Friday, 29 March 2002 | Dog

Right now I wish I had a dog, just so I could take him for a ride in the car and roll all the windows down, let him stick his face out and watch his jowls fly back with the depression of the accelerator, the fur pressed down, eyes squinted, and that ridiculous smile-like expression dogs have.

In my car just now, within one mile of road, I saw two dogs hanging out of two different cars, their front paws propped on the edge of the respective driver's-side doors and their ears pinned back by the wind. Cats are no good when it comes to riding in cars. They just squeeze their fat bodies underneath the seat or, worse, underneath the pedals, howl at you, and hold grudges.

I would consider borrowing a dog, but last time I did that, it didn't work out so well. Ingo and I decided to go for a walk around Lake Johnson and thought it might be nice to take along a friend's dog, a large rottweiler who came with a black studded collar. She neglected to warn us that he was adopted, and that his previous owners had taught him to be racist.

So there we were, taking turns being walked by this powerfully strong dog, arm extended hanging on to the leash, half-jogging sideways, trying to contain him as he lunged and barked at black passersby. I didn't know whether I was supposed to apologize and explain, pretend I didn't notice, or pretend the dog barked and lunged at everyone equally. I think I opted to reprimand the dog and avoid eye contact. I know that my next walk was dogless.