Thurmanniversary

The general consensus among people I talk to on a regular basis was that 2016 felt like one long, drawn-out roller coaster accident that only managed to get louder and more fiery as the months passed by. I agree, and while I think every horrible thing accumulated to overall more stress than I’d experienced in a previous single year, I have to say 2016 also gave me one of the best things to ever happen to me: On February 5, 2016, a seventy-pound bag of hair and grumbles came to live with me. His name is Thurman. His is my dog. And I love him very much.

Behold.

I know it’s trite to say, but as soon as Thurman got here, it seemed like he’d always been here, and it’s hard to imagine life in my house without him, wandering around this place like a little king. That was apparent to me those first few days, when I was supposedly fostering him as opposed to rescuing and adopting him outright. He just quickly and seamlessly folded into the day-to-day, which is all the more remarkable considering how he’s essentially a walking money pit, how he’s irreparably damaged my hardwood floors, and how he’s rendered me a social pariah as a result of unreasonable hostility toward motorcycles, skateboards, strollers, wheelchairs and Caucasian children.

I can, however, make a comparison that illustrates the difference a single year makes. A few days ago, I looked around online to try and find any trace of Thurman’s life with his original owners. The name, after all, came with the dog, and it seems reasonable that they might have posted about him somewhere online before they decided to abandon him. The results gave me three bits of information: 1) Uma Thurman poses with dogs often enough to jack the results; 2) Rachel Bilson also has or had a dog named Thurman; and finally once references to those two actress were eliminated, 3) Thurman’s old adoption profile photo still exists online. Even though it would have been my first glimpse of Thurman, I find this photo hard to look at now, just because he seems sad and underweight and altogether unwell.

For contrast, here below is that photo next to one I took this morning, post-walk.

I think he looks happier, but I’m biased. I’m willing to call it a win, and add to it the reminder that good things can still happen even in times of chaos and strife. This weird animal—Thurman Snowfoot Goldeneyes Snaroo Thurmanski—is one of those.

If you are not yet exhausted by me talking about my dog, hit the jump to see a visual summary of his past year.

Thurman explored the wilds of Atwater Village.

Thurman was upstaged by his own ears.

Thurman showed off his legs.

Thurman experienced near-constant existential angst.

Thurman exhibited remarkable penmanship.

Thurman was a snake in the grass.

Thurman practiced camouflage.

Thurman got a “class picture day” haircut.

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Thurman experienced love—and then heartbreak when that love went unrequited.

Thurman briefly wore a hat.

Thurman learned to appreciate spooning and human beds.

Thurman came to both respect and fear the paparazzi.

Thurman came to enjoy the smells of the L.A. River

Thurman learned how to take a selfie.

Thurman destroyed a lamb, butt-first.

Thurman learned about posing in dramatic lighting.

Thurman learned about pathetic fallacy.

Thurman effectively shut down all work.

Thurman made his first dog friend: Oliver James, sentient cinnamon roll.

Thurman resented me for making him endure the rain.

That’s not all that happened, and I’m sure Thurman would represent his past year differently, but that’s the gist, really. In closing, I’d also like to add a new member to the club of pop culture characters that my dog (apparently) looks like: the dog from The Storyteller.

I continue to accept submissions.

A Conversation With Thurman

What you may not know about my dog, Thurman, is that he is briefly capable of speech, and he uses these periods to better understand the world of humans. Here is a re-creation of my most recent conversation with Thurman.

I was walking through the dining room, where Thurman was lying so as to monitor all comings and goings in the house. As I moved by, I leaned down, pet him once on the head and said “boop.” Thurman’s reaction was immediate.

“Human, what is boop?” he asked me. I realized I wasn’t sure.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just something humans do to animals.” At the time I was trying to collect the garbage to take out, and I didn’t exactly want an interrogation.

That feeble explanation was clearly not enough for Thurman. “Would you boop another human?” he asked me.

“I might do it to a baby,” I said, thinking aloud before immediately clarifying: “A baby, by the way, is a human puppy. You’ve seen them on walks.”

“Ah, yes,” Thurman said. “Human, would you boop The Roommate?”

“No, Thurman. The Roommate would probably not like that.”

“Human, is boop an act of dominion or of benevolent condescension?”

“It’s neither, really,” I said after having thought about it for a few seconds. “It’s more of an act of affection.”

Thurman blinked once or twice and considered this. “May I boop you, human?”

“No, you may not.”

“Human, why can I not boop?”

“Well, for one thing, Thurman, I know you were digging in mud today, and your paws aren’t clean. For another I’m not sure you’d be able to reach the top of my head without me lying on the floor.”

“Human, must the boop land on the top of the skull?”

“No, Thurman. If you’ll remember I booped you on the nose a while back.”

Thurman looked down. “I do remember, human. I didn’t care for it. My nose is very sensitive, you know.”

I apologized for the slight, but Thurman had clearly already moved on. “Human, what is the origin of the boop? As a word, I mean, not as a demonstration of dominance?”

“Thurman, I just told you that I don’t think it’s necessarily about dominance. And I don’t know. I suppose it’s onomatopoeia.”

“But the act of booping produces no perceptible noise,” he persisted. “Surely the term has origins elsewhere.”

I had to admit he had a point. “You’re probably right, actually. So then no, I don’t know why we say ‘boop’ when we boop.”

“Human, perhaps it is better not to engage in ceremonies when you do not understand their histories,” Thurman continued. “Perhaps it is unwise, as you do not understand what implications and connotations to which your are tacitly endorsing.”

I sighed, then agreed that I would not boop him any longer.

“A underside rub would be preferable,” Thurman point out.

“Fine, yes, but please remember that we call it a belly rub. Underside rub sounds weird.”

“Human, my belly is ever so soft and warm.”

“I know, Thurman.”

“Human, when may I eat a cat?”

I turned around to begin once again my explanation of why he would not be allowed to eat a cat, but by the time I did, he had turned his full attention to licking mud out from between his toes. The moment of speech had passed. I wondered if there were any pattern to these moments. I wondered what he would ask about during his next.

Skunk, Interrupted

Fair warning: This post is not for the squeamish, though I’ll do my best to avod being needlessly graphic.

Tonight is the one-year anniversary of the incident I refer to as “when the tree went through my face.” If you don’t remember or I haven’t related this to you in person, know that it amounted to a freak accident involving my nasal cavity, some sharp tree branches and an overstuffed green waste container. I had actually planned to write something funny about what I’d learned in the year since the accident, but that post probably would have sucked. If I’m being honest, all I learned was not to cram sharp objects into anything with wheels and that freak accidents happen suddenly and in ways you don’t expect.

Here’s the funny thing, though: Tonight, almost to the minute that the tree branch cut through my nose one year ago, something else happened.

I was heading into the garage to write, and Thurman came bounding out the back door after me. This is not unusual, as he normally takes a late-night piddle walk in the yard, but in a split second he’d disappeared into a dark corner. Almost immediately, I heard the noise he makes when he’s shaking one of his toys in his mouth. And almost just as quickly he came trotting back out into the light, whereupon he started diving into the dirt face-first—a cherished activity I call “land swimming.” Then I noticed the sulphuric, spoiled garlic smell of skunk.

I checked to make sure the little stinker had gotten away—more because I didn’t want him to spray again than because I was worried for its safety—and then I saw that no, it could not have gotten away, for he was now bisected. If you can imagine where a skunk’s pant line would be (were a skunk to wear pants) this one was now nude from that line down. His leg fur—and his tail—were lying a foot away from the rest of him; everything else, including what would normally be inside the “pants,” was still connected to the top part.

Much in the same way that the branch thing left me feeling like I should probably do something but unable to decide what I should do, I looked at the skunk halves and then back at my dog, who seemed upset but also was keeping himself busy. Here, then, is what I did.

1. Asked my roommate what to do.
2. Checked Thurman for injuries. I found none.
3. Took Thurman into the shower and scrubbed his fur as best I could.
4. Called the late-night vet and explained the situation. They told me that so long as Thurman’s vaccinations were up to date, I didn’t have much to worry about.
5. Drove to the liquor store, got there as it was closing, and begged them to open back up for me so I could buy trash bags. “My dog killed a skunk and I need to get rid of the carcass,” I explained. “Yeah, I could tell it was something with a skunk,” said the cashier. The fact that I had to dispose of a body—animal or otherwise—didn’t seem to phase him.
6. Got my roommate out of bed to hold the flashlight while I shoveled the skunk pieces into a grocery bag—and yes, this did make me think about the new season of Orange Is the New Black.
7. Fought back the urge to vomit, because years of slasher movies still haven’t prepared me for real-life gore.
8. Tied the grocery bag inside a trash bag and then tossed it into a dumpster down the street.
9. Showered, then washed everything that had been in contact with skunk juice, whether first-degree or second-degree.
10. Finally, I continue to smell skunk everywhere, even as I type this. I have no way of knowing how much of it is just ambient skunk particles outside, how much of it is inside my house, how much is on Thurman even post-shower and how much is actually me. The hilarious capper to all this is that my roommate can’t smell—I explain it as “He’s like Daredevil, only with his nose”—so I will have no way of objectively knowing if I’m carrying the skunk curse until I interact with someone else outside my home. Maybe it will be you!

As far as late-night emergencies that have happened to me on June 23, this one isn’t so bad. I’m not sitting in an E.R. waiting to get stitched up, and I’ll be in bed long before sunrise, but it is an enticing coincidence to have these two nights, one year apart, where I was getting ready to settle in and instead had my plans tossed apart by unforeseen badness that assaulted my nose in one way or another.

I guess I could write about how dogs are dogs, even if you love them. (Just earlier today, we unsuccessfully tried to coax Thurman into enjoying a wading pool, and it’s weird to think about the dopey dog who was scared of a water-filled plastic tub tearing into another animal and decisively ending that other creature in just a few seconds.) But the thing that sticks out to me right now is how quickly and suddenly something awful—or at least very, aggressively noteworthy. I’m a person who worries a lot, and I spend way too much mental energy calculating all the Final Destination-esque ways a given situation could lead to my undoing. But in the same way I didn’t think twice about that overstuffed green waste container, I also didn’t think twice about letting Thurman into the yard tonight. That happens every night, and every pervious one has resulted in successful piddles and nothing more. This one didn’t turn out to be a crisis—and not a medical crisis, best of all—but it’s worth pointing out that this wasn’t something I worried about, wasn’t something I foresaw as turning bad for me. Maybe that’s the lesson I should have taken away from one year ago: All that worrying can’t prepare you for the freak occurrence that actually does happen.

I still love Thurman, even if I know he can end a life in a split second, ninja-style. I chose to remember his greatest hit of the day as looking adorably rumpled as we finally conceded that he would not be a wading pool dog.

That might be the greatest takeaway of all, from this or from anything: Don’t focus on what went bad or what might go bad in the future, because maybe something else didn’t suck or won’t suck.

Right?

Various Nostalgic Pop Culture Icons My Dog Looks Like

Yes, I finally got a dog. I’d apologize for not saying so sooner, but in the best possible way, he’s why I haven’t had much free time the past two months.

His name is Thurman. He is a rescue. He is five years old. I’d had reservations about the problems a rescue dog might bring with him, but Thurman has proven himself to be a fully-formed little gentleman — well-mannered and socialized to the point that as soon as he got here, it seemed like he’d always been here. And while he’s taken up my time with walks and all the other things dogs require, he doesn’t seem like a burden; making him happy seems like the best possible use of my time. I suppose this is what parenthood feels like, only without the crippling fear that this cared-for thing will one day go to college and learn to resent me.

This is how Thurman looks, in general.

This is Thurman again.

Here is Thurman looking like a supermodel.

And here is me and Thurman looking his most Muppet-y.

It’s on that last note, “Muppet-y,” that I get to the subject of the post: If I am to believe what the general public tells me, Thurman resembles all manner of characters from the collected pop-cultural memory of ’80s babies. Here, then, is an up-to-date list on every fantastic animal character people have claimed he looks like.

Master Splinter from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Not the Splinter from the cartoons but specifically the Jim Henson-produced puppet used in the 1990 live-action movie. I kind of get it. The hair and the beard are in the ballpark, but I’d like to think that Thurman carries himself with a certain noble nature that a rodent couldn’t manage — sensei or not.

Falcor from Neverending Story

I don’t get this one, really. Falcor looks like a dog, sure, but lots of real-life things look more like Falcor than does this particular dog — this one and this one in particular. Sure, I’ve compared him to Falcor myself, but that's more just because I like to hold him like a giant baby and pretend he is flying.

Gmork from Neverending Story

I think what people are referring to when they tell me Thurman looks like Falcor is actually Gmork, the evil, snub-nosed wolf that works for the Nothing in The Neverending Story. Thurman also has a little piggy nose himself. It’s technically a cleft nose — like a cleft palate but just specifically with his nose. No, it doesn’t seem to bother him any, but it does seem to prompt a lot of people to ask what happened to him. I think I’m going to start responding with “He got in a fight with the last person who asked an invasive question.”

Gizmo from Gremlins

It’s the hair. And the ears.

Sir Didymus from Labyrinth

Again, it’s the hair but specifically the beard, notwithstanding the fact that Sir Didymus actually rides a dog. This is more or less how I’d imagine Thurman might talk, since I like to think he is a wizard who was trapped in a dog body and just got used to it. Also, it should be noted that I wish I could make Thurman wear a hat like the one Didymus wears.

Snarf from Thundercats

I consider this comparison offensive and do not wish to comment on it further.

Conclusions? A lot of supporting characters from childhood movies and TV shows had amusingly shaggy hair. My dog will never know about any of them, though he seems to be happy to have complete strangers address him on the street.

By the way, I got Thurman through A Purposeful Rescue, an L.A.-based group that I fully recommend if you’re in the market for your own Thurman. And okay, fine, here is one more photo of my dog.

Should you want to see more photos of Thurman, I made him his own Instagram account, less to be obnoxious and more to prevent myself from spamming my dog-agnostic friends with a ceaseless stream of every cute fucking thing he does.

Hey, Drew — Why Don’t You Have a Dog Yet?

(What follows is an imaginary conversation that has happened in bits and pieces over the last few months but which is not based off any one interaction in particular.)

OMG YOU GOT A DOG?!

No, not yet.

Oh. But you’re getting a dog?

It’s in the process. I am dog-shopping, by which I mean that I’ve been going to some of the recommended dog rescues and seeing who’s there, seeing who might be a good match for me. It’s higher stakes than dating but lower stakes than adopting a baby, I’d wager.

But you’re taking FOREVER.

I guess? I’ve been working at home for more than a year now, and I wanted to make sure this was a lifestyle I could do longterm before I brought a dog into it. Also, I had to do quite a bit of work in my backyard to make sure that it was secure for a dog — that I’d minimized the changes that one might have escaped or met an angry raccoon or something. It’s there now, though, and I’ve tested it out with some dogs that I’ve watched for friends. None have gotten out or been skeletonized by raccoons. (Don’t tell my friends I used their dogs as test subjects, maybe.)

OMG you should get a dog because on social media you’re just like “dog dog dog dog dog.”

Yes, I know I post about dogs a lot. Dogs occupy a large piece of my mental real estate. This likely will not change once I get a dog, you should probably know.

Ugh, just get a dog already.

No. I feel like this is something I need to take slowly. If you’re dating someone and you feel like you’re not a good match, you and the other person can just decide not to see each other anymore. I’m not sure that would work with a dog, and having that breakup conversation with a dog would just be the most awkward thing. You’d be all, “Well, Fritz, I feel like this just isn’t working out between us. I think you need to pack your things and find another human.” And the dog would be like “[licks you hand],” and you’d be all “Fritz, please. I’ve made my decision.” And then you’d watch him walking out the front door, bindle stick in mouth, whereupon he’d return himself to the shelter. (I’m guessing.) However, I suppose if the dog broke up with me because he found a human he loves more — that is, had more fresh-cooked steaks on hand — then I’d respect his wishes, but I don’t foresee that happened, mostly because I have a lot of steaks in the freezer.

But, like, just get a dog.

No, stop it. I want to make sure I find a dog that I can make happy and who will make me happy. And once the dog gets here, he’s staying no matter what, so it’s especially important that this turns out to be a good dog-human relationship.

When I got my dog, I just walked in and Patches was like “bark bark bark” and I was all, “That’s my dog! I’ll take that one.” And now little Patches and I are, like, super tight.

Well, see, I’ve met Patches.

What do you mean?

Hey! Look at the time! I have a playdate with a prospective dog companion, so I’d better run.

Wait, what were you trying to say about Patches?

[runs away]

Oh, I love my dog Patches. Hey, Patches — where are you, girl? Patches? Patches?! Shit, has anyone seen Patches?

{FIN}

a dog i did not adopt despite off-the-charts levels of cute

I Am an Expert in Matilda

Hi. This is Matilda. She is a dog who has spent more time at my house than most of my human acquaintances have.

You may remember her as the dog who is an affront to my masculinity and who also was once the victim of a skunk attack. I am watching her for a week because her owner had to go to Venezuela for some weird operation, and I feel I am now an expert in all the facets of this dog’s personality.

You can be one too! Here are all the sides to Matilda.

Staring

Hiding

Winking One Eye and Then the Other

Dozing in High-Foot-Traffic Areas of My Home

Sniffy Curiosity

Licky Curiosity

Rolling in Dirt

Having a Butterfly Land on Her Head and Completely Shutting Down Emotionally as a Result

Checking Hourly on the One Spot She Once Saw a Cat to See If the Cat Is in That Exact Spot Again

Making Concerned Whimpering Noises That Kind of Sound Like She’s Trying to Say Either Her Name or “Macaroni”

Arbitrarily Refusing to Walk Down Certain Blocks in My Neighborhood

Peeing on the Lawns of People Who Are Currently in Their Front Yards or Otherwise Able to Watch Her Pee on Their Property

“Wait, Is This Food or Not?”

Sighs

Farts (or, If You Will, Butt-Sighs)

Thrusting Her Head Beneath Your Hands (or Sometimes Feet) in an Effort to Get Pets When You Are Not Actively Petting Her

Running Into the Room Seeming Alarmed, Then Looking Around and Returning From Whence She Came in a Vaguely Disappointed Fashion

Begrudgingly Consenting to Being Held Like a Baby

Leaving Blond Hairs on Black Floors

And that is everything Matilda is. You’re an expert too now.

In closing, a moment of classic Matilda:

Literally the first ten minutes of dog-sitting: Matilda finds an arch-nemesis. ATTN: @katherine_spiers

A video posted by Drew (@kidicarus222) on Sep 26, 2014 at 5:31pm PDT

Names to Give Dogs So the Dogs Can Say Their Names

Note: Some of these names may be difficult to say for certain dogs. If your dog cannot pronounce any of these names, please get a new dog at once.

Earl

Ralph

Alf

Art

Bob

Bart

Burt

Boof ¹

Bao

Howe

Waugh

Garth

Garr

Rue

Woo

Earp ²

Eartha

Her

Ruffles ³

Wolf ⁴

1. Is a family name. It is too, dammit.
2. This will work better if your name is Wyatt. If your name is not Wyatt, this may be confusing for you and the dog.
3. The second syllable is silent.
4. Is maybe a little too obvious, though, don’t you think?

(image modified from 1960 james flora illustration found here.)

“Come, Tilda. Come.”

I am dogsitting. The following photograph accurately summarizes this experience. 

Matilda wanted to go on a walk. She bounced excitedly as I clipped on her leash. But within a block of my house — a location Matilda shouldn’t have any particular attachment to, really — she refused to walk farther. The boundless potential of another walk had once again  ended in her stubbornly pulling back, the leash taut and me saying in gradually increasing volume, “Tilda? Tilda? TILDA?”

But this is not a post about dog behavior. Matilda likes the idea of walks but not the experience of them. I have made peace with her cognitive dissonance. This is a post about that damned hot pink leash.

I would like to think that I am secure enough with my masculinity and sexuality and penility that I can be comfortable walking a dog on a hot pink leash. However, the combination of that leash, me loudly addressing her as Tilda — yes, as in Swinton but not because of Swinton but why wouldn’t people assume Swinton? — and the fact that I’m having a public spat with her because she is refusing to do the thing I want her to do? This may be too much. I can see how it might look to someone passing by — the leash at a tight angle, Matilda throwing the little dingo baby version of a hissy fit and me attempting to regain control with “Tilda, this is not what we do. This is now how we take walks. This is no. No, Tilda. No.”

Did I mention that my fingernails are also stained purple? They are. There was an incident yesterday that involved some black dye that turned out to be somewhere more between eggplant and plum. Here is how my hands looked yesterday.

And here is how they look today, post-scrubbing. I think they look like I just emerged from a goth phase. It is probably not especially noticeable, but I sure keep noticing it.

So purplefingers and “This is no, Tilda” were pretty much setting the scene when my next-door neighbor walked by. He said, “Drew, you got a dog!” and he seemed genuinely happy for me. Me: “Oh, she’s not my dog. I’m just watching her. She belongs to my friend. My friend Katherine.” Yes, I specified the gender of the dog-owner, which is basically a half-step away from “THIS ISN’T MY LEASH MY LEASH WOULD BE BLUE AND MADE OF NAILS.”

So while I would like to think that I am secure enough with my masculinity and sexuality and penility that I can comfortably walk a dog on a hot pink leash, I apparently have a ways to go.

Matilda’s leash, it must be said, perfectly matches the blooming bougainvillea. She seems comfortable with that.

This I can get behind no problem. BTW, should it interest you, there is a previous Matilda adventure.

The Skunkening

I’ve had my own troubles with skunks, but my friend recently lived through a Deep, Dark Fear that I have about walking a dog in this part of Los Angeles: a skunk ambush. The skunks rule my neighborhood, you see, but they’ve left me alone so far because I don’t get all up in their glands. Dogs, however, wouldn’t be so polite.

Matilda is Katherine’s dog. She’s is, in fact, not always so polite. You may remember her from a unsuccessful interaction with the fake owl in my backyard.

A video posted by Drew (@kidicarus222) on Sep 26, 2014 at 5:31pm PDT

Now, however, she looks like this.

The following conversation resulted.

A closing thought: Is it not one of God’s cruelest jokes that one of the floofiest of creatures should also be one of the most impossible to love?

… Referring to skunks here, in case that’s not obvious.

A Little Heartache Before the Weekend

You don’t have to thank me. I was happy to.

Children's Books That I Wish I Owned or Also Maybe That I Had Written

See post headline for further clarification.

And finally, the back cover of Ant and Bee and Kind Dog. It has a certain Adventure Time quality, doesn’t it?

And just for sheer mirth, the back cover to Les Mesadvetures d’un Chien.

(Image sources: Woofin, Kind Dog, Playful, Dinner, Mesadventures, Picklepaw, Hubbard, Pretzel.)