Joint Custody Read online

  It helped further that right after giving me the grand tour, we headed back out to the pet store, where he made sure I had food, treats, sturdy food and water bowls, toys, and a large cushioned pillow, just in case I wanted an alternative to the bed during daylight napping hours. Really, he made sure I had all the best doggy paraphernalia.

  But no, I don’t think The Woman’s first experience of his apartment was the same.

  After their initial evening at Nick’s, they went on two more dates, both at Nick’s. I didn’t attend the third date. By that point, I just figured they needed some alone time, even if they weren’t aware of needing it, and I feigned disinterest when it was time to go.

  So, after that last one, about a week after the first, I was sleeping under the bed, curled up with one of The Man’s flannel shirts—having shredded several of his other flannel shirts, because while I thought The Man and The Woman should have some alone time, I didn’t necessarily want to be alone—when my ears perked up at the sound of the front door being unlocked. There was more than one lock. Hey, safety first.

  Yawning and stretching, I was about to rouse myself to go greet him, knowing he’d want to perform the usual debriefing he had to go through after a date with The Woman by telling me every last word each of them said and how they looked at each other and what they ate—even though I’d been there to witness their first two dates for myself, thereby obviating any need for the old blow-by-blow account—when I heard a female voice whisper.

  I realized then that for the first time since I’d been with him, The Man was not coming home alone.

  What do I do? I wondered, finally understanding the feeling of awkwardness The Man perpetually experienced. Do I go out there? Greet them both? I know what to do when it’s just The Man—go right out—but what to do when it’s two people? When The Woman’s there too? Oh, the dilemma. But something caused me to stay where I was, play things discreet.

  I heard a series of sounds, not unlike when The Man would kiss my face after I licked him, but louder somehow, because human skin against human skin creates a sound louder than human skin against dog fur, which is much more subtle. If I had to describe the exact sound I was hearing, it would be smooch. A whole long series of smooches.

  “Is this too soon?” I heard The Man say with characteristic caution.

  “Not for me!” The Woman said with bold enthusiasm, followed by a slightly more cautious: “Why? Is it too soon for you?”

  “NO!” The Man let out a near-yell that could only be described as overeager.

  Another series of smooches followed, longer than the last, as I heard the sounds of feet—it sounded like sneakers and heels—making their stumbling way across the hardwood flooring in the living room and toward the bedroom. Fully alert now, instinct told me to stay in my spot, keeping as quiet as I could. I even went so far as to place my paws over my snout, so no one could hear me pant. If anyone was going to start panting tonight, it certainly wasn’t going to be me.

  At last, they were at the bedroom door. All I could see, from the soft glow of the living room light behind them, was their feet—I’d been right about the sneakers and high heels; but then, already I knew them both so well—and just a bit of their ankles as they approached the bed, their feet facing each other and so close together it was as though they were moving like one person.

  I felt the mattress above me sag down closer to my face as they both sank down on the bed, and I saw their footwear leave their feet as though flying: There goes a sneaker, nearly hitting the door! There goes a high heel, sailing right out the doorway!

  Then, with an “Oh!” The Man got up to shut the door separating the bedroom from the living area, and all there was, was sound.

  But, oh, what sounds they were!

  First came the sound of a zipper being pulled down, something I was familiar with from when The Man would remove his jeans. This zipper undoing, however, went much more excruciatingly slow—on his own, he was into a far more utilitarian and expedient fashion of garment removal—and from the amount of time taken, this seemed like it must be a far longer zipper, so I knew it couldn’t be his. But then, soon after, I heard a short and quick zip, more like I was used to, and I figured: Hey! His pants are off!

  More smooching, an acceleration of skin sounds, the occasional slurp—but not, you know, in a gross way—followed by the sound of something crinkly being torn open.

  “Safety first?” I heard him whisper, a slight question at the end of his voice, like he was soliciting her input on it. Not the first time I’d ever heard him utter those words but definitely the most, well, solicitous.

  “Safety first,” she agreed with a soft, appreciative laugh, followed by more smooches.

  Smooches, skin-on-skin sounds, grunts (but again, not gross), the occasional awkward laugh but somehow never embarrassed. It went on for a while, but somehow, at the same time, felt not long at all. In the end, there was a happy cry from her, almost immediately followed by a more forceful cry from him and . . .

  Silence.

  Just the sound of heavy breathing when it began to decelerate.

  More silence.

  Finally, from The Man, still sounding slightly out of breath but filled with wonder, “That was . . .”

  And from The Woman, completely satisfied and affirmative, “That was.”

  I couldn’t say for certain what I’d just listened to, but whatever it was, it sure sounded like fun!

  Plus, the smells were super interesting, even if I sensed that now was not the time for me to go around butt-sniffing, however great the temptation.

  And somehow, I knew that I’d just borne witness to the beginning of something wonderful.

  Chapter Six

  Between less than three years ago and two and a half years ago . . .

  Goin’ courtin’, goin’ courtin’—kind of makes it sound like a musical from the ’50s featuring a story that takes place in the 1800s, amiright? But that’s exactly what it was like.

  We took her out on dates. OK, maybe not out so much. But we had her over for takeout and movie nights. We took her for long walks, and on those long walks, we never expected her to scoop the poop. Even when she tried, we never let her. We even visited her one time in her place of business, because she invited us. And, here’s a shocker. Even though everyone at the publishing company made a big fuss over me, they made an even bigger fuss over The Man. For the first time, I realized just what a well-respected big deal he was in literary circles and not just, you know, in his own mind.

  And then there was the day we took her to the park. Not just any park, it was our favorite park. It was that day that I knew just how much she’d come to mean to him. You see, The Man loved to play fetch with me. Sometimes, I think he loved it even more than I did, if such a thing were possible. But on that day, I saw him hold himself back. I could visibly see him push down his own desire for his own pleasure as he offered her the stick.

  And she took it.

  Then she hurled the stick with all her might, and I chased after it with all my might, hearing her laugh delightedly behind me all the while. After I fetched and returned the stick to her, she offered it to The Man. But again, fighting his own no doubt overwhelming desire, he simply shook his head.

  And so the day went on—she hurling, me fetching, all of us laughing—until we were all spent. For once in my life, for the only time in my life, a game of fetch had ended without me feeling afterward like: It’s over? How can it be over??? I THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO GO ON FOREVER!!!

  But no, I was thoroughly satisfied, she was thoroughly satisfied, and even The Man, despite not playing fetch at all himself, was thoroughly satisfied too.

  “That was the most fun I’ve had in,” she gasped, laughing, then looking surprised as she added, “maybe ever.”

  We all collapsed on our backs on the grass then, and I listened, contentedly, a
s they talked for hours.

  They talked about literature, they talked about life. They talked about how wonderful I was and how much they both loved me.

  “And you,” she said to The Man, surprising me by being the bold one to say it first. Not that she wasn’t bold, but it takes a lot of chutzpah to jump from the high diving board without being sure if the person standing next to you is going to dive too. “I love you too.”

  “Is that the first time either of us has said it out loud?” The Man wondered.

  She nodded, cautious for once.

  “I’m sorry,” The Man said. “I’ve been saying it in my head for so long, because I’ve been feeling it in my heart for so long, I was sure I’d said it out loud before, but I guess I haven’t. I love you too.”

  She suggested that, to celebrate their vocalized love, they should go out to dinner.

  “Nick’s?” he said.

  “Perhaps somewhere different?” she suggested. “Since it is a special occasion?”

  Here’s the thing about eating out. There were various breakfast spots The Man and I went to and cafés where we’d sit outside, contemplating the history of cappuccino and the mystery of life. There was even the trashy watering hole The Man favored for out-of-house beers. But as far as he was concerned, there was only one out-of-house place for dinner.

  “There are other dog-friendly restaurants,” The Woman pressed gently when he failed to respond right away.

  “Of course,” he said, visibly trying to be agreeable; open-minded, even. “And we’ve tried some of them. But here’s the thing: even when they say they’re dog-friendly, even when they bill themselves as being dog-friendly, none of them are as dog-friendly as Nick’s.”

  You really couldn’t fault his logic on this. Every word he spoke was true.

  The Woman could see it too.

  “Gatz does love their pasta,” she said.

  The Man nodded.

  “And probably no one else in the city would crouch down to add extra fresh Parm to it for him,” she added.

  The Man shook his head.

  “I love how much you love Gatz,” The Woman said, “and I love him too.” She took The Man’s hand in hers. “Let’s go to Nick’s.”

  Chapter Seven

  Two and a half years ago . . .

  It was a hot August day, the kind of day where people flee the city rather than flocking to it.

  But for me, never mind the blistering heat outside, it was the greatest day of my life thus far.

  She’s here! She’s finally here! I would’ve shouted if only I could give voice to my thoughts as I ran around in circles. As it was, all I could do to show enthusiasm for this turn of events when I saw the U-Haul pull up outside our building was the running-around-in-circles part. I could only hope I was adequately conveying my delight at having her move in.

  It’s not like the idea of moving in the other direction, to her place in Manhattan, hadn’t been entertained; seriously by her, more as a matter of fairness by him. To be honest, her place was nicer, bigger, and decorated with a more discerning eye. I knew, because I’d been there the few times she’d talked him into coming over and he’d brought me along. But let’s face it: we all knew that a guy who could only rarely be persuaded to venture out for food rather than having it brought in wasn’t the type of guy to take easily to uprooting all his own belongings, lock, stock, and doggy dish.

  But that was OK! The moving van was here—it was finally here!—and we were all going to be together.

  Seeing her jump out of the back of the van in sneakers, frayed blue jeans, tank top and with a babushka covering her hair, I must say, she’d never looked more beautiful.

  It was all I could do to contain myself—OK, I couldn’t contain myself, running around in circles like a maniac, chasing my own tail—as they pulled box after box out of the back of the van, hauling them up the stairs to the stoop and then inside.

  You wouldn’t think it would be easy to merge the contents of two households, but she was leaving nearly all her furniture behind. Rather than selling the condo, a gift from her parents, she was leasing it out completely furnished. So rather than a total rejiggering of everyone’s stuff, it was more a matter of finding space for her coffee mug beside his coffee mug, her clothes beside his in the closet, and so forth. Once that was done, it was simply a matter of integrating their two book collections, a more difficult task than one might think—they were both very particular about how they arranged their book collections.

  Finally, there was just one book left to find a place for, and luckily, there was a gap just its size. And so it was with a great sense of satisfaction that I watched—that he and I both watched—as she took her copy of The Great Gatsby and slid it in, shelving it right beside his decidedly more worn copy. When she adjusted it so the books were exactly aligned, it was perfect.

  Then, the empty boxes stacked neatly near the front door, we three, we happy three—The Man, The Woman, and Gatz—collapsed in a joyful heap together on the couch.

  One happy family, at last.

  Chapter Eight

  Two years and two months ago . . .

  Is there any time of the year more fulfilling than the holidays?

  The lights! The decorations! THE TREE! THE WRAPPING PAPER!!!

  The menorah.

  Before the holidays that first year, The Man hadn’t been in touch with his Jewish side very strongly. Honestly, I’d had no idea he even had a Jewish side.

  But apparently, The Woman did. And she thought it was time he got in touch with it. Specifically, she thought it was high time he got in touch with his family.

  Hanukkah came early that year, and with one thing on the schedule after another, it quickly became apparent that there would be no opportunity to go to The Man’s family until the last night. This meant that we were on our own to open our presents for eight nights, which was fine by The Man and fine by me. I loved us together.

  Turned out, The Man wasn’t a great shopper. Oh, it’s not like I don’t think he tried. He did, for him. But he didn’t like going out and didn’t like shopping, which is not a great combination when it comes to gift giving. Even online shopping, it just wasn’t for him. He might log onto Amazon with good intentions, but before you knew it, he’d lose patience. Before you knew it, he was looking at books instead. And before you knew it again, he was looking at his own books, specifically his Amazon rankings. Authors, man. They’ll tell you they don’t look at that stuff. But, trust me, they all do.

  Anyway, here’s the breakdown, as best I can recall, of what he got her for those eight nights: scarf, pen, scarf, chocolate, scarf, Starbucks gift card—not as impersonal as one might think, because she did love a good Iced Caramel Macchiato with extra drizzle—followed by the best present he gave her, a Yankees ball cap, that he’d purchased even though it killed him to do it because she’d once confessed that to the extent she followed baseball at all, she rooted for the Yankees, and that was opened with much glee all around on Night 7 and, finally, scarf.

  And just to be clear, it’s not like the scarves were thoughtless presents. If anything, like with so much else, he overthought it. “Gatz, blue is her favorite color, right? But which blue do you think she loves more, this blue or this blue?”

  All I could do was bark my general approval. They all looked the same to me. So if, in the end, he got her nearly identical scarves, it wasn’t like he didn’t labor over it. It wasn’t like he didn’t care. He just didn’t know how to be good at that kind of thing. As for the pen, what editor doesn’t love a great pen? Honestly, if the ratio had been flipped—4:1 in favor of pens versus scarves, instead of the other way—it probably would’ve been better all around.

  The Woman joked that people at work were going to start calling her Scarf Lady, but really, they were some bangin’-looking scarves. She wore them well and I knew she was happy
. Plus, the Yankees ball cap really touched her, I could tell by the tears of joy in her eyes.

  If he wasn’t the best at shopping on his own, they were great shopping together. By this, I’m referring to what they jointly picked out for me. Each night, I ripped open the blue-and-silver wrapping to reveal a new toy: a ball; fake bones; lots of chewy rubber things to chew on—each more impressive than the last. It’s not like I wasn’t spoiled to begin with, but by the time those eight nights were over with, my toy basket runneth over.

  And if he was just an OK shopper, if together they were great shoppers, on her own The Woman was the best shopper.

  She knew what The Man loved best in the world, besides me and her, and gave it to him: books. Every night, a different book. These were super thoughtful books, ones she’d clearly taken a long time picking out.

  And the way she presented them! The first night, she gave him a wrapped book-shaped object—no surprise there when it was opened. But the second night, she gave him a shirt-sized box, causing him to guess wrong before revealing another book. Night 3, an old-fashioned hatbox—oops, what’s a book doing in there? By Night 4, even the dimmest bulbs amongst us had twigged to what was going on, and the biggest drama and most fun was in seeing what strange shape she’d conceal another great book within next. I thought Night 7—a giant refrigerator box, with so much wrapping paper to remove and the added benefit of a giant box for me to play in endlessly afterward until it fell apart—was really inspired.

  The only glitch on her present-giving part came on Night 5, when he opened a triangular box to reveal . . .

  “Commercial fiction?” he said, unable to hide his skepticism. “A bestseller? I don’t usually read . . .”

  “Don’t be such a reading snob,” she said, laughing. But when she said it, it didn’t sound abrasive and insulting like it would if I said it. When she said it, it just sounded like good-natured advice. “He’s a really talented writer.”