HANGING OUT WITH THE DOGMAN
I usually picked up Brett early evenings at one of the few downtown San Luis Obispo bars that was not a college hangout, but a meeting place for locals of all ages—a bar with history and character. He was almost always wobbly and blear-eyed. He could be quietly downcast or boisterously jubilant when I arrived. He was around 30 with an unruly black pompadour and long mutton-chop sideburns and a long, sad face. He was always very polite.
“Do you mind if I finish this drink, sir?”
“Sure, but try and hurry, pal.”
“I won’t be long. If you’re in a hurry, you can come back later.”
“Go ahead, finish your drink.”
“I just wanna listen to this tune on the jukebox. Can I buy you something? A coke?”
The song was always bittersweet country western. “I’m okay, Brett. But thanks.”
Sometimes he drank long after the Happy Hour crew left and sat mumbling to the bartender, who was relieved to see me. I didn’t know anything about Brett, didn’t want to. I merely picked him up and dropped him off in his modest house in one of the rural neighborhoods out by the airport. I didn’t think he was married or had kids and I didn’t think he had a girl friend. He struck me as one of those awkward outsiders who just couldn’t connect with the right gal.
There was no mistaking the unhappiness in his face, voice and demeanor, like he was carrying an awful burden. It was disturbing, almost made me angry to the point where I wanted to shake him up and tell him to stop being that way because it made me realize how brutally desolate and painful and disappointing life could be. Sometimes he staggered behind me to my cab, while other times I steered him to the front seat. He liked shotgun, was very quiet, head lolled back. When I dropped him off he always over-tipped and thanked me for being nice to him, often expressing such overwrought appreciation I was embarrassed, wanted to give him his money back and talk to him, try and find out what exactly was eating at him to cause him to drink himself into this awful state night after night. I somehow felt guilty as I watched him walk up to his darkened house.
* * *
One evening he lingered, sat there, gazed at me, his face troubled as always, yet hopeful and innocent as a child’s. He was not as drunk as usual and seemed at last to sense my thoughts and was willing to make contact.
“You wanna see somethin’?” he asked.
“Well…”
“Come on, I wanna share somethin’ with you, cuz you been so nice to me.”
I didn’t know what to expect. His look was pleading, like a dog that didn’t want you to leave after petting him. I got out of the cab and followed him toward a high wooden fence. He unlatched a gate, and what seemed like a dozen dogs came at us at once, frenzied, barking, yelping, whining, tails wagging, jumping on us, licking and nuzzling. None of them purebreds. They were large and small and middle-sized mutts. One was up on my chest, pawing and slavering away.
“Down boy, down Red. Get down, boy,” exhorted Brett.
His face had undergone a transformation. He was suddenly serene. Kind and gentle with the dogs, he petted and scratched and roughed the coats of each one, talking to them, reassuring them, calming them down. There were dog houses and pallets and individual dishes and a big tub of water in the yard and lots of toys and balls. He moved among the dogs, found a pup, picked him up, handed him to me. The pup trembled with excitement and lathered my face with his urgent tongue.
“I knew you were an animal person,” Brett said. “I can always tell.” He motioned toward the mob of dogs, the lot of whom jittered around, looking up at us. “They can, too.” He watched the pup continue to lick my face. “You want him? He’s a good boy. I haven’t named him yet.”
“I got this big male cat at home, had him for years. He won’t stand for dogs, won’t stand for anything to get between us.” I noticed a few cats on the fence. “You got some, too, I see.”
He gazed at me. “I work at the humane society for animal control. My job is to put “em to sleep. Done it nine years now. I’ve put down thousands of animals. That’s why I got these dogs and cats. Once in a while you get one you can’t put down. Nobody wants ‘em. They look at you a certain way, and you just can’t do it. Every time I put one away it gets tougher. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s because I can make their poor lives a little more pleasant before they go. They know they’re going man, they know.” He glanced at the dogs. They had calmed down and stared up at him, an obedient and attentive audience, as if they knew what we were talking about. “If I had enough money I’d buy a chunk of land out in the country and start up my own shelter for homeless animals. I can’t go on much longer the way I am. But if I stop, I’ll know what’s goin’ on.” He sighed. “Maybe I should quit. I’ve never done anything else. I’m not smart enough to go to vet school. You think I should quit…because of the drinkin’?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Even if I quit, I’ll see them in their cages, all knowin’ they’re gonna die. I know right off the ones nobody wants. There’s only a few got a chance. When somebody comes in, looking for a pet, you should see the show they put on. It’s pitiful.” He shook his head. “I feel better if it’s ME puts ‘em down. I can talk to ‘em and tell ‘em they’re goin’ to a better place, tell ‘em I’m sorry they got a bad deal and wish ‘em luck, at least. They didn’t do anything to deserve the shafting they got. They’re just dogs, man.” He stared at me. “Just dogs.”
He was wound up and began telling me about his life. It was nothing special, just a small, limited life, just a regular guy. Family in town. Homeboy. I don’t think he had a wife or girl. Just the dogs and cats. I didn’t see too many women understanding his situation and wanting to share it with him.
The dogman.
“Well, you got your cat, huh?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“Yeah, good old Popeye.” I was working alone and needed to get back to my cab. But I felt a need to tell him about my cat, explain how he’d always been a free spirit and became a warrior, nearly died a couple times, had no tail and a half chewed off ear to prove it. The ultimate street cat, born to rule, living out the full life that goes with conquest of territory and protecting it. Still going strong at 12, avoiding big trouble and finding small mischief on a daily basis. Following me the four blocks to the liquor store every morning when I picked up my LA Times. Neighbor dogs and cats knew enough to steer clear of him—the man.
“Even people stand back and look at him with respect,” I explained. “He’s my best friend, really. He’s getting old. I live alone, and think of myself as nothing without him. I can’t imagine not having him around.”
He was smiling for the first time. “Go home and hug that cat, man. Be thankful for every second you got him, and be proud you gave him a good life. He sure sounds like somebody I’d like to meet.”
We were petting and scratching the dogs and accepting their licks, their eager eyes, their quiet adoration and trust, their easy friendship. I hung around a while longer and when we shook hands it turned into a brief hug. When I got home that night I by-passed the corner bar where Popeye often waited for me outside and found him preparing to raid the dumpster behind the local market. I snatched him up and took him home and gave him extra attention, telling him a few things.
He peered up at me, big yellow eyes glowing, confused, like he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on, especially since we were both hard-boiled and standoffish and did things on OUR terms only.
The way it should be as he squirmed away and headed back in the direction of the market and I headed to the bar.
“Do you mind if I finish this drink, sir?”
“Sure, but try and hurry, pal.”
“I won’t be long. If you’re in a hurry, you can come back later.”
“Go ahead, finish your drink.”
“I just wanna listen to this tune on the jukebox. Can I buy you something? A coke?”
The song was always bittersweet country western. “I’m okay, Brett. But thanks.”
Sometimes he drank long after the Happy Hour crew left and sat mumbling to the bartender, who was relieved to see me. I didn’t know anything about Brett, didn’t want to. I merely picked him up and dropped him off in his modest house in one of the rural neighborhoods out by the airport. I didn’t think he was married or had kids and I didn’t think he had a girl friend. He struck me as one of those awkward outsiders who just couldn’t connect with the right gal.
There was no mistaking the unhappiness in his face, voice and demeanor, like he was carrying an awful burden. It was disturbing, almost made me angry to the point where I wanted to shake him up and tell him to stop being that way because it made me realize how brutally desolate and painful and disappointing life could be. Sometimes he staggered behind me to my cab, while other times I steered him to the front seat. He liked shotgun, was very quiet, head lolled back. When I dropped him off he always over-tipped and thanked me for being nice to him, often expressing such overwrought appreciation I was embarrassed, wanted to give him his money back and talk to him, try and find out what exactly was eating at him to cause him to drink himself into this awful state night after night. I somehow felt guilty as I watched him walk up to his darkened house.
* * *
One evening he lingered, sat there, gazed at me, his face troubled as always, yet hopeful and innocent as a child’s. He was not as drunk as usual and seemed at last to sense my thoughts and was willing to make contact.
“You wanna see somethin’?” he asked.
“Well…”
“Come on, I wanna share somethin’ with you, cuz you been so nice to me.”
I didn’t know what to expect. His look was pleading, like a dog that didn’t want you to leave after petting him. I got out of the cab and followed him toward a high wooden fence. He unlatched a gate, and what seemed like a dozen dogs came at us at once, frenzied, barking, yelping, whining, tails wagging, jumping on us, licking and nuzzling. None of them purebreds. They were large and small and middle-sized mutts. One was up on my chest, pawing and slavering away.
“Down boy, down Red. Get down, boy,” exhorted Brett.
His face had undergone a transformation. He was suddenly serene. Kind and gentle with the dogs, he petted and scratched and roughed the coats of each one, talking to them, reassuring them, calming them down. There were dog houses and pallets and individual dishes and a big tub of water in the yard and lots of toys and balls. He moved among the dogs, found a pup, picked him up, handed him to me. The pup trembled with excitement and lathered my face with his urgent tongue.
“I knew you were an animal person,” Brett said. “I can always tell.” He motioned toward the mob of dogs, the lot of whom jittered around, looking up at us. “They can, too.” He watched the pup continue to lick my face. “You want him? He’s a good boy. I haven’t named him yet.”
“I got this big male cat at home, had him for years. He won’t stand for dogs, won’t stand for anything to get between us.” I noticed a few cats on the fence. “You got some, too, I see.”
He gazed at me. “I work at the humane society for animal control. My job is to put “em to sleep. Done it nine years now. I’ve put down thousands of animals. That’s why I got these dogs and cats. Once in a while you get one you can’t put down. Nobody wants ‘em. They look at you a certain way, and you just can’t do it. Every time I put one away it gets tougher. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s because I can make their poor lives a little more pleasant before they go. They know they’re going man, they know.” He glanced at the dogs. They had calmed down and stared up at him, an obedient and attentive audience, as if they knew what we were talking about. “If I had enough money I’d buy a chunk of land out in the country and start up my own shelter for homeless animals. I can’t go on much longer the way I am. But if I stop, I’ll know what’s goin’ on.” He sighed. “Maybe I should quit. I’ve never done anything else. I’m not smart enough to go to vet school. You think I should quit…because of the drinkin’?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Even if I quit, I’ll see them in their cages, all knowin’ they’re gonna die. I know right off the ones nobody wants. There’s only a few got a chance. When somebody comes in, looking for a pet, you should see the show they put on. It’s pitiful.” He shook his head. “I feel better if it’s ME puts ‘em down. I can talk to ‘em and tell ‘em they’re goin’ to a better place, tell ‘em I’m sorry they got a bad deal and wish ‘em luck, at least. They didn’t do anything to deserve the shafting they got. They’re just dogs, man.” He stared at me. “Just dogs.”
He was wound up and began telling me about his life. It was nothing special, just a small, limited life, just a regular guy. Family in town. Homeboy. I don’t think he had a wife or girl. Just the dogs and cats. I didn’t see too many women understanding his situation and wanting to share it with him.
The dogman.
“Well, you got your cat, huh?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“Yeah, good old Popeye.” I was working alone and needed to get back to my cab. But I felt a need to tell him about my cat, explain how he’d always been a free spirit and became a warrior, nearly died a couple times, had no tail and a half chewed off ear to prove it. The ultimate street cat, born to rule, living out the full life that goes with conquest of territory and protecting it. Still going strong at 12, avoiding big trouble and finding small mischief on a daily basis. Following me the four blocks to the liquor store every morning when I picked up my LA Times. Neighbor dogs and cats knew enough to steer clear of him—the man.
“Even people stand back and look at him with respect,” I explained. “He’s my best friend, really. He’s getting old. I live alone, and think of myself as nothing without him. I can’t imagine not having him around.”
He was smiling for the first time. “Go home and hug that cat, man. Be thankful for every second you got him, and be proud you gave him a good life. He sure sounds like somebody I’d like to meet.”
We were petting and scratching the dogs and accepting their licks, their eager eyes, their quiet adoration and trust, their easy friendship. I hung around a while longer and when we shook hands it turned into a brief hug. When I got home that night I by-passed the corner bar where Popeye often waited for me outside and found him preparing to raid the dumpster behind the local market. I snatched him up and took him home and gave him extra attention, telling him a few things.
He peered up at me, big yellow eyes glowing, confused, like he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on, especially since we were both hard-boiled and standoffish and did things on OUR terms only.
The way it should be as he squirmed away and headed back in the direction of the market and I headed to the bar.
