and they call it puppy love

Remember a couple of years ago when I went to Virginia Beach for a family wedding? Well, after countless threats invitations, I finally went back for a visit. My wife visits regularly and I stay home in Philadelphia, so I suppose it was a surprise for my wife's Virginia Beach family to hear that I would be coming for the long Martin Luther King Day weekend. I was warned, however, that Mrs. P's cousin Juniper (with whom we would be staying) owns a dog. As previously mentioned on this blog many, many, many times — I don't particularly care for dogs.

Mrs. P and I gathered up our belongings — suitcases, jackets and a bag of road-trip snacks — and carried them across the parking lot of Juniper's condominium development. The door of one of the units opened up and we were greeted by a smiling, excited Juniper. However, Doggie was less than pleased to have me as a multi-day visitor. After saying "Hello" to Juniper and dropping our luggage on the floor, I was met with a cautious, low, throaty growl from Doggie. He eyed me up and down with contempt. I had not spoken a word nor made a gesture towards him. He just knew.

Juniper lightly reprimanded him. He whimpered and retreated behind her legs. We tossed our coats over the backs of the dining room chairs and plopped ourselves down on the sofas  — me and the missus on one, Juniper and Doggie on the other one perpendicular to our's. A coffee table served as a buffer between us. As we talked, Doggie kept a dead stare in my direction. A few times, he bravely approached Mrs. P,  offering a curious snout for her to pet. But, if I opened my mouth or moved my hand, Doggie made a hasty withdrawal to the protection of Juniper. He jumped up a few times to play with a ball or a toy, only to freeze in his tracks when he realized he was dangerously close to me.

We all went out for the evening and when we returned, Doggie met us at the door. When I filed in, he exhibited a "you're still here?" look on his face and delivered another series of low grumbles. At too late an hour, we all retired to our respective bedrooms  — the Pincuses in the first-floor corner with the door shut and Doggie taking his regular spot in Juniper's second-floor boudoir.

I'm watching you, Pincus.

The next morning, my cereal and coffee were served with a side of growls. With each spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios I shoveled into my mouth, Doggie bared his teeth and chewed on a hunk of rawhide upon which his canine imagination superimposed my face. In the afternoon, we drove over to Juniper's mother's house to drop Doggie off for a little puppy playtime with some of his own species. Unfortunately, Doggie had to ride in the back seat of Juniper's car with me. I shoved myself into one corner of the back seat and Doggie did the same in the opposite corner. We took the fifteen minute trip in silence, never letting our gaze stray from each other. When we arrived at our destination, Doggie bounded out of the car, anxious to play and equally as anxious to leave my company.

Finally, the long weekend drew to a close. I loaded up our car with our bags and stuff. We thanked Juniper for her gracious hospitality and we said our goodbyes. As we crossed the parking lot one last time, I'm pretty sure I heard Doggie utter a sigh of relief.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yeah

You know those big, imposing, tough-looking guys that stand by the door outside small concert venues, keeping the rabble out? You know the ones I mean. They look like they just tunneled under the wall of a maximum security prison and their first stop, after eluding the blazing searchlights and the tower guards' high-powered rifles, was checking IDs at a dive bar. Well, don't judge a book by its leathery, pierced, tattooed, muscular cover. They are people, too, my friend. People with feelings and interests and hopes and dreams. They celebrate birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas. They go to the supermarket and Pizza Hut and dentist appointments. The are people with families and children and pets. Oh, yes — they have pets. 

I arrived early for a weeknight show at a small club on the edge of the Philadelphia neighborhood of Northern Liberties. I waited just outside the entrance and fiddled with my phone while I waited for my son and a friend to meet me. Just a few feet away, the bouncer, a beefy guy — dressed in a black T-shirt emblazoned with "STAFF" in big block letters, black cargo pants and a backwards ball cap perched on his full Afro — sat on the top step at the club's entry and fiddled with his cell phone as well. Soon, a guy with multiple facial piercings and earlobes stretched by half-dollar-sized metal disks came out of the club, tapping a cigarette on the back of his wrist. He plopped down next to the bouncer and rummaged through the many pockets of his dark camouflage pants for a lighter. He met with success on pocket number three and fired up the tobacco stick now extending just above the vertical labret in his lower lip. Between puffs, he offered conversation with the bouncer. It was like eavesdropping on the mundane verbal exchange from a rejected Quentin Tarantino script.

"Hey man," he began, "Where's Pete tonight?"

The bouncer pocketed his cellphone, giving his full attention to the conversation. "Pete doin' sound tonight. I doin' th' door."

"How's your dog?," the smoker asked, abruptly changing the subject.

The bouncer perked up, his voice taking on a cheerful quality. Now, here was a topic that was close and dear to his heart. "Great! Y'know my dog, with his bloodline, is worth about five grand. It's an Italian Great Dane."

Just then, a woman walks by with a majestic-looking canine at the end of a retractable leash. The bouncer smiled. As the woman and the dog strolled within a foot of the bouncer, he spoke up and said, "That's like my dog. That's an Italian Great Dane, right?"

The woman was startled, not realizing that she was being addressed. Then, she corrected him. "Greyhound. He's a greyhound, not a Great Dane."

"Yeah, but Italian, right? Italian?," the bouncer persisted.

The smoker laughed. "You jackass! It's not a Great Dane! A Great Dane is like fuckin' Scooby-Doo!"

"Yeah, whatever.," answered the bouncer, glossing over his error, "I could sell my dog for what a car costs. I got the paperwork an' all. People don't believe my paperwork. People be axing me if I stole the paperwork or if I'm lying. I say 'No!' That dog got UDAC, KC, AKC, UDKC, every-fuckin'-thing! I gave him a Dallas Cowboys crib blanket to sleep on. He so chill and he got personality, like an ex-girlfriend. I give him peanut butter balls an' he don't bark no more. It's peanut butter and oatmeal and oil and some other shit all mix together. You roll it into balls. It's like balls, y'know? Takes so long to chew them up that they jaws get tired."

He was through elaborating on the joys of dog ownership. He leaned over to see if I was still standing by the entrance.

"Yo' man," he said to me, "We open now. You can come on in."

I thanked him, saying that I was waiting for two people to join me. Secretly, I couldn't imagine leaving this spot and missing any of his stream-of-consciousness soliloquy. What concert could possibly be more entertaining than this?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

who let the dogs out?

It's been some time since I offended dog owners (December 2012, March 2011 and way back in August 2010), so let's give this another shot.

You love your dog? Good for you! But I've got some bad news for you, sunshine... I don't love your dog. Nor do a whole lot of other people. Fortunately for you, the good folks at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City have rolled out the flea-bitten carpet for you and the kibble-eating members of your household. It seems that the casino is hurting for business and want to throw out the welcome mat to everyone. Having already divided and sub-divided the "No Smoking" areas of the casino floor for the sake of future emphysema patients, they are now offering accommodations to guests with dogs, provided they are under fifty pounds (The dogs, not the guests. Harrah's still offers one of the best all-you-can-eat buffets at the Jersey Shore).

There is a list of rules and regulations regarding staying with dogs. One of the five guest room towers has been designated as the "dog" tower. Dogs must be crated when left unattended or when a member of the housekeeping staff is making up the room. Not unreasonable. Not unreasonable at all. Unfortunately, there are those among us that live by the credo: "Rules? Rules are for you assholes. The rules do not apply to me." Then, there is that other group, too (the ones I referenced earlier). The ones who love their dogs and believe that everyone else loves their dogs, as well. The ones who think their dog is a person*. The ones who refer to their dog as "my baby." The ones who don't restrain their dogs around other people. The ones who insist their dog is just being friendly as it wipes its muddy paws all over your shirt and jams its snout into your crotch.

These are the guests that will bring trouble to the well-meaning Harrah's.

The elevators at the designated "dog" tower let out mere steps from a busy, twenty-four hour coffee shop. That means dog hair in the food. Dogs, while leashed, will encounter other dogs in common guest areas (lobbies, inside walkways, front desk, elevators etc.). Dogs are known to be unpredictable around other dogs.(Yes, even your dog!) Children love to pet dogs, whether or not your dog likes to be petted... and dogs bite. Some owners don't bathe their dogs regularly. Oh, and sometimes dogs shit on the floor. (Yes, even your dog!) 

I hope Harrah's little canine experiment works out for them. I, however, will not be around to see if it does.

Look, I hate dogs as much as the next dog hater. But, I hate overzealous dog owners more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Your dog is not a person and never will be. Never.

how much is that doggie in the window

Once and for all, I don't know your fucking dog, I don't love your fucking dog and I don't want your fucking dog to come near me. Are we clear?

A few nights ago, my wife and I stopped by Wawa (an East coast chain of convenience stores that 7-11 lays awake at night and dreams of being) for sandwiches. After picking up and paying for our order, we entered the small vestibule that separates the store from the parking lot. I could see through the large plate glass windows that a small, rusting green car had pulled up too close to our car in the parking lot. A window was lowered in the car's back seat door on the side that faced my wife's 4 Runner. Sticking out of the space once occupied by the window was the enormous hairy head of a very fierce-looking dog. (In the animal's defense, based on my dislike for all things canine, I think that all dogs are "fierce-looking.") A giant, thick strap of tongue hung lazily from its lower jaw, its dark pink underside hugging the contours of the huge incisors that lined the dog's mandible. Long syrupy drips of saliva fell from the tongue's slightly curled tip as the dog's cold, dark eyes scanned the store for his owner. The mutt's head was roughly the size of a buffalo's and it extended well into the no-man's land between my wife's car and the dented green heap.

The beast was not at all restrained and the window was fully retracted into the door. Without provocation, that dog could easily leap from the vehicle in a split second, prompted only by the slightest enticement of, say, a guy holding a bag of sandwiches.

I didn't move. I stood there, holding two bags of delicious sandwiches, chips and commercially-baked individual dessert cakes (one for me, one for the missus — if we cleaned our plates), and didn't move. I stared at the dog. The dog stared at me. Mrs. Pincus walked to her driver's side door. I spoke up.

"Could you back the car up?," I asked my wife, "There's a big dog sticking its head out the window and it's a little too close to our car.

She smiled and happily obliged, as she slid in behind the wheel and turned the ignition key. Once she maneuvered the car a comfortable distance from the fearsome hound, I scooted out into the parking lot and hopped in to the passenger's side of our front seat. As Mrs. P backed up a bit more to achieve a better alignment with the lot's exit, the dog's master emerged from the store and lit up a cigarette. He assessed the scenario before him and concluded that I just dissed his dog.

"He wouldn't have done nuthin' t' you.," he called out to us. When I didn't acknowledge, he shook his head, frowned and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture of disgust.

Listen, dog owners, no matter what you think — your dog can't talk. Your dog cannot communicate to a human being, in clear, understandable terms, that he promises to be on his best behavior and will not, under any circumstances, jump up and smear your shirt with muddy paws, shove his nose into your crotch at a level usually reserved for members of the medical profession or tear your facial flesh from your skull. Dogs are animals, just like lions or sharks or scorpions — and just as unpredictable. I don't know what your dog is capable of and I don't want to find out. I don't need to hear reassurance from a biased dog owner about how harmless his pet is. I will most likely never ever see you or your dog again. Yeah, yeah. I know. Your dog is your baby. Well, my baby never tore up a pile of unattended mail or shit on my neighbor's lawn. And I'm sure your dog didn't learn the lyrics to Grateful Dead songs at two years-old or make the Dean's List for eight consecutive college semesters.

I know it's hard to believe, but, your dog is just a dog to the rest of the world.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you ain't nothing but a hound dog

What is it with you dog owners? I understand that you love your dog. You feed it and walk it and play with it and allow it to live in your house. That does not mean that everyone loves your dog. Believe it or not, there are some people in this world that do not like dogs, not just your dog, but all dogs. Not everyone wants those big paws all over them. Not everyone enjoys a huge, slobbery canine tongue all over their face. Not everyone wants a wet-nosed snout burrowing into their crotch when they come for a visit. Why do dog owners get so offended if you do not express the same enthusiastic love for their dog that they do? Why must everyone love their dog?

Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I were headed out. We exited our front door and walked out on the porch. On the sidewalk, a woman in sunglasses and spandex was walking her giant, salivating pooch. As my wife approached her car in the driveway, I stood motionless and waited patiently until the woman and the mutt were a safe distance from my property. When the human/animal pair were directly in front of my house, the dog stopped and looked right at me. I was a good ten feet away — at the other end of the cement walkway that connects my porch to the public sidewalk  — and that dog fixed his eyes dead on me. I stood still. I could have stood there all day. The woman gave a few gentle tugs on the animal's leash but it did no good. She looked up and saw me not moving.

"He's friendly.", she offered. I really didn't care to be friends with her dog nor was I interested in what sort of a friend her dog could be. Then, she asked, "Don't you like dogs?" as though it was the most nonsensical question anyone could ever ask.

I answered, "No." plainly, unwavering and with no inflection whatsoever.

She replied, "That's a shame." Then added, "For you." It was as if I just told her I did not like America, freedom, The Constitution, motherhood, Jesus, The Fourth of July and human rights and topped it off by giving her "the finger". She stormed off, obviously insulted.

I thought about following her to see where she lived. Then, parading past her house later with a Nazi and questioning her likes and dislikes.

Dog owners. Jeez.

(This is another take on a previous post. - JPiC)

no, I don't love your dog

I have been pet-free for three years. Before that, I had always had at least one cat. Sometimes, more than one. Cats are really good pets for people who don't always want a pet. They are affectionate when you want them to be and when those times come when you don't want to be bothered, they are happy to oblige. As far as a cat is concerned, people only exist to open cans. Yeah, once in a while a person can scratch a cat's head, but they are primarily a can opener.

Dogs, on the other hand, are honest-to-goodness, high-maintenance pets. Dogs need to be walked and played with and, because they love to roll around in their own shit, they need to be bathed. (Cats take care of that on their own, without human assistance.)

Dog owners are high-maintenance, too. Dog owners treat their dogs like most humans treat their children (the ones that they love, anyway). And because dog owners love their dogs, everyone must love their dogs. You must! How could you not?

I have lost track of how many times I have been accosted by a dog on the sidewalk — all muddy and slobbery and smelly — only to have its owner assure me that "He's friendly!" or "He won't bite!". Well, I don't want to be friends with your fucking dog. I have visited dog-owner friends who refused to pull their over-curious canine away from me, while laughing and explaining, "He probably smells your cat on you." Well. I smell his excrement on him, so please get him the fuck off of me. I don't love your dog. Only you love your dog.

My wife had a few dogs growing up and has brought up the subject infrequently in the twenty-eight years we have known each other. Fairly late one evening, my wife and I were driving home in a treacherously heavy rainstorm. A block or so from our house, I could make out a figure in the downpour. It was a man dressed in a rain slicker with a waterlogged hat drooping on his head. In one hand, he held an open umbrella. In the other, he gripped a leash. At the end of that leash was a soaked dog, its sodden fur matted against its body. The man dutifully followed the dog as he slowly and deliberately sniffed the ground looking for a place to crap — or possibly for nothing in particular. I pointed out the fogged window of our car to the sorry-looking sap with the dog and I said to my wife, "Y'know why we don't have a dog? Because if we did, that poor asshole would be me."