You Work Out?

“Sorry that took so long,” the dog groomer said as she snipped a stray hair off Finley’s now-sleek coat. “He was furrier than I thought he was.”

“No prob,” I said. It was hard finding someone who could do a Norwich Terrier coat, and I wasn’t about to risk my standing with her by complaining. Plus I’m from Minnesota. We don’t complain, we just let our resentments simmer for eight or nine years.

“But he looks fabulous now,” she said. “He’s got a nice coat. And he’s got a really nice body.”

“Thank you,” I said, as if I something to do with it. As if I spotted him at the gym a few times a week. It was the kind of compliment every gay man would like to hear about their dog, projecting his own needs upon his companion. My dog has a nice little body. My dog could do porn.

Finley didn’t look like he cared much about compliments at that particular moment. “Get me the fuck out of here,” he implored me with his big brown eyes. “Or tonight while you sleep I will chew out your throat.”

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