If Only She Could Cook
by Heidi Matz
GOOSE IS A 70-POUND, GOOD-NATURED, SWEET-NATURED mutt. She has a calm, philosophical demeanor about her lot in life as a North Hollywood canine. I am a 125-pound, medium-legged, 30-year-old wreck, and we share the same apartment.
Let’s go back a couple of months, when I was living alone. I decided rather abruptly that I had to move.
Suddenly my charming Sherman Oaks apartment lost all its charm. Sherman Oaks became a bad neighborhood—that is, crime-infested. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I was a victim of discrimination.
A year ago, I hastily signed a lease accepting reasonable rent, a spacious unit, privacy—and “No pets.”
“No,” he would say, again and again.
So I grew calm, found a charming, small apartment (plum in North Hollywood, with wood floors), and I adopted Goose. At first she was a lot of trouble to procure, secure, and train—but this dog has become my devoted senior citizen. She doesn’t look like a lion, hop like a kangaroo, or simply chew a kitchen sponge. I can’t find anything familiar to complain about.
After living alone for years, it is a bit of a shock being served out of a beautiful sleep at night by a low and profound growl—Goose stretching her limbs at the foot of my bed.
I’ve adjusted as well. My shopping lists now include: bones, bouquets, French puppy food, grooming paraphernalia, flea collars, etc. The livelihood of another being is on my shoulders. Alas, I am no longer single. I am a gravy train.
GOOSE IS—IN THE FLESH—THE BLACK OFFSPRING OF A BLACK BELGIAN BOUVIER FATHER and a white Siberian Husky bitch. Her original master is a Hungarian man from Burbank. Goose is a veritable example of ethnic stew. I called her Goose partly because it’s easier to pronounce, and as an anthropomorphic creature, I attributed a female gender specifically to Goose’s face.
Because I spend a lot of time hypnotized by the glare of a Macintosh Classic, I need to get out of the house to maintain my sanity. Goose is a dog; she needs to do the same—along with the other things dogs are known to do. So, several times a day, in the tree-lined area of Valley Village, Goose and I go for a walk.
On one such walk, I met a woman who was walking two dogs. Once outside, Goose rushes to the nearest available lawn to christen herself and prepare for the onslaught ahead. Any small dark object on the ground becomes suspect. I must stand by and watch her understand the allure of sandy lawns and berries, and every other dog’s mark. I get tossed and pull her on our way.
Another stop on our walk is the Boom Boom Room, a cozy coffee house and part-time home of an impoverished miniature border collie named Tanner (who some say suffers from a mild Napoleonic condition). I order a cup of cappuccino to go and Goose and Tanner begin their complex rituals, oblivious to the civilized order of human coffee drinkers around them. Near the entrance, a decorative stone fountain depicting a gargoyle spitting water gives forth in order to slake the thirst of pets.
Boom Boom Room owner Richard Giorla sits happily with a box of dog treats for all the local four-footed regulars.
The implications of our relationship are ideal. Goose doesn’t judge me on my appearance, doesn’t care if I demand an entirely committed relationship. She won’t date talent in Beverly Hills. She’s loyal, true-blue, listens intently as I speak, and charms even the toughest of strangers.
FOR YEARS I WALKED AROUND DOGLESS IN THIS TOWN, ONLY TO RECEIVE NERVOUS AND FURTIVE glances from others. But now that Goose and I are a team, the world is our oyster. It never fails—on each walk, the cool, the very busy, even the suspicious—all engage in behavior I thought went out with McGovern: they stop to chat about my dog, which leads to discourse on neighborhood current events. And, these days, strangers stopping to chat is a boon. It might even be hard news.
On one outing, a tall, actressy blonde in cut-off Levi’s and a claret-colored blouse tied up just below her bosom—the type that spends a fortune on cosmetics, has a full date book and not much time for female bonding—was hustling Nordstrom’s shopping bags out of her car, saw Goose and discarded her new things. The icy look on her face melted as she kneeled down to take Goose’s paw and asked me, “Where can I get a sweet dog like this?”
Besides all her dog charms, I consider Goose an important study in social etiquette. The dog is astounding in her repartee with humans, canines, and even felines. She cultivates friends with facility and élan. It’s quite obvious that she truly misses Finster, a proud Dachshund living in the next building, owned by what I assessed as a great-looking guy with long hair and a goatee. Every day for a couple of weeks, Goose and Finster would sniff each other in bodily places humans might consider sharing only behind drawn drapes. They’d roll about on Finster’s lawn, barking amicably—ostensibly having deep feelings for each other. Finster’s owner and I did not get as far. Hence, Finster’s owner has gone on tour with a “rock” band. Goose and I still look over the fence longingly, awaiting their return. Until then, I plan to recover Goose’s secret of attraction. Perhaps I’ll invite the two over someday for a cup of tea and “Liva-Snaps.”
The apex of our walk occurs when Goose has a bowel movement. This is a thrilling moment for dogs the world over, but to Goose, it’s almost an epiphany. Sensing that her lawn sniffing is becoming more pointed and intense, I slow down for the count and ready my newspapers. Doubling her body over like a compass come home, Goose does her business. She moves away from the spot and, as if signaled by a vestigial toll from canine ancestors, she slowly and gracefully sweeps back her legs, first the right, then the left. It’s an inherent movement meant to bury her waste. However, on Goose it looks more like an odd form of dog ballet than anything else. I, of course, bend down to dispense with the mess.
At this time, all the sniffing, pawing, and hysteria have taken their toll on Goose and me. I return Goose to our apartment, drained in every meaning of the word. Goose stretches her long legs and resumes her position at the foot of my bed. I resume my position at the Mac. Life is good again. ♦