Joseph O’Neill - The Dog

‘I don’t want to live with a dog,’ she said. She picked up her binder.

Jenn was not being unkind. Far from it. She was honestly ascertaining her wants and communicating them economically and clearly. It was her form of considerateness, and I received it as such, and I still view it as such. Another way to state the matter would be: she was being Jenn. This was enormously consequential. Since I had made a binding commitment to Jenn the implied condition of which was to be with Jenn , i.e., the person characterized above all by Jenn-ness, it followed that, (i) if Jenn was being Jenn, then (ii) I had no good grounds for complaint about those actions of hers which, though they might provide grounds for complaint if they were the actions of another, were essentially instances of her being herself. Jenn understood this. When I said, ‘Why not?’ in response to her saying she did not want a dog, she, evidently anguished by my persistence, said, ‘I’m not interested in dogs. I’m not a dog person. You know that. What do you want from me?’ There was no good answer to this question, which of course had not been asked in order to solicit an answer but to make point (ii) above. But for some reason I decided to hear her literally, and I blurted, kind of jokily and experimentally, ‘How about a little bit of attention?’ She, Jenn, looked at me. ‘You want my attention? I’ll give you my attention.’ It was a menace, obviously, and it scared me — rightly so, as subsequent events showed. So I said nothing more about it, and not only out of fear. Her threat had silently expressed a valid accusation: I was a zombie fraud and not speaking in good faith and deep down did not want Jenn’s attention and had no good reason to ask for it. Therefore, even though she’d menaced me with the intention of cowing me, there was legitimacy in her stance; and on the question of the dog, she also had right on her side, because I was in effect asking her to be other than who she was, which was a non-doglover. I let it drop — slunk off to my doghouse, which of course also operated as a shelter. Though sometimes I did fantasize about Jenn coming home from the office to discover that I had punched two holes in my torso and impaled myself on the rings of a man-sized binder.

I continue to think it would be lovely to have a dog. I sometimes imagine this faithful, pleasantly malodorous hound — saved by me from the municipal killer — snoozing happily at my feet, or leaping to greet me on my return to The Situation. As a basis for action, the fantasy is problematic. I could handle the emirate’s pet-owning regulations, pursuant to which dogs must without fail be microchipped and be annually re-registered and wear collar discs issued by the authorities. So be it. But The Situation (I discovered too late) is a no-dog building. Even if I sold up — not possible, unless I’m prepared to take a 40 or 50 or, God forbid, 60 per cent hit — and found somewhere dog-friendly, I would still be confronted with the rules that prohibit the walking of dogs in all public parks and on all beaches; and of course there is no question of a dog setting foot in a mall or even on Marina Walk (where often I take an evening amble and — though I am the opposite of a sailor and in fact loathe boats and regard boating, with its never-ending mopping and knotting and bucketing, as a dangerous, disagreeable form of cleaning house — I enjoy reveries in which I commandeer one of the more modest Marina vessels and weigh anchor in the dead of night and make a life as a lone salt who knows every cay and current and for whom happiness is a matter of cigarettes, stars and something to drink). Where the public presence of dogs is permitted, it is on condition that they are kept on a leash. There are stories of dogs running free on a beach near Jebel Ali, and I’ve heard about sandy waste areas on the outskirts of the city where unleashed dogs are unofficially tolerated. The fact remains that man’s best friend, in this country, is practically an outlaw. I find it all somewhat disheartening.

I’m aware that a cat is a viable option. I draw the line at cats.

Mila very rarely personally fucks me these days. Only when one of her associates no-shows does she sometimes step in, whereupon she kindly encourages me to imagine that we are old flames stuck in a romance that will not die, try as we might to extinguish it. Our much more usual arrangement is that Mila books a room at the Unique (where she has her contacts) in the name of the person who that night will entertain G. Pardew; I pay her an upfront fee of five hundred USD (out of which sum she compensates her friend/associate) plus the cost of the room; and, after the event, I pay her in cash for room service and any overnight guest fee. Unless something has gone awry, I add a tip, also paid to Mila on trust, since my strong preference is not to have to think about money when I’m with my companion. (Something goes awry, in this context, if my companion is not nice. I’m not told in advance who Mila has set me up with — ‘Surprise better,’ as Mila says — and I am very flexible about the physical type of the lady in question and have never turned my nose up at anyone on arbitrary and demeaning grounds such as not liking this or that about her natural appearance, about which she can do little, although I might afterwards express some private opinion to Mila. But niceness is a must. I cannot not have niceness.) It comes to about a thousand USD a pop, about twice a month. It’s both a luxury and a benign circulation or trickle-down of my wealth. I’d happily increase the frequency, but Mila’s network operates by word of mouth, and it cannot astonish that her supply of dependable holidaymaking part-time hot women of the night is erratic.

I took a nap and woke up in the early evening. Then I re-showered and shaved so as to be Pardew-like and presentable. I was all set for an enjoyable evening: after the morning’s search and rescue debacle, I felt I deserved it. I stepped into the elevator and ran into Mrs Ted Wilson.

I could not have been more shocked if it had been Dracula. I think I let out a small yelp of fright. The doors shut quickly. There was no getting out. It was me and her and the decorative mock hieroglyphs. I must believe that she found it as terrifying as I did, for she turned towards the corner of the car and stood with her face almost touching the stainless steel. Not a word was spoken. When the elevator reached the lobby, she ran away as if from a danger.

My companion that night was a merry Kyrgyz. She had a sweet Chinese face and was very talkative, even though she spoke no English. I saw that she’d already finished most of a bottle of room-service Veuve Clicquot, which, in the live-and-let-live, do-unto-others, let’s-not-sweat-the-small-stuff spirit of these occasions, was absolutely fine by me. It was certainly no fault of hers that I was not able to relax. I was too shaken up by the encounter in the elevator. I found it intolerable that I could no longer go about in my own building without fear or favour, that I had to watch my step, duck and dive, keep myself to myself, accept a fate as a Quasimodo. I had to take action. Dear Mrs Wilson , I conceptually wrote while the Kyrgyz sucked my cock,

Allow me to communicate my regret about the unfortunate outcome of your recent visit to my apartment. Please understand that it was an exceptional and most uncharacteristic occurrence. I am most assuredly a non-violent person. I cannot offer you an explanation of my conduct without burdening you with the long story of my personal history and the idiosyncratic sensitivities that are mine to bear. I would merely ask you to accept that I am aware that things got the better of me, and that you suffered as a consequence. Also, with great tentativeness and with a view only to your edification, I would humbly suggest that you inquire into your own possible contribution to what happened. It is not my place to say anything about this, and in any case I have nothing to say. Yours etc.