next morning as we crunch across a pile of fallen leaves on the path in Central Park. Autumn has coasted into New York City, and the colors are gorgeous. For a moment, I study a cranberry-red leaf that has drifted to the ground, picturing how I’d use that color in an animation. This is something I’ve always done; it’s second nature for me to think about color, shades, and all the permutations they can take.
“Would the Great Dane have a fluffy tail, or would the chipmunk have crazy long legs?” Wyatt continues.
“Dude, you know that’s not how this works,” I say to my brother as the Min Pin mix I’m walking tugs on the end of the leash in hot pursuit of a squirrel.
“Or a squirrel and a Min Pin,” Wyatt suggests, waving an arm at the critter.
“Again, you’re getting away from the focus of the dog mash-ups game,” I remind him as the long-haired, white-and-brown teacup Chihuahua he’s walking tries to chase the tail of my dog. Well, not my dog, but the one I’m walking for a local animal rescue, Little Friends, that specializes in finding homes for small apartment-friendly dogs. We both volunteer there.
“Iguana and a terrier,” he suggests, trying once more, then his furry friend balances on her two front legs, lifts her rear, legs and all, and pees on the grass.
“Handstand piss!” my brother shouts, doing a little victory shuffle by the tree.
I high-five him with my non-leash hand, because that is a serious win in our other dog game—dog bingo. We’re multitaskers. We can play two games at once. “Ten points. Nice work,” I say, but I’m competitive as hell with my little brother, and even though we’re almost done with the walk, I’ve still got a chance to beat him. “But not if a fire truck drives by and mine howls.”
He shoots me a doubtful look as we make our way out of the park. “Yeah, don’t bank on that. That’s both the unicorn and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in dog bingo.”
“Someday I’ll get it, though,” I say, since dogs howling, especially tiny dogs like these two, is kind of fucking adorable, and that’s why it’s fifty points on our scorecard of random, unplanned canine activities. That’s our version of car bingo, which we’ve played since we were kids. Points are also awarded to dog yoga poses, in honor of our dad, who’s the most laidback guy you’ll ever meet. I credit that to him being a yoga teacher, and to my mom keeping him well fed with her cupcakes. And no, I mean cupcakes literally, because I’m not even going there or thinking about that.
Ever.
Anyway, Wyatt and I both love dogs. We grew up with a bunch of small ones, as well as a little sister, Josie. Dogs kept us from killing each other. I love my brother like crazy, but he’s also a total pain in the ass. Younger brothers are like that, even though he’s only younger by five minutes.
“Corgi Mastiff pair-up. Who was on top?”
“Mastiff,” I answer immediately, as we return to our other dog game. Because who’s on top is the point of Dog Mash-ups.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, imagine how the Corgi felt. Greyhound Basset?”
“Greyhound. And now their puppies try to run with those short little legs and their toes turned out,” he says, as we leave the park and make our way uptown to where Little Friends shares space with a doggy day-care.
“Hey, you know the chick who runs the little dog center?” he asks, shifting gears.
“Penny, you mean?”
He nods. “She asked if I would help fix up a section of the rescue.”
Before I can respond, I spot a woman across the street with a long mane of red hair blowing in the breeze, walking into my building. Her hair is like the color of that leaf—red with a golden tint.
“Whoa,” Wyatt says, stopping in his tracks at the crosswalk and leaving the Penny conversation in the dust. His teacup buddy pulls up short. “Who’s the sexy little snake charmer heading into your building?”
I smack him on the back of his head.
“Would the Great Dane have a fluffy tail, or would the chipmunk have crazy long legs?” Wyatt continues.
“Dude, you know that’s not how this works,” I say to my brother as the Min Pin mix I’m walking tugs on the end of the leash in hot pursuit of a squirrel.
“Or a squirrel and a Min Pin,” Wyatt suggests, waving an arm at the critter.
“Again, you’re getting away from the focus of the dog mash-ups game,” I remind him as the long-haired, white-and-brown teacup Chihuahua he’s walking tries to chase the tail of my dog. Well, not my dog, but the one I’m walking for a local animal rescue, Little Friends, that specializes in finding homes for small apartment-friendly dogs. We both volunteer there.
“Iguana and a terrier,” he suggests, trying once more, then his furry friend balances on her two front legs, lifts her rear, legs and all, and pees on the grass.
“Handstand piss!” my brother shouts, doing a little victory shuffle by the tree.
I high-five him with my non-leash hand, because that is a serious win in our other dog game—dog bingo. We’re multitaskers. We can play two games at once. “Ten points. Nice work,” I say, but I’m competitive as hell with my little brother, and even though we’re almost done with the walk, I’ve still got a chance to beat him. “But not if a fire truck drives by and mine howls.”
He shoots me a doubtful look as we make our way out of the park. “Yeah, don’t bank on that. That’s both the unicorn and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in dog bingo.”
“Someday I’ll get it, though,” I say, since dogs howling, especially tiny dogs like these two, is kind of fucking adorable, and that’s why it’s fifty points on our scorecard of random, unplanned canine activities. That’s our version of car bingo, which we’ve played since we were kids. Points are also awarded to dog yoga poses, in honor of our dad, who’s the most laidback guy you’ll ever meet. I credit that to him being a yoga teacher, and to my mom keeping him well fed with her cupcakes. And no, I mean cupcakes literally, because I’m not even going there or thinking about that.
Ever.
Anyway, Wyatt and I both love dogs. We grew up with a bunch of small ones, as well as a little sister, Josie. Dogs kept us from killing each other. I love my brother like crazy, but he’s also a total pain in the ass. Younger brothers are like that, even though he’s only younger by five minutes.
“Corgi Mastiff pair-up. Who was on top?”
“Mastiff,” I answer immediately, as we return to our other dog game. Because who’s on top is the point of Dog Mash-ups.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, imagine how the Corgi felt. Greyhound Basset?”
“Greyhound. And now their puppies try to run with those short little legs and their toes turned out,” he says, as we leave the park and make our way uptown to where Little Friends shares space with a doggy day-care.
“Hey, you know the chick who runs the little dog center?” he asks, shifting gears.
“Penny, you mean?”
He nods. “She asked if I would help fix up a section of the rescue.”
Before I can respond, I spot a woman across the street with a long mane of red hair blowing in the breeze, walking into my building. Her hair is like the color of that leaf—red with a golden tint.
“Whoa,” Wyatt says, stopping in his tracks at the crosswalk and leaving the Penny conversation in the dust. His teacup buddy pulls up short. “Who’s the sexy little snake charmer heading into your building?”
I smack him on the back of his head.
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