Sunday, December 19, 2010

Death Of A Dog - Birth Of A Future

His name started as a joke. My wife kidded she wanted to introduce us, "This is my husband Advo and my dog Advotey." The name stuck. Many people thought it was the height of self-centered, narcissistic vanity that I'd named my dog after myself. Advotey's name was also my father's nickname.

I inherited the legasy of an absent, alcoholic father who terrified me as a child with guns and untrained hunting dogs. My uncharacteristic mid-life outdoorsman odyssey was an expiation of these sins. My dog was my guide.

My once strong and noble hunter had been dying for over a year. Wracked with the effects of Cushing's disease his powerful back legs were wasting away, his handsome head was boney, and his once thick lusterous coat was thin and marred with bald spots and warts. Though he was recovering remarkably well from the Cushing's, two weeks ago he had his second violent seizure in a month and I knew it was time to help him die.

For fifteen years he'd guarded my soul, retrieved my spirit, and happily licked clean my wounds of day-to-day human life. It's the deal we make with a dog. They love us - period. They trust us to do right. In that bond we are rescued from mediocrity and become heros to a wagging tail.

Dogs are pure D/s creatures. They dominate or they submit. He would dive into a tangled thicket of sharp thorns, completely oblivious to vicious bloody stabbings, to recover a small quail and then obediently deliver it to my hand. I spent years training him. He was a soft dog. You could not be too harsh with him. He served and he lived to please.

He is my model of the noble, strong, courageous submissive. I miss him horribly, but am comforted that for all he gave me, I held up my end of the bargain.

Aarkey and I had spent the day in my new office grunting and groaning together what turned out to be a massive desk that threatened to eat the space whole. He claimed I was overcompensating for something. Wise ass.

Anyway, I'm a tenant in the beautiful downtown suite and my new landlords were throwing a holiday party that night - my reason to come down and work the room.
We cleaned up as we could but tiny white bits of styrofoam packing littered the plush deep green hallway carpeting outside the office. I was told there was no vacuum cleaner.

My next door neighbor is a partner in one of the firms and she serves as the office manager. She came to the door dressed for the party in a short red mini-dress, black hose, black heels and a clingy black sweater.

She bluntly chided, "Advo, this has to be cleaned up," as she pointed to the minute white particles. She glared at me and walked off.

Aarkey and I looked at each other. "Dude, she shoulda put her hand on her hip," he suggested. "Yeah", I giggled, "and pointed at me and then at the floor."

I went out into the hallway and picked up every last little nib of white. Apparently, Aarkey's wife got quite the chuckle from our first day at the new office story.

My spirit dog romps loyally with me as the future tugs me forward with heartache, hope and maybe a few laughs along the way.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Fleeting Questions

I had dinner with my wife Friday night instead of dancing with a domme.

What's with that?

Truth be told, I have the dregs of a nasty cold and didn't feel much like playing Fred to my dommy dance partner's Ginger. My wife is leaving town for ten days or so and I just wanted to be close to over two decades of intimacy. The value in shared history, however marred by conflict, is truly comforting.

How do you figure?

I had a date last night with my new love interest. I re-texted our restaurant rendez-vous and added a "be there or be square". She replied she was too hip to be square. I added that her hips were most definitely not square. Truth be told I was too nasal nasty to be make-out material. But we had a wonderful talk about our unexpected connection. After dinner we walked arm in arm through Times Square to Eighth Avenue. She kissed me goodnight on my mouth through her soft leather glove as I wriggled excitedly telling her how hot that made me. "We'll try it with a veil next time", she whispered. She shoved me toward the subway commanding me to go away and walked abruptly off, leering over her shoulder at me as she disappeared into the holiday crowd of an early winter's eve.

Where does she fit?

As I write this my older dog is pacing my snappy new Far West Village loft apartment, unable to relax, occassionally stopping, tilting his head into the air and plaintively, softly, howling. He's trying to tell me something. He's old, he's tired, he hurts. I just don't know what he wants. He's so boney and small from the effects of his Cushing's disease we've been battling. He's a such a good boy.

How long will he remain with me?

Fleeting questions. The answers just out of reach.