Pet or partner?

By a stroke of fate, an old friend, Pete, had found himself single and alone at 50-something. He was married with two kids when he migrated to the US some 30 years ago. He set up home and family and set out for the proverbial American dream. Husband and wife toiled to build a college fund for the kids and just as the oldest was shipping out to his college of choice, their marriage started unraveling. When the second child went off to do the same, the marriage had become irretrievable broken.

And so at 50, Pete started going home to an empty apartment every night after work. â€œThe hardest part is eating by yourself. Really, how is that even done?” he said. But he trudged on; he had no choice. He has found a girlfriend, but she lives halfway across the world so, technically, he still is alone — for the most part. 

On a recent visit over dinner he said, “Wait till your daughter starts getting into boys. It’s hard. Well, it’s okay, but still, it is hard.” And he went on to talk about how his youngest child — a daughter — has started having boyfriends. She is away at college so he can’t really keep a close eye on her. 

“So, guess what I did?” he said. â€œI got her a dog, named him Bubba, so her interest shifts and she gets too preoccupied to bother with anything else.”

It worked at first, but after a few months she called him to say that her studies took up too much of her time so she had to send Bubba to a shelter — unless he could take him in instead.

You see, Pete has always been the worldly sort. He’s a de facto ladies’ man because he is good looking — too good looking for his own good, if you will. He was all over the place all the time and given to a host of activities and sundry: golfing, partying, golfing, partying, and work on weekdays, of course. After his marriage had ended, he became a rock star — without the band and the fame, that is: it was just freedom and partying. There simply was no time and space for Bubba in his single rock star life. 

So, his daughter said, “Then we’re left with no choice.”  Pete, hoping that his daughter would reconsider once he declined, was wrong. He explained to us, “I’m Bubba’s lolo, you know, since he’s my daughter’s dog and napamahal na sa akin. He spends time with me when my daughter is busy; I grew attached. I couldn’t possibly allow him to be sent to the shelter, so...”

“So?” I asked.

“Goodbye, golf,” he answered. 

What used to be his weekly thing is now no longer.  “Poor Bubba would be all alone on weekends if I continued that. That’s his time with me. And you know, I had just gotten a convertible at the time — a two-seater: black leather seats and all, for the ladies, you know. Guess what? Bubba likes going for drives and so where is the lady to sit, huh?” Pete chuckles at his own statement.

He continued, “Bubba is a mutt with long white fur and he sheds — everywhere. His hair has taken over my house so I was forced to buy a top-of-the-line vacuum cleaner. He’s a mutt but he’s guapo ha, and very athletic. Like I said, he loves taking drives in my convertible: he sits by the console, positions his head beside mine and points his nose up in the air. He likes the wind on his face and his white fur likes to be all over my black leather seats! You know what I do to get rid of all of it? I leave him at home, get in the car, drive with the top down even in the dead of winter and go at top speed so all his fur his is blown out of my seats.”

“Hair-o-dynamic,” I offered.

“Right, right,” he said. â€œCan you imagine? In the dead of winter, with just a beanie on, I’d drive that car just to clean up after him,” he added with a grin. â€œThat’s not the only thing: I have to walk him every day, rain or shine, no matter how cold it gets. I put my beanie on and off we go for an hour. That’s his exercise. And of course, I have treats in one pocket so he runs back to me and doesn’t just get lost and a plastic glove in the other — for his poop. There I am in my suit, picking up poop after him.”

“You’re not complaining, Pete,” I teased him. â€œYou love Bubba.”

He chuckled.  “Do you know, when he spends time with my daughter, I miss him. So I call to check on them and I tell my daughter to put the call on speakerphone and I say, ‘How are you my Bubbito? I miss you.’ My daughter says, ‘Dad, he’s smelling the receiver.’”

Awww…

“I think he’s been good for me,” Pete continued. Before I had him, whenever I’d get lonely at home late at night, I’d step out for a drink at joints that stay open late. I end up coming home in the morning. Not anymore.  Bubba doesn’t like that. When I didn’t have Bubba, there were times I thought I’d go crazy because there was no one to talk to. Not anymore.”

Another friend, Jeff, who was with us and who had sat patiently through all the Bubba talk as he patiently sipped red wine finally said, “Pete you are so choo-choo to that dog. Who knew you had it in you to care for a dog? Well, now that we know, can we please move on to other things?”

Pete said, “Okay,” but went right on about Bubba: “Bubba goes to doggie daycare every Wednesday. I pay by the hour. Plus the doggie groomer is a regular thing too for nail cutting and grooming — all that.”

Jeff and I simply looked at each other, topped up our drinks, sat back and held our peace. 

“Bubba’s great with the ladies, you know. I tell you, he’s really guapo and at the doggie park where I regularly take him, total strangers come up to us and tell me, ‘What a good-looking dog.’ I’m always tempted to say, ‘You’re not so bad looking yourself,’ pero wag na.  These chicks are so young. What am I gonna do with young chicks?”

“Do more doggie talk,” Jeff said.

“And then?” Pete asked.

“You let already Bubba do the hard work, you gotta do something.”

“At 54?” Pete asked. “What do you say to a young chick?”

I jumped in and said, “Just stick to Bubba. He’s the perfect partner — he doesn’t talk. Isn’t that what all you men dream of? A mute mate?”

“I definitely want more than that,” Pete said. 

After I walked Pete and Jeff to the door, I wondered if I ever really knew Pete. He wasn’t like that when he was younger and married. I felt I knew Bubba better just from all the stories. I couldn’t decide whether it was middle age that had transformed him into a sensitive, nurturing person; or the loneliness of singlehood at 50; or was it Bubba — his presence and his helplessness — that made him man’s best friend?

I decided it was Bubba.

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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.