held it, inching closer. I back up when he growled. I kept this up for over an hour.

Finally, tentatively, he licked the Kong. Progress! It slowly built from there. After hours of patient work, he ate a treat from my hand. A few hours later, he licked my hand. We kept working until we knew it was his turn. We left his dining room and walked carefully into the living room. He approached us. Another hour of slow work and he let us pet him, just a little, on the side of his mouth. I brought out a squeaky toy (that he ignored the night before) and could read his friendly body language at once. Tug of War. He eased into a play-bow, and we tugged and tossed our Kong Wubba for hours into the night. He kept progressing until he let us scratch his head. Finally, at close to 9PM, I got close enough to put his leash on him. We went for an uneventful walk in which he stayed close and didn't even pull. By the time we heard back from his owners, all was well. We Skyped, me still sweaty from the walk(run).

Success. Since then we have been cuddling, scratching, getting licked, leaned on, playing, etc. He is back to his old friendly self again. I am sorry he had to go through that, but feel great that we were able to make him feel safe again.

*You can get $10 off using the password Ciaccio