Rexless in Seattle

Rex whined a little.  He scratched at the bottom of his doghouse door, his nose pressed against the crack.  It was still locked from the outside.  He lay down dejectedly, his snout between his paws.  A long sigh filled the inside of his little chamber.

There was a female on the other side of the door, so close he could smell her, but his human had locked Rex up so long ago that it seemed he'd forgotten about him!  Rex, sadly under-leveraged, was left to loll about in exasperation as his human attempted to master the art of social interaction without him -- "Rexless," if you will.

She was 23 ("almost 24", she had added, helpfully).  They were at a party at someone's house, an event Rex's human rarely got invited to since moving back to the hometown he had thought would welcome him with open arms.  Having lived abroad for so long, any network connections and friendships he'd once had had long ago evaporated, or morphed into 'married with children', allowing no latitude for welcoming a mature single guy into their impenetrable little cliques.

He'd ridden up the elevator with her and her friend, making small talk about the host and hostess, then once inside they'd parted as he made the rounds greeting friends of long-estranged friends.  With her comment she was merely confirming what he already had discerned riding up the elevator: far too young to have any interest in him. 

He'd been out on the balcony with some smokers when he'd noticed the two girls standing together against the kitchen island were getting largely ignored by the crowd of tight-knit 'drinking club' members and their hangers-on.  He excused himself from the drunken pseudo-conversation he was on the periphery of and made his way over to them, re-introducing himself and immediately forgetting their names (there wasn't much point, he thought -- they'd be blowing him off for a younger dude as soon as the opportunity presented itself). 

Both of them were attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way, though the petite blond had caught and his eye from the get-go and continued to distract his attention.  The taller brunette was more assertively chatty, but was also drinking white wine like a long-distance runner snatching proffered cups of Gatorade mid-race.

They knew the host through the wine quaffer's past job and knew each other through an Ultimate Frisbee league.  He didn't really care, they'd both be ignoring him soon enough, but they were the only single women at the party and he felt obliged, as the only single man in the room, to ensure they didn't feel entirely ignored.

"I work at the Acme National bank in credit assessment" she ventured.  He congratulated her on a promising career path and drew her attention to the quite remarkable volume of Pinot Grigio that her friend was putting down.  "I don't really know her all that well" said the blond, looking back up at him from the bar stool she was sitting on.  The brunette sauntered over into the space in the living room area that some people were dancing in and did a few turns, a little wildly, teetering on her heels.

"Well she's certainly going to make friends quickly if she keeps drinking at that pace" he said, smiling.  On cue the brunette spun back towards them and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the 'dance floor'.  He attempted some foxtrotty-ish steps and give her a spin, but she was largely out of control and ended up banging into him several times in what appeared to be an attempt at being sultry and seductive.  With one final twirl under his raised arm, he patted her on the small of the back and urged her to carry on without him as he came to rest against the counter beside the blond.

"I'm not sure whether it's the wine or just her, but trying to dance with your friend is like trying to tie a small boat up against an ocean liner in heavy seas -- lots of crashing together, not a lot of smooth connecting..."

"I think it's the wine AND her.  Try dancing with me."  She hopped off the stool and took his hand, pulling him back onto the hardwood.  Rex did a tight turn inside his tiny doghouse, anxious to get out and suddenly unable to find a comfortable position to sleep.

(More to come...  ;-)

Rex Meets Regina

Rex was restless.  He hadn’t been allowed out in a very long time.  His brain was simmering from the overload of sensory input, especially given the circumstances.  Bodies pressed in on him from all sides, a panting, slavering pack of male hounds, all shouldering and chuffing at each other in an instinctive display of dominance and bravado.  Rex wasn’t much bothered by them — he wasn’t so much ‘above all that’ as simply unperturbed by their nervous, ego-driven compulsions.  

His snout raised above their heads and he sniffed, seeking out Little Red in the crowd of dogs, looking out for the sole member of his own pack who’d come with him, a petite red-haired terrier.  He wanted to give her room to meet the other males, but remain at-the-ready to intervene should he sense she needed him to 'run defense.'  Across the bar could see her being sandwiched between a German Shepherd and a Corgi, both pressing their muzzles close to hers to win ALL of her attention -- but she seemed to be holding her own, her eyes sparkling coquettishly at the attention.

Rex’s human had gradually, over time, become the Master of Low Expectations, so Rex was on a long lead.  Having been out to a lot of these events, his human assumed nothing much would come of this long-avoided foray into the real world of adult singles in a basement bar downtown.  (Nothing had ever come of previous forays for a couple of years, though, to be honest with himself, he didn’t ‘work it very hard.')

His human was checking his phone, so Rex's portion of their brain relaxed, scanning the room for females, eyeing a few: a Chow with interesting curves, a Spaniel with a nervous, “don’t invade my personal space” glare, a Golden Retriever who looked like she had some Fox Terrier bred into her bloodline some time back.  None caught his fancy.

Another alpha male pushed his way past Rex to the bar, a silver-haired Weimaraner.  Rex made room so he could order a drink.  Rex’s human said, “More men than women tonight.  That’s never good.”

“You can smell the testosterone in the air.  We’ll have to ‘man-up’!  My name’s Stan.”  He held out his paw and Rex’s human shook it, shared his name and they chatted for a few moments before Stan said, “I’m going to cruise around.  Maybe Ms. Right is here!”

“You’re looking to settle down with a good woman, Stan?” he inquired.

“Oh God no!” chuckled Stan, “Been there, done that.  I’m only looking for Ms. Right NOW,” and with that he winked and pushed off into the crowd.

Hm, he thought.  If I have any real competition here tonight, it’s that guy.  He’ll zero in on the hottest woman in the place, latch on and charm her into submission, then he’ll either try to get her to go home with him, or will leave no room for escape and will ask her out to breakfast, lunch or dinner tomorrow.  He recognized the type.  He’d been that type at one time.  Pity the poor woman.

Rex, meanwhile, was sniffing every passing female, unconsciously assessing pheromonal compatibility and a vast array of other subtleties lost on humans.  Rex was feeling, as always, calm but ready to act in the moment.  His human spent time thinking things through, Rex just took action when he saw an opportunity -- and ran when it seemed wise.

What Rex and his alter-ego had come to realize over the years was that, despite all his canine characteristics, the sum of their combined parts was not actually interested in female dog, but in another species altogether.  This particular “Man’s Best Friend” and his inseparable counterpart were far too complex, and too specific in their predilections, to ‘settle’ for another dog.  Their search for a companion was for a 'muse'-come-‘nester’; a quirky mind in a hard-to-resist package; a queen, not a princess — regal bearing with a commoner’s humility.

Then there she was.

Between the bobbing heads and crush of bodies, a feline presence glided.  A jet-black, long-haired Persian.  An image of the Egyptian goddess, Bastet, came to mind.  Movements that were elegant and delicately seductive, a bemused look upon her face.  A cat among so many dogs.  Interesting.  She’d be likely to suffer one of two fates, either carefully and skittishly avoided by the thronging male dogs who’d be too threatened by her ‘otherness’ to approach, or set upon by the likes of Stan, who’d be unlikely to let her squirm free if he got his fangs into her.

She made her way through the crowd.  Their eyes met only briefly.  She disappeared.  He realized he hadn’t been breathing.

For a moment he wondered if she’d been real, or just imagined, some unassuming female upon whom he’d projected his imaginings of the ideal woman.  He went round the bar in the opposite direction, smilingly brushing off some come-ons from an aging Bulldog and a couple of Pekinese.  

No, another look around told him she was no longer in the building.

Crestfallen, he grimaced and nodded as a plump Latina stood on her tip-toes to earnestly tell him she was looking for true love this time 'round.  (He was impressed with her conviction that her Love Train was about to pull into the station any second as there were no pending arrivals posted on the cartoon balloon call-out he imagined he saw hovering over her head.)  The waitress headed by and up some stairs with a tray of drinks.  Excusing himself he followed her and found himself on the back patio and where the glossy-maned Persian was looking decidedly non-imaginary and just a little bit stunning.  Their eyes met again, and this time she held his for a beat or two.

He pondered diving into the fray, taking the bold approach, holding her gaze, walking up and introducing himself, but realized she likely spent a lot of time batting her paws at the muzzles of the panting, slobbering hounds doing their level best to sweep her off her feet.  He turned, hesitated, then decided to bide his time.  Rex let out one loud, surprised bark inside his brain.  He ignored him.

He returned to the bar to check on Little Red, scaring off a couple of suitors inadvertently, then apologetically trying to reel them back in for her, unsuccessfully, however.   (Few dogs can deal with another dog on the scene while in mid-pick-up -- it throws them off the scent!)  Waiting a few more minutes, he checked back out on the patio.  Gone.  Coming back in, he slipped into the back of the adjoining room and was dazzled by the bright pool of light at the far end, the regal feline and her courtesans standing, laughing in it.  Rex didn’t hesitate this time, directing them on a purposeful course direct for the trio, fully prepared to dodge any interference enroute.

He enjoyed a friendly welcome from her ladies-in-waiting and did his best to give them the bulk of his attention at first, though with the queen at his elbow, her melodious laugh, scintillating aura and alluring scent, his wavering attention faced formidable distractions.  The shorter of her two handlers put her best foot forward to test the waters of possibility, but quickly conceded to the more likely outcome and offered to give him back his hat, which she was wearing jauntily, for her Queen’s phone number (not knowing how many favourite hats he’d lost to ladies like herself in the past).  She went so far as to repeat the number loudly not once, but twice -- so assertively the second time that Rex almost leapt out to clamp one paw over her mouth to prevent any of the desperate competitors in the vicinity from writing it down for themselves.

The proverbial cat was out of the bag, it seemed.  He tipped his head over hers and suggested, as her friend was so keen on visiting his favourite hat shop, she let him contact her with the name.  He was duly rewarded with an email which he graciously accepted in lieu of the shouted phone number.  (To have given THAT up again, with the echo of the digits still floating in the air, would have come across as less-than-regal, indeed...)

He entered the address into his phone under her proper, if not given, name -- not Bastet, but Regina.  He then left the hovering Stan to do his best to ‘close the deal’ with her, knowing the Weimaraner was going to do his best to transform “Regina, Queen of Felines” into “Ms. Right Now”.  Rex and his human preferred to see her in a different light.

Making his way home, regardless of what the immediate future might bring with regard to feline royalty, the encounter left him feeling that, just maybe, his own Love Train hadn't really been permanently derailed...

Rex Quits Dogging It

(This is Part Two of "Rex Backs Off" immediately below.)

The bar was still in low gear.  He had sent Rex back into his dog house and gestured  to Winston, asking him to bring her a beer.  He chatted with the Golden Retriever about how she came to choose his town for her exchange program, how long she'd be studying here, how much she liked sailing, what her favourite colour was, if she got stranded on a desert island what book she'd want with her, did she really want to spend her spare time working in a bar like this one...

She wasn't your average female canis familiaris, this one already knew she had the job.  He thought he was being engaging; she was just killing time, waiting.

She wasn't egotistical, far from it, it was just that she could figure things out fast and her brain had processed the incoming information: free beers, intense eye contact, earnest engagement, his role in the business and the way he kept touching her upper arm and 2 + 2 had added up to 4.6.  With the part-time job secured, her brain moved on to more interesting things.

"So what's your pay amount and the number of hours I must work?" she asked in her 'English-as-a-second-language'.  He stopped, his mouth closing and his head pulling back.  "I, ah, well, IF you got the job..." he said and rattled off the basics, sweetening the deal by offering what he was paying his longest-serving employees.  She nodded, a demure look on her face as she looked around at the gradually growing crowd.  She met his eye.  "I like it here, I will take your job.  Should I start now?"

Rattled was the only word that came to mind.

He cocked his head and looked behind the bar to where Winston was now frantically trying to manipulate a martini shaker while a glass overflowed under an open draught tap.  A crowd two people deep thronged the bar trying to get Winston's attention, his white apron was already looking like Joseph's technicolour dream coat.  He looked back at her.  She smiled.  He smiled too, wryly.  He took her hand and helped her off the bar stool.  She looked quizzical.  "Come with me and I'll show you around."

Winston's ego could use the dressing down and the customers weren't going anywhere soon.  He led her down the stairs, through the sparsely populated restaurant below, past the appraising gaze of "Pepe", the French stoner Maitre'd, who was so busy undressing her with his eyes that he collided with a bus boy, then down into the basement where the ice maker was.  It was quiet down there in the ancient space, save the creaking of the floorboards above their heads.  Rex stirred, his head suddenly popping up from its prone position. 

"This is where you'll have to come to get ice, but mind your head on the beams."  She looked around at the potato slicer, the restaurant supplies and the furnace which was rumbling faintly.  She turned back to him.  Rex was looking at her hindquarters.  "Do you bring all your women down here?" His eyes jerked up to hers.  "Ah...  The new girls, waitresses, well, I don't usually do the hiring/training, actually..."  "So you're new to this?" she said with an unreadable expression.  "Ha!" Rex blurted, "Actually I'm an old hand at this."  He grinned and filled a two large white ice buckets with a large aluminum scoop.  She took the opportunity to look at his ass. 

"I'll get these... Ladies first!" he said, picking up a bucket in each hand.  She headed up the stairs, handling the worn wooden treads quite handily in her calf-hugging boots.  Rex was treated to a view of hip swaying perfection atop a pair of legs that would make a wannabe runway model green with envy.  Pepe was hovering, Rex glared him down.  By the time they reached the second floor he was having trouser-trouble. 

Over the growing din he stopped outside the bar entryway and explained that all she had to do was carry a tray, take drink orders and bring back empties.  Not brain surgery -- he was pretty sure she could handle the challenge with aplomb.  He handed her a tray and she disappeared into the crowd with a look of serious determination on her face .

He felt he had little to worry about, though stepping behind the bar to find a sweating, muttering, frantic Winston he changed his mind.  He tied a fresh apron around his waist and let Winston finish his last orders as he began banging out beers and cocktails in rapid succession, laughing and bantering with the crowd about the debatable potential for a new career for the recently ejected "Winston, Your Bartender".  

All things considered, as he closed out the last few tabs in the wee hours, the final stragglers summarily ejected by Adamo, the doorman, the evening had gone smoothly.  He'd been impressed with her ability to handle the orders, the ass-grabbers, the bitchy girls who wanted to know who she was and where she'd parachuted into 'their' bar from.  She'd learned how to pour draught quickly and took over much of that responsibility while he mixed cocktails.  In the tight space behind the bar she'd met his eye with frequent beguiling looks and had brushed his backside with hers more than had been strictly necessary.

Winston had turned his stint behind the bar into a rousing tale of bar tending skill rivalling that of Tom Cruise in "Cocktail", a story that he shared with every woman who paused long enough in his vicinity for him to begin his delivery.

His senior partner in the bar, James, always the paternal watchdog, had argued against leaving before the girl did.  He assured the older gentleman that they'd be just fine on their own.  Eventually she did the same, putting a reassuring hand on James' shoulder and kissing him on the cheek, urging him on his way.  James  knew something she didn't, however, which worried him for the sake of her situation -- alone and new in town.  James knew Rex was lurking, working handily at manufacturing an opportunity, offering a ride home, but wanting a very different kind of ride first, the pool table beckoning.  James pointed a stern finger at Rex before descending the stairs. 

Van Morrison played softly and he left the lights very low.  She perched on a bar stool, he stayed behind the bar.  He made her a 'melon ball'.  She liked it.  He made her another one.

He came around the bar and leaned on the counter top beside her, one foot next to hers on the rail.  His knee brushed hers, lingering, one hand resting on the back of her stool.  He asked her for a dance.  She acquiesced, easing off the stool and, with some curiosity and purpose, brushed her rump assertively against trouser-trouble.

They danced, touching tentatively, the candlelight flickering, Van the man singing about moonlight and romance, circling slowly, gradually tucking into each other.  Rex nuzzled her neck and let her know in no uncertain terms that he really, really liked her.

She pulled away slightly and looked into his eyes, that hard-to-read, yet playful look crossing her face, then put her mouth against his ear and whispered: "Oh, you are going to have sex with me soon, but not tonight."

Rex felt deflated, but his human side sensed a challenging, exciting adventure ahead.

The bar had a new waitress.

And, with the infinite improbabilities of happenstance and serendipity coming together in a small candlelit bar, after many years of 'dogging it', 

Rex was off the market.

(No, girls, this is NOT his last post! Read how this particular Rex story ended here.)

Rex Backs Off

It was a Tuesday and things were quiet, inauspicious.  The bar was empty save himself.  Jazz music played softly, the water fountain trickled, glasses clinked inside the dishwasher amid the whoosh of the jets.  A low hum came from the refrigerators.

He was cutting limes, having filled the trays with cherries, olives and pickled onions.  The small tables had been lined up just so, candles lit, the floors mopped, the toilets checked for supplies.  Laughter drifted up the staircase from some of the early diners in the restaurant downstairs.  He could just make out the sounds of some traffic on the street out front.

He'd done many things, and would go on to do many more, but his skill set was particularly well-suited to running this "quiet little jazz-age cocktail salon".  His intense attention to detail served well in dressing the place nightly, in ensuring supplies were backed up, the decor constantly refreshed and the surfaces spotless.  His photographic memory worked well in remembering who ordered what no matter where their incessant mingling took them (and in collecting from them if they headed for the door).  His deep-rooted empathy meant the tellers of tales of heartbreak left knowing he'd remember their plight and would be looking out for their interests upon their next visit.  His gift of the gab kept the girls entertained and hopeful, the lads knowing they had a place to 'shoot the shit'.

His partners were better at leading the parade, at being the ringmasters, wearing the lampshades and joining the teeming throngs of 20-something lasses gyrating atop the pool table and bar-top late at night.  He was good at staying in constant contact with Adamo at the front door, minding the backed-up toilets, keeping an eye on the back door traffic and ensuring that no one did themselves grievous injury.

Truth be told, this was the most satisfying job he'd ever had.  The years working his way up as a corporate exec, the media business he continued to run, haltingly, with another partner during the daytime, the low-pressure unionized grocery clerk work that had put him through university, a myriad of jobs on the global road plus many summer jobs, none compared to making people happy, helping them both let loose and connect snugly -- facilitated by the various ways and means he and his bar partners had devised to ensure mayhem ensued, their special concoctions lubricating the slide to frivolity.  They were broke, but they certainly were having a good time! 

Still, there was something profound missing.  A platform, a base.  Roots beneath this tree of current complacent contentment.  Not money (though that would have helped), but a feeling of being needed, of 'mattering' outside of being a key-master in their little world of drunken bliss.  He discounted it when asked, waxing philosophical about being the lone wolf destined to roam alone (the black hole left by "The One's" check-out still sapping him, though Maltese-snippets plagued his waking thoughts less and less), but Rex had tired of the years of innumerable conquests and longed for a mate, a puppy-producer, a companion to share the long winter nights with, holed up in his cozy den.

Winston, one of their regulars, popped in for a quick martini classic with a twist on his way out of the office, still in uniform: a slick suit and patent leather shoes.  As usual, Winston wanted a sober recounting of hi-jink highlights from the weekend prior (the most unlikely couplings and most ribald mash-ups) and a prediction of what his fate may hold in the evenings ahead.  As always -- though Winston never tired of hearing it repeated -- he told him with sincerity and conviction that THIS would be the week it would happen for Winston.  Love was coming down the pipeline and Winston would assuredly be at the gushing end of that tube, finding himself awash in a potent shower of unrestrained feminine lust and deep emotional neediness.

Winston patted his moist brow with with a bar napkin (thoughts of women made him sweat), set his jaw and nodded earnestly, as he always did.  "OK, I think you're right!  I'm going to approach things with a positive attitude this week," he announced with obvious determination.

"That's what it's all about, Winston, positive attitude, being open and getting them to talk about themselves!"  Winston NEVER, ever, let women talk about themselves, he spent every available moment of open air time filling it with a non-stop barrage of information about himself, his mother, his job, his aspirations, his travels, his car and his boat. 

"So what's happening this week?  With Andy away (his principal 'master of ceremonies' partner), you going to need a new waitress?  'Cause I have a candidate!  Hot, European!  She's tall and pretty and smart and she wears a leather biker jacket.  Blonde!  Did I tell you she's tall?  I met her on the weekend down at my club.   I think she's smart, too.  She'd really make an excellent waitress.  I gave her a ride home.  I know where she lives.  In residence, nearby.  She's an exchange student at the university.  You should interview her!"

Winston paused, looking for all the world like a Miniature Doberman Pinscher cranked up on PCP-laced cocaine. 

Drying beer glasses, he put one on the shelf and picked up another out of the machine, pursed his lips and knit his brows thoughtfully.  What he was thinking was that he didn't trust horny little Winston's judgment of attractive women any more than he'd trust a starving man's claims that a stale, mouldy crust was the best bread he'd ever tasted, but he did need the extra staff, and if she did happen to be hot, all the better for business.

"You know, Winston," he said, looking at his new recruiter seriously, "I think I'll take you up on that offer." He twisted to turn up the music a bit, then back to find Winston gone.   There was a clatter of footsteps down the stairs and the front door slammed shut.  "Enthusiastic little fucker" he said under his breath and went back to his anal-retentive preparations.

Another regular came in and was joined minutes later by friends, seating themselves round the bar.  Pleasantries exchanged, he put their drinks in front of them, bantered about their last visit, reminded them what had actually transpired, then went down to the basement to get ice from the machine and returned, topping up glasses.

He'd forgotten all about Winston the sudden sound of a speedy ascent up the stairs brought him back to mind as he burst through the door, came around to the opening in the bar, leaned in and hissed "She's HERE!"  On cue a statuesque young blonde walked through the door, up the few steps from the landing and stood for a moment taking in the largely empty space.  As promised she was wearing a black leather biker jacket, plus a pair of high-heeled boots and some very tight jeans.  She was almost six feet in the boots, carried herself like a runway model and exuded an air of mild amusement.  Her profile seared itself onto the back of his retina as she turned and he caught a glimpse of her make-up free face and startling blue orbs. 

His apron came off in a flourish and was thrust into Winston's chest.  "Winston, my man, you just made Deputy Bartender.  These people need a refill."

He pushed past the startled Winston whose face lit up like a coke addict left alone in an evidence locker.  As he rounded the corner of the bar he heard Winston's excitedly yelping:  "I'm Winston, your bartender!  What can I get for you?  I've memorized 128 cocktail recipes from a book my uncle gave me..."

He no longer cared what "Winston, Your Bartender" was about to do to his establishment's 'cred,' he was busy.  No, not just with: "Hi, I'm one of the owners here and you must be?"  He was busy with an internal battle, a wrestling match was taking place inside his head, and Rex was currently out in front. 

Usually, when it came to dealing with this kind of thing, he just let Rex have his lead.  Rex was pretty good at what he did and, being honest with himself, he was crap at it.  Left on his own he'd start talking about war in the developing world, the mating habits of zebra fish, or why women got fat more easily than men.  Unless the girl at hand had a lifelong subscription to Scientific American, the Harvard Business Review, or at least Psychology Today, his eyes were likely to glaze over as his brain took a walk down 'how soon will this be over' lane.  In THIS case, however, he had a feeling that Rex was going to ruin things if he demonstrated his usual prowess too soon.

"It's really so nice to meet you and Winston told me he thought you'd be an ideal candidate for this job we have open..."  Rex, showing his teeth in a winning smile, already had her above one elbow as he steered her to a empty bar stool at the far end of the bar.  A male customer was coming round the far side of the bar and clearly heading for the seat, but Rex fixed him with a look than had caused the guy to first look up, then up and away, shifting course and dodging around them as though he'd been bird watching and had just spied a rare red-crested warbler.

The internal debate continued with the canine getting a stern dressing down, but holding his ground, his eyes moving down and over her long legs and hindquarters as she jacked herself up onto the proffered bar stool.

"Rex, I'm serious, L-A-T-E-R!  Let me handle this, boy!  I've got it, really!  Reeeeex!"

Rex recognized a Golden Retriever when he saw one, even in a leather jacket, and he hadn't been all that close to one in a long time, a couple of lovely Golden Labs, an Irish Setter, but not a Retriever!  He paused, sniffed, and looked down at her boots again, wondering what they'd look like on those long legs without the pants, or panties, on.  She could still wear the jacket -- for awhile -- he was thinking...

But knowing he'd never live it down if he screwed this one up, Rex grudgingly backed off, lingering in the background, his snout lifting now and then, trying to catch a whiff of where things were heading.

Continued in the post above...  (You KNOW it didn't end there!)

Life's a Rex! (NOT...)

She turned and ran away from him, gradually picking up speed in her graceful, easy lope, her pony-tail bobbing, her mind already on what she'd be doing next, the taste of good coffee and bitter regret lingering in his mouth.

He watched her familiar shape getting smaller as she put more distance between them, literally and figuratively, her body as untouched by childbearing or age as he'd always known it would be.  She was a lean, lanky Golden Retriever built for distance, not sprints; for action, not sedentary introspection.

Rex let out a mournful howl that echoed painfully inside his human's head.  A short, vigorous shake couldn't cut off the internal dissonance.  "Let it go, Rex!" blurted his human, "We're all better off this way."

Rex called bullshit, but there was nothing he could do about the situation.  He knew (as his human didn't want to acknowledge), that she wasn't running away, she was running back.  Back to the litter of pups that were supposed to have been sired and nurtured by Rex et al, back to a life that was meant to have been theirs (with a wistful nod to Mr. Keith...).

(What?  It's a surprise that Rex listens to Country upon occasion?)

Rex hadn't been lead dog in this relationship, however, his human had, and humans find ways to complicate life, no matter how ideal the fit they've found. If Rex and his human were complex, she was impressively, intricately, fascinatingly complex: smarter, quicker, much more intricate than any Swiss watch.  Just as beautiful, just as precise in her movements, even more efficient in her mechanisms, but far less easy to predict.  She was also less easy to make adjustments to -- impossible, in fact -- but then adjustments like those always began from within.

Truth be told, it was Rex who suffered most.  Dogs like Rex bonded to their opposite-gender alphas with deep, life-long connections that never really severed, despite time or distance.  As she rounded a bend and jogged out of their lives once and for all, having made her peace, said what she needed to (all of it positive, encouraging -- glowing, even), Rex felt a wrenching sorrow that his human would try to assuage with reasoned arguments and missives, but for Rex it wasn't conceptual or ethereal, it would not dissipate with time or therapy.  It was real and profound, like a limb torn asunder, amputated -- but without any means of telling the brain that the sensation of that missing limb should dissipate and eventually vanish.  It was there, as real in his dreams in three dimensions as it ever had been in the past, awake or in slumber.

As his human grimaced and set his teeth Rex howled again, mournfully, though no one else could hear. (He could keep it up longer than a Bloodhound with the most prodigious set of lungs imaginable.) A few searing grains of sand had made their way under the outer corners of his tightly pressed eyelids and he swiped at them angrily with one knuckle. He cursed under his breath and told himself to get on with it, with 'life'.

Rex's cacophony rattled his composure and concentration.  The car idled, a honk from behind encouraging him to tap the accelerator and remove himself from the reality of this watershed moment.  He drove on, Rex serenading him, both of them thinking about what was supposed to have been, rather than what might be.

Even an amputee who has a Lupus canis familiaris sharing his cranium moves on and lives another day, but frustratingly, life's not a male dog, life's a female dog.

(Read my account of when Rex first met his Golden Retriever here.)

Rex in Reserve

Rex's human was giving him the talking to.  Rex's ears were perked up and his head was cocked to one side because he knew that this guy sometimes brought him treats, but it was unclear who was really in charge between the two of them.   Rex's alpha dog personality made it hard for him to really take his human side too seriously -- when he sniffed an opportunity, he generally just took over.  THIS time, however, the guy seemed so earnest that Rex was struggling to understand just what was being asked of him.

"Rex, stay!  Lie down there and stay!  You can't come out of your dog house unless I call you, OK, Rex?"

Rex couldn't read Gary Larson cartoons, but all he heard was:

"Rex, stay!  Lie down blah blah stay!   Blah blah come blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah, Rex?"

Net-net, he was unclear on whether he was meant to come or stay, but the human's tone made him decide to retreat into his dog house for a lie-down of an unspecified duration.  (Dogs aren't good with the concept of time.)

Rex's alter-ego had a date, and the one thing he's learned about online dating dates was "low expectations", as in: imagine you are going to meet the older, heavier-set sister of the object of your desire (as defined by the photos on her dating profile), then imagine that the sister had just had electric shock therapy and couldn't understand your dry wit and conceptual nuances (despite the fact that the profile had made her sound kind of clever).

He was walking along the sidewalk in front of the bar, past the plate glass windows with the throng of people writhing on the other side, wondering just how bad this one would turn out to be.  In his past nine dates, not one woman had looked even close to her profile shots.  Lots of significantly more mature, plumper, not-so-engaging siblings, with rather off-putting senses of style, standing in. 

Pushing through the chattering masses along the outer edge of the bar he spotted two likely candidates sitting side-by-side up ahead on the right, each with an empty stool next to them, their faces blocked from his view by the people around them.  With "excuse me's" and gentle but firm palm pressure applied to the barrier of backs between him and his destination, he pressed forward, getting to about two arm's lengths away before discounting the first woman.

She looked younger than her stated age, was quite adorable and had just the kind of compact, slim-in-all-the-right-places figure that drove Rex to distraction -- like THAT was going to happen!  Ha...  With renewed 'low expectations' he brushed past the back of her chair and, still partially restrained by the crowd around him, reached out with his right hand and rested it gently on the back of the second of the two women to get her attention.  He had to press a bit further along to get past the back of her seat and introduce himself, but as he did so his gaze fell on the space between the two women and onto the cellphone of the first.  She was reading his last text to her, warning her he'd be a couple of minutes late.

It was too late for a reversal.  He was committed to saying something to the second woman, who's rather soft and pliable back was already twisting so she could turn to see who was leaning round her.  She rotated her head toward him with a half smile, her heavily made-up eyes widening under her heavily botoxed forehead. Her unfortunately proportioned face broke into a broader smile revealing a wide row of white caps over blackened roots as he said "Hi", very nearly enunciating something close to "erk-yik" and commanded his face to maintain composure.

"Yie-eye erm, sorry!  I thought you were someone else..."  "Well you can sit here and wait for her if you like," she said, patting the chair beside her and batting long, heavily-clumped, fake eyelashes in some improbable shade of charred flamingo feathers.  His mouth set into a tight-lipped grimace as he decided a single word more would only exacerbate things.  He swiftly pulled back behind her, forcing her to spin in her seat to watch him backtrack.

"Sarah?" he asked of the first woman, now leaning around her on the farthest side away from Madam Erk-Yik, trying to maintain eye contact while the cocked head of the Madam hovered in the immediate background, her expression communicating both curiosity and 'oh sure, she's younger than me' annoyance.  "Hi!" Sarah exclaimed smilingly, leaning toward him and placing her left hand on his upper arm lightly.  "Sorry, I didn't recognize you at first" he said as he squeezed into the closely packed row and sat down, being careful to not get too close.  "Why, I don't look like my photos?" She looked a bit worried.  "No, actually you look better than your photos" he teased, smiling at her.  (In the background Madam harrumphed, Sarah sweetly oblivious, and mercifully Madam's girlfriend arrived her face vanished from his line of sight.)

This one really was petite, even seated he was looking down at her.  She smiled and dropped her gaze, almost blushing.  He was liking her more and more.  She bumped his bicep with her shoulder, playfully.  He looked for a bartender and ordered another glass of whatever she was having, stopping him to ask her if it was a good vintage.  "It's fine" she chirped, he nodded at the bartender and turned his attention back to her, though he kept his shoulders and knees facing the bar.

They chatted, he directing most of the conversation to questions about her.  She tittered, she tossed her head, she touched his arm, she pressed her knee against his, she tucked BOTH feet up under her on the tiny bar stool.  He kept repeating his new mantra: "low expectations" and "I'm sure she's just being nice, she isn't really interested".   He said something sarcastic, she laughed and put her forehead against his shoulder.

He was having second thoughts about his mantra.

Sitting there, somewhat stoic, a tad uptight, he thought that, just maybe, he needed another opinion.  Her knees were pressed against his thigh, her dainty fingers rested behind his arm on the chair back.  "Rex?" he whispered inside his head, "Rexy, come here boy.  I need you!"  There was a momentary pause, a stirring from inside the distant dog house, then suddenly there he was, panting and straining against his better judgment.

"GODDAMN IT, Rex, hold on a second!  I just want your opinion!  Am I good to go here or what?"

Rex backed off a bit and sat, looking her up and down, especially down.  (Rex was fond of taught haunches.)  He had nothing to say -- the situation was beyond obvious to Rex: he was sitting next to an adorable French Bulldog who was clearly in heat.  He did a kind of doggie shrug, sitting patiently (for the moment), starring at Sarah.  His long tongue came out and did one lascivious lip-lick from one corner of his jowls to the other.

His human wavered, looked at her knees up against his thigh, then....capitulated.

Rex sat up, shifted the chair back a bit, then turned his body 45 degrees towards her and put his forearm on the back of her chair, his fingertips resting lightly over her bra, the thin strap of which he moved up and down a little, absently, while his other hand picked up one of hers and cupped it.  "I like your dainty hands, your fingers..." he said and cocked his head, looking into her eyes.  Her eyes were on his mouth before they dropped to look at her small hand in his.  His rotated and turned hers palm up.  His thumb traced up her life line and back down. 

"I have to go home and feed my dog-ters" he said, some regret in his voice.  "Oh" she said looking up, a bit disappointed.  "We could move on to Date Two if you're willing to come to my place, though...  I'll make us something to eat!"  She looked a bit flustered and reclaimed her hand, picking up her phone to check the time.  "Well it is still early" she said, almost as an aside.

Rex was pleased.  He liked it when things went his way.

"My place isn't really that far," he said, "just off the third highway exit."  "Well, I guess..." she shrugged noncommittedly.   "Come on," he said, pushing back his chair and getting up, the right hand reaching up to push her hair back over her left shoulder, his fingers sliding around the nape of her neck gingerly, gently cupping the back of her head for a moment before retracting his hand and holding her upper arm to help her down off the stool.  "But NO monkey business, OK?  We have to agree on that up front or things might get problematic."

She wasn't sure what to say, but she repeated "No monkey business, OK."  "Good!" he said and led her out to program her car's GPS with his address.

Date Two went well -- they learned they were mutually compatible kissers.

Date Three began when, about 30 minutes into Date Two, with her astride his lap (fully clothed, of course), Rex lifted her up by her taught haunches and, muttering between their gasps and pants "Date Three starts now...", carried her into the bedroom and deposited her on the king-size pillow-top, his three dog-ters scrambling to be the first out the door before it swung shut with a resounding thud behind them.

While ‘monkey business’ had definitely ensued, having a gentleman lurking nearby to keep him somewhat under control ensured that Rex 'kept his pants on' (literally, though dogs don't like wearing pants), however Sarah left very much wanting to come back for Date Four.

Rex's "Human Rights"

Rex's human writes a love letter to the wife he has yet to meet:

Being canine, Rex isn't particularly good with words.  He gets his message across in other ways.  He does, however, pine for a pack, a companion, a 'litter' one day.  Rex rolls over in his doggy bed most mornings and thrust out a paw, still in slumber, and expects to find his mate there beside him.  She isn't, of course, she only exists in his dreams at the moment as he awaits her to brave it out through more than a couple of dates...

Most often Rex is gone by the time his human wakes up, but sometimes he lingers long enough to cause his human side to dream with his eyes wide open, and sometimes even with his fingers hovering over a keyboard...

Looking Forward, Love of My Life:  You Make Me a Better Me

I want to tell you something I didn't the other day, Love.  We were in the car, you turned your head and did that thing you do with the set of your jaw when you're thinking about something and I fell in love with you again.  I wanted to tell you, but I didn't want to interrupt your train of thought and I was feeling so off-balance in that moment, I wasn't sure I'd get it right.  I guess getting it right wouldn't have been much of an issue, now that I think about it.

While I'm catching up on telling you some things, I want to thank you.  Thank you for being you.  We're all guilty of projecting, seeing our partner through our vision of the way we want them to be, not the way they are, but you have that gentle, insistent way of deflecting my attempts to do so.  I love you for that, Sweetheart.  Don't change, and don't change the way you stop me from trying to change you.  None of us are perfect, Love, but you're perfect just the way you are, imperfectly perfect.

You looked so worried the other night when we were getting ready to go out and you changed skirts three times (or was it six?) and I wanted to find a way to tell you what I see: that you walking around in nothing but heels and a pullover was causing me no end of trouble keeping myself contained; that you don't understand that you make men's knees quake and women inexplicably see red even if you're just wearing a lab coat...  But I wasn't sure you were in the mood to hear any of that.  You should know, though, that while neither of us are 10's, when I catch sight of our reflection walking towards ourselves in a storefront window I find myself wondering who that babe is beside me!  It makes me think "Sometimes we look good, but sometimes we look freaking GREAT" and it's you that makes that true, my Perfect Package.  I adore you.  

At a time of life when so many women are giving in to "It's my genes/hormones/'baby weight'!" you just relentlessly change things up to stay the same you I met and married.  The running, the food choices, that resistance and determination you wear like a mantle when friends and family and so many others are all so happily acquiescing -- chowing down and adopting the 'new normal' despite the fact that it's an early death sentence -- you reaffirm every time I wrap my arms around you that we are compatible in so many fundamental ways.  I thank you for that (even though I know it's just part of who you are).

You might not know it, but you shake me up in so many ways, unintentionally and inexplicably.  You've proven to me that mysteries abound -- you're my Mystery.  The other day when Andrew was blathering on about that theoretical hydro-physics thing and you just got it, twisted it and spun it back at him, you left me feeling such deep respect for my wife and her big brain.  (Yes, that was the night we broke the seat release thingy down in the parking garage.)  But how you can do that stuff and still pick out paint colours that make people ask you to come over and decorate their house; or sit down out of the blue and scribble something abstract and absolutely beautiful; or put together outfits that have salesgirls asking where you buy your stuff; all that really puts me in awe of you.  You bring together creativity and smarts in ways that leave me breathless. 

Your passion for things most people don't notice, your penchant for 'giving back,' your streaming, silent tears at those charity ads, your interest in things that matter, that can make a difference...  Your interest in politics and issues -- most women won't 'go there' while you wade in -- is something I both respect and appreciate.  The way kids want to be near you, the way you melt at random animals antics, the time you carried around that kitten we found around until the poor thing expired despite your loving ministrations...  You inspire me.  You make me want to make a difference.  

I suspect, though you cover it so well, that most of it 'ain't your thang,' but I do appreciate the way you gamely hum along with all the weird music I make you listen to.  Jazz, 'world music', classic rock, country and some opera aren't most women's cup of tea, but you make me feel like there's nothing you like better.  The same thing goes for your small smiles and the touch of your hand when I show off my latest DIY projects -- your pride in me and my accomplishments small and large fills me up and makes me strong.

Thanks for being my better half in so many ways, my Love.  Yes, it's cliche, but you make me want to be a better man and just being with you has made me better.  Your constant, consistent, heartfelt cheer-leading and support makes me see possibilities I never have before.  When you let me go on and on about my latest brainwave, uncomplainingly and so encouragingly, I know that you 'get' that I need to run through things out loud before I can synthesize an idea.   You're my Rock.  You rock.  I love you. 

Thanks for knowing I tend to give too much, for forcing me to take sometimes.  Thanks for letting me be a 'mother hen' to you at times and for allowing me to be a risk-taker -- neither can be easy on you.  Thanks for trying, if not always loving, all the stuff I like to do, or like to try to do.  You're a brave soul and truly an 'old soul', despite your lack of worldly exposure.

You may not think I heard (or that wine refill meant you weren't able to pay a lot of attention!), but when you talk about me the way you do at parties and family functions, with that glow, the words you choose, it's at moments like those that I'm reassured, yet again, that the wait for you was worth it.  It means more than I can ever say that you chose to be my 'one' (no, not "THE One," we're both too experienced and realistic to believe there's only one right one out there).  You chose to give me the chance to prove I could be a decent choice for you, a 'good man' to your great woman, a lover and friend, a critic and unconditional supporter.  You're the one for me, my Heart, my Soul, my Girl.  

You smile at me and the world's a better place.  Your quirky wit, your irreverence, your tendency to 'not suffer fools gladly,' the humour you see in things others can't, the way you put 2 and 2 together and get 4.6, even your sarcasm, all float my boat.  (And you're not a bad kisser.  ;-)

Yes,  writing you this way has made my eyes well up more than once -- you do that to me when I least expect it.  You're a powerful force in my life, the fire that ignites and the cool calm that soothes moments of rage when people are unfair (sorry for my 'to the right of the median' testosterone level -- it has its upside at times...).  You're a tonic and an elixir.  You're my magic potion, my Love Potion #9, and so much more.

I just wanted to tell you I miss you, Baby, because I haven't met you yet, and I get a little impatient sometimes, and a bit lonely.  You take your time, though.  I don't want to rush it.  I've waited so long a bit longer can't hurt...  

Thanks for reading this and believing, having read it, that I just might stand out just a smidgen from all those other boys out there, the maddening crowd, the rabble, the chest-thumpers, the dangerous, glowering lads, the sweet but ultimately yawn-inducing salt-of-the-earth-ers.   

Thanks for knowing, in your heart, that if I wrote this to you before we met, a wealth of great things were coming down the pipe for us both -- if only you resisted clicking 'read/delete' and said what you eventually did to me.  I did hear you back in the cave.

Love, kisses, and a whole bunch of that stuff I can't put on a public blog. I look forward to you, Love of My Life.

Woof!  (Rex likes you, too.)

***

Hm.  Well, dear readers, only one comment!  I guess it only struck a romantic chord with me.  Sigh...  No wonder I'm not getting a lot of dates, I've lost any romantic intuition I might have ever had!  And no, this is not an ode to a lost love, but rather to that ideal woman I'd like to think is still out there.

(And I'm just egging you on, of course.  Those of you who 'get me' have sent emails, and I appreciate your warm words.  ;-)

Rex to the Rescue!

She was after a job and if that meant flirting with a guy to land it, she had no problem with side-stepping moral issues should it get her what she wanted.  Her older boyfriend was a bit overbearing, anyway.  She felt kind of entitled to keep her options open.  And it wasn't like anything was going to happen on this date, she wouldn't let it -- she hadn't made it all the way through university with her knees clamped tightly together by being a push-over.

He wasn't sure what he wanted from the encounter.  A piece of tail wasn't really the thing (Rex ensured he was rarely in dire need in that regard).  It was something ethereal.  Something in the air that eluded him when she was near.  A sense more than a feeling.  A blink more than a wink.  A stirring, not in his loins (though that was certainly a near constant around her), but in his heart.  A leaf in the breeze.  A twinge.  Not something he was too familiar with, but craved nonetheless.

He'd been assured she was probably still a virgin, popular opinion being that many had tried and none had been able to pry that door open even a crack.  He doubted she still was.  There were signs, signals, cues.  Rex knew things other males didn't.  Rex could smell things like that, and Rex had already met the Maltese.  Rex wasn't out on this date, however, he was in his dog house, sound asleep, dreaming doggie dreams.

Her voice was high-pitched, not nails-on-chalkboard, but songbird-like.  Her hands and arms fluttered like a female pigeon ruffling her feathers in the presence of a covey of suitors.  She had the short-legged strut of a best-in-show lapdog, her long locks flowing, shining in the arena lights.  They'd been to his place so he could change clothes, then out for pasta and now were at some charity cocktail thing she'd been keen to make an appearance at.

She'd tittered and preened at dinner.  He was his usual attentive self, answering queries with questions, deflecting, keeping the subject of the conversation her, her past, her dreams, her aspirations.  She'd attempted the young adventurist persona, but had been called out -- yet she wasn't what she appeared to be, a lovely little tart trying to play the older man like a virtuoso.  She was vastly inexperienced, but was able to match parry with thrust intellectually.  Poorly read, but a quick study.  She had little interest in anything that did not please her in the moment, or had a role to play in building her future, yet could pick up on things at a depth unusual for someone just out of college.

There had been no physical contact outside of his hand on the small of her back going through a doorway.  She felt in charge, safe, but she didn't know him very well and was unaware she'd already met Rex.  She flitted about at the resto-bar venue, the social butterfly, alighting on one group of people, laughing merrily, air-kissing, then touching down elsewhere, entertaining some girls she knew with a dollop of gossip, then snaking through the crowd to bat her eyes at some young studs hovering near the bar.

He watched her, bemused.  She seemed so enthusiastic about this mindless activity, so fully engaged, getting off on the attention, yet there was something else.  Her sidelong glances his way as he took in the crowd and chatted with some strangers standing at his elbow, the way she monitored where he was and what he was doing, all suggested there was something else going on with her, subliminally.  She was doing what she thought was the thing to do at the event, but seemed to relish knowing she had a man stashed away on the periphery of the crowd, a secret weapon of sorts, a safety net, another source of entertainment to return to.

It had been nearly an hour.  Although chatting came easily to him, he had no interest in these people, the 'desperately social' set.  He'd lost track of her during her constant movement from group to group.  He eased himself up onto a low barstool near the center of the venue, his back toward a large potted palm, one foot rising up on to the top rung of another stool beside him.   He put his empty drink on a bar table where a bus-girl swept it up with a beguiling smile.  He thought about slipping out and leaving.  Would she even notice?  Would he even care?  He thought about chatting up the bus-girl.

Suddenly she was back in front of him, hovering.  "Are you having fun?" she chirped.  He lifted his eyebrows a notch and looked down at her with a half smile, "What's not to like?" he asked.  She looked uncertain, her hips swiveling to and fro over her perpetually clamped knees, her hands clasped around a nearly empty glass of white wine.

He became aware that Rex had also arrived on the scene and, bored, was about to take charge.  His face faded from the half smile to a neutral, but intensely switched-on stare, his head cocked unconsciously to one side and forward over her.  She continued to look uncertain, her brow wrinkling at the subtle change that had come over him.

Rex, ever the alpha male, reached out with one forepaw and one finger slipped into her low-riding waistband, the tip coming to rest, quite unequivocally, under her panties against her flesh and finding the upper edge of her carefully trimmed triangle.  He tugged.  She stepped in, her hipbones docking in the welcoming harbour formed by his thighs.  The wine sloshed a little in her glass.

His head dipped and he pushed his muzzle through her hair, breathing out through his nostrils into the space behind one ear.  His cheek brushed in and upwards against the shell of her ear, the pinna, his mouth parted, drawing a slow breath against it.  Her head tipped against his mouth instinctively, the shoulder rising a little as her head turned a few degrees towards him.

The finger tugged again and she leaned in, off-balance, one buttock coming to rest against his hard, warm thigh and something else.  His mouth still muffled under her hair, his lips brushing her ear, he whispered, "It's time to go, don't you think, Candice?"

A moment of time froze, then sublimated.

She regained her footing, looked away, looked down, took a tentative sip of wine.  A decision apparently was taken and the glass tipped back.  The glass found its way to the bar table, fell on its side and rolled, leaving a circular trail of liquid in its wake on the tabletop.  Her hand found its way into his, but her eyes did not come up from the floor as he stepped in front of her and led the way out through the crowd.

The ride back to his place was filled with her nervous, slightly giddy chatter and his doggedly patient absorption of the noise.  The elevator ride up from the parking lot was a lot more quiet, save the short gasps and the rustle of hands sliding over, under and between items of clothing, not all of which made it to his doorway in its originally intended position.

Oddly, given their state of undress and the intimacy of their mutual exploration, she left no less a virgin than she'd arrived.  That coupling was to happen at a later date and would be more of a surprise to him than her.

Something in the Air

The air in the office was cool and dry, odourless. It was quiet. Snippets of some chatter drifted down the hall from the reception area. He was deep into a bunch of numbers, his brain flicking through obscure connections between bits and pieces of apparently unconnected information stored here and there in the folds and convolutions of his grey matter.

Two voices approached his door, male and female.  The other side of him, instinctual, deep inside his skull, Rex, stirred, nudging the rest of his brain off-focus a bit...  The female’s voice was high-pitched, girly. He was struggling to capture an insight that was eluding him while flipping through several articles on-screen. The voices stopped outside his door, his back to them.

A scent swirled in the air and suddenly Rex came awake, fully alert.  His gaze went up to the dim reflection of the window in front of him. In it he could make out, against the bright streetscape outside, one of his direct-reports, a cocky Labrador Retriever, standing in the doorway next to a much shorter, blond, female Maltese.

“Hello, Roger” he said to the reflection, his attention still on the computer screen.  She tittered and Rex spun his chair around, a non-committal look on his face, one eyebrow raised, his eyes holding hers. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

He used the opportunity to appraise her, ever the "best-in-show" judge. Handsome proportions, he observed, delicate ankles and rounded calves, pretty face with a turned-up nose, blue-blue eyes, very long, wavy locks.  A proud bearing, not that old, but not that young, no rings...  He sensed she was used to leading the flow of things upon meeting males unfamiliar to her.  There'd be no intimate snuffling going on until she chose to turn and proffer her shapely hindquarters.

She clasped her hands together, pressing towards an intimate spot, creating a Y under the dress, unconsciously covering, but inadvertently drawing attention to what her subconscious told her she'd be smart to protect in this moment, the fingers intertwined, twisting just a little nervously. Her eyes came back up, but her chin stayed tucked in. He half expected her to cock her head to one side like a dog hearing a curious sound.

"Roger, you know how easily distracted I get, and now this?" He fixed Roger with a stern look, a crooked smile slowly melting it.

The Retriever looked slyly at his boss, back at the Maltese and back to Rex.  “This is Candice,” he said proudly, as though dropping a downed duck at the forepaws of the pack leader.  Roger, ever the keen understudy, knew what might please him.  Rex met his eye and suddenly realized that this was an offering, a career-building, pre-calculated maneuver.

Rex rose and extended his hand as he moved toward her, “The pleasure is all mine, Candice! And what brings you to my doorstep this morning?” She smiled demurely and met his hand with a surprisingly firm shake. He didn’t let go. Her smile dimmed as he stood patiently, waiting for an answer. “Ah, well…”

“Candice wants to work for us,” the Retriever piped in, his hand going to her shoulder in an effort to maintain some ownership. Rex tugged her hand, pulling her into his office and forcing Roger to drop his hand, limply. (Once a gift is given, it’s no longer yours...)  Rex continued to smile down at her, her hand still clasped in his, loosely, but momentarily irretrievably.

“I’ve been thinking about making a change…” she ventured, looking up at him. He started intently into her wide, sapphire eyes, looking from one to the other and back, assessing the carat value. “Really” was all he said, then dropped her hand and sat down, still holding her eyes in lieu of those dainty fingers, then looked her up and down again. Not leeringly, just appraisingly, as though judging the appropriateness of her taste in office fashion against a mental checklist.

She looked down and smoothed the pink linen over her flanks. He watched her do so, let her see his eyes following her hands there, then brought his gaze back up. She started to flush, prettily, from the tasteful top edge of her dress, up her slim neck, up her dainty chin and all the way to her pulled-back hairline.

The Retriever, ignored back at the doorway, made a sound.  Rex ignored him further.

Rex breathed in through his snout, looking at her calmly, a long and leisurely sniff, savouring something floating tantalizingly in the ether between them. It wasn’t her perfume, it was her perfume.  The adept canine sense of smell picked up her scent -- subtle, tantalizing, filtered through the crisp linen. They were a match in that regard: a pheromone lock and key, an interesting tit-bit of information.  Actually quite rare between humans.  He stored it away for future use, then...

“If you’re serious, we should talk further, Candice. I assume Roger has your contact info?”

“Yes sir, I do!” came the too-loud affirmation from the doorway, helpfully.

Without getting up, Rex extended his hand again, not shaking hers, just holding it momentarily, his fingers pressing the hollow of her palm, the thumb tracing the back of her hand, then letting it go with a small smile. “Actually, you call me if you want to get together, Candice, and I’ll free up some space. Roger?” he said and leaned to look around her. Roger stepped up.

“You’ll facilitate that, won’t you?” he added, his face deadly serious. “Absolutely! Yes, I certainly will!” “Good man, Roger. Nice meeting you, Candice. I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon.”

He started swivelling his chair back around as she managed an “Oh, yes, well, thank you…” and turned to follow Roger out. Rex stopped rotating his chair and watched her go (well, not all of her).

She looked back, uncertainly.  He tipped his head in an approving nod to her.  She looked more uncertain as she disappeared around the door frame.

***

Something in the air held Rex’s attention, lingering, preventing much progress on the task at hand.

Alpha Dogs and Pomeranians

There was a heavy male scent in the air that was making the hackles on the back of Rex's neck stand up.  It was redolent of sweat, aggression and a touch of desperation, testosterone and the faint metallic whiff of dogs pissing on fire hydrants, delineating territory, territory that wasn't theirs to mark.

The bitches in the vicinity were feigning interest in grooming, licking their paws, preening, sniffing each others ears and making soft snuffling noises to each other.  They knew better than to get involved, the risk of getting nipped in the process, maybe losing a piece of their ear, and for what?  To best some dog whose entire feeling of self-worth was based upon the outcome of a brief skirmish with a bunch of other dogs: loud barking, staring each other down, ritualistic humping.  The girls were above all that, wisely, although it might mean they were staring up at an invisible career ceiling.

Rex felt a growl coming up in the back of his throat.  He wasn't looking at the vain, hyperactive Schnauzer who was aggravating him, but he was monitoring him closely -- he bore watching, unpredictable little shit that he was.  Rex felt the nearly uncontrollable need to walk up behind him, lift his leg and wet him down -- but there was a bit too much of that going on in this boardroom filled with representatives from client and agency offices around the world.

Rex and his client sat silently, both leaning back, waiting.  Waiting for the opportunity that they'd make happen.  The unspoken agreement between them was that this was Rex's turf and his meeting.  The Schnauzer, mistakenly, thought it was his -- after all, he'd called the meeting.  He'd learn.  He was younger and, in experience terms (where you live and learn or you don't live long), had half of Rex's years fighting in the pit.  The Schnauzer's ego, however, filled the room.

Rex stretched out in his chair, fingers linked above and behind his head, his feet extended out under the table in front of him into the circle of tables, examining the ceiling tiles.  A couple of women from the Durban office were watching him, smiling and tittering to each other.  He didn't notice.  His colleague from the media department did and she fixed them with a stare that cut off their staring and tittering.  Territory was being marked out among the bitches in the room as well, it turned out.

The Schnauzer stood and cleared his throat.  The chatter died out.

What had transpired was that the Schnauzer and his client, a sullen looking, shaggy German Shepherd who contributed little vocally outside of whispered commiserations with the Schnauzer, had bungled a commercial shoot that was being paid for out of an international financial pool and were now trying to justify getting everyone in the room to pony-up to pay for their mistake.  They hadn't accepted blame, however, it was being positioned as an "add-on," a second shoot to improve upon the first, to contribute additional material to the "film clip library."  No one was buying it (well, Rex wasn't sure about the South African girls...).

"So, we revisited the numbers, talked to the production company and there's really nothing we can do to lower the cost of the second shoot, everyone is going to have to contribute their 'fair share'."

Unwittingly the Schnauzer had just sealed his fate.  He'd used the trigger word: "fair".  If there was anything that pushed Rex's buttons, it was aggressive people who ran roughshod over other's needs, feelings, or toes.  "Un-fairness" made Rex see red.  His head cocked and dipped slightly.

A series of grunts of derision, barks of protest and howls of disbelief went round the circle of tables like a wave in a football stadium....until it reached Rex.  There was a moment of quiet as he leaned well forward across the table on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him, his cheek resting on them as he stared at the Schnauzer who was standing, fingertips on the table, a smug look of determination on his face as he looked back and forth at the assembled crowd, fancying himself quite the Ring Master.

All eyes went to Rex.  He continued to stare at the Schnauzer, his jaw set.  Then, "So what you're telling us is that we bought a Volkswagon, but now that we're taking delivery, you're telling us we have to pay for a Mercedes to get the Volkswagon?"

"Spare me your analogies" barked the Schnauzer.

Rex rose to his feet, his chair scraping back.  The room went deathly quiet and his client's knee shifted under the table to press against Rex's leg.  Rex met his eye.  Like two pack members circling a deer they had cut from the herd there was an instant of silent understanding and decision-taking.  The client's non-committal stare, and his knee, went back to where they'd been.

"Spare all of us your bile-inducing, bald-faced bullshit, Mr. Regional Co-Ordinator," (the way he spat out the title made it sound like a role one level below Walmart greeter), "You'll get your re-shoot money to fix this unmitigated fuck-up, but every mistake comes at a price.  Honest admissions of guilt can cut that price... Come on, Pawel," he said to his client and the two of them strode out of the room, meeting a few approving looks from colleagues while many attendees looked confused, unsure whether the meeting had come to a conclusion or not.

***

Rex and his client were sitting on a nearby patio, a local watering hole, safe in the knowledge that the Schnauzer/Shepherd team would be sufficiently chastized to not show up.  The international group started drifting in, greetings exchanged, a few of the males sharing a silent high-five with Rex and his client, alpha dogs celebrating the successful clarification of the professional hierarchy in their extended pack.

The South African women burst onto the scene, the prettier one managed to have miraculously changed out of her business suit and into a flimsy, low-cut summer dress between the office and bar.  They scampered over to Rex like little Pomeranians zeroing in on a bag of doggie treats, yapping, darting in and out round him as they tried to work out if they should evidence outright interest, or feign coyness, their own obviousness oblivious to them.

Rex looked vaguely amused and annoyed, sweeping one hand into the air and waving it behind his head as though to keep a couple of flying gnats at bay.  He was trying to converse with one of the European reps, missing several words in the rising cacophony as the group grew.  His media colleague swept in and ran interference, engaging the other two women with a polite question about whether they liked their hotel rooms, and what their husbands back home were doing in their absence.

One thing was certain, Rex was a lone wolf who wasn’t about to be lonely...

Rex Does the Bossa Nova

He was dreaming, and it wasn't your typical canine dream, his legs weren't running across an imaginary field, Rex was flying.  He'd learned that if he jumped high enough, using all the strength in his hind quarters, then clawed the air above him as hard as he could with his forepaws, he could get enough altitude to stay in the air then, like UnderDog, he could point his paws and fly, twisting and spiraling to check out what was happening down on the ground just like an eagle.

Rex was flying through a cloud above a group of females, all of them looking quite delectable, their yips and yaps drifting up, their scents wafting in eddies and puffs of warm air.  He was a happy dog, doing what other dogs couldn't.  He smiled a toothy smile, panting, soaring, as the dog voices changed, morphed, became human -- annoying human voices, feminine, "...then the cute guy said...," "NO WAY!  She wasn't even there!  HE was the one..."

He realized he wasn't flying anymore.  He was lying back, napping.  He was jiggling, too.  It was kind of nice, the jiggling.  Relaxing.  He thought about going back to sleep.  He opened one eye, seeking the source of the human voices.  Some annoying teenagers.  Females.  He'd like to bite the high-pitched one, not to hurt her, just to let her know his kind didn't like her pitch, volume or incessant need to blather on.

His doggy senses tingled and his open eye shifted to the right.  A female sat looking at him curiously, her head tipped to one side.  He opened the other eye and looked away, suddenly concerned that perhaps he'd been drooling.  He straightened out a little, bringing up one forepaw to wipe his muzzle.  He looked back.  She was still staring at him, a bemused look on her face.  Ah, she was also listening to the girls -- or maybe she was amused at them AND him.

Rex felt his collar.  Bare.  Hm, he'd taken off the black bow tie, he recalled. and had stuffed it in the pocket of his tux jacket when he'd entered the subway car and sat down.  The formal function had been one notch past tedious and the last glass of wine had contributed to his having drifted off.  He sat up a bit straighter and lifted his head off the ad poster behind him, looked down at his shoes stretched out in front of him, took a look at his watch, wondered how many stops he'd slept through.  The girls' gossip was grating.

He snuck another glance up.  She was still eyeing him.  He chewed on the inside of one cheek.  There was a Nine West shoebox on the seat beside her.   She had a tight skirt on and had legs like a dancer's.  He stirred, cleared his throat, "What did you buy?" he ventured, his chin gesturing toward the box.  She looked surprised, then said in a strong accent "Ah... Shoes."  He smiled and held her eyes, his dancing,  "Yes, last time I checked, shoes come in boxes just like that one."  She smiled, embarrassed, and looked down at the box.

She was actually very pretty, about 30-something, too pretty to be riding the subway at midnight alone, he thought.  Dark hair, longish face, high cheekbones, a Borzoi, he judged.  His protective radar switched on and he quickly scanned the car for predators before his attention returned to her. The coast was clear but she misinterpreted his surveillance and suddenly became wary, picking up the box and wrapping her arms around it protectively.  "I like the shoes at Nine West.  Always very classy" he said and shifted his head to read the station name as the train drew to a stop.  Crap, he'd missed his transfer station.

Three rambunctious young males came bursting into the car through the door facing her like a pack of Bull Terriers, immediately shouldering each other and gesturing, eyes popping and rolling as they decided to plunk down in the seats beside, at 90 degrees and the one catty-corner to her, leering and snuffling, mouths open.  She looked down the car away from them.

He sat eyeing them, slowly drawing his feet in under him.  The movement caught their attention and all three shifted their attention to him.  He stared back, from one to the other, his intent unclear.  They all suddenly changed their postures, looking out the window and at the ceiling, leaned back as one, six feet splaying out with feigned casualness.  He looked back at her.  Her chin down, her eyes flicked up to his.  The train began to slow for the next stop.

"This is our station, Honey" he said and drew to his feet smoothly, one hand on a hand rail, proffering the other to her.  She hesitated.  She looked down at the large cross-trainer clad feet near her, waited a beat, then got up, putting the box under one arm, the other clamping her purse under her armpit.  He took her upper arm gently but firmly and she drew close, her shoulder brushing his bicep.  He steadied her as the train abruptly braked, lurching her against him.

The door opened and several panting huffs and hisses followed them as they stepped onto the platform and he steered her to the right.  As the train pulled away his head swiveled and to make eye contact with the lead dog.  It gathered speed to match their walking pace.  The Bull Terrier looked away, gnashing teeth.

"I, ah," she breathed, slowing and pulling away.

"Sorry, rude of me.  They call me Rex," he smiled and stuck out his hand.  She took it, tentatively, met his eyes briefly, then let go, her fingers fluttering up to her hair, fiddling with it as she looked uncertainly down the length of the largely empty platform.

Rex Likes Poodles

Tapping into what he was thinking as he sat out beside the sidewalk staring intently at a passing Poodle’s wagging hindquarters, scratching absently behind one ear, most people would say Rex was just a dog.  Most people would be misreading him.  Rex was more than met the eye.

The Poodle turned the corner and left little for him to remember her by other than strong whiff of some expensive shampoo.  She left his brain.  Rex tended to live in the moment, even while his brain was planning for the future.  He yawned, languorously, got up and stretched, drawing out the moment while waiting for an impulse to strike him. 

Other dogs fretted over where the next meal was going to come from, which female in the neighbourhood was in heat (and which ones they might stand a chance with), whether or not they were going to get in trouble for making a mess of the living room.  Rex wondered whether or not, if you told a girl dog you thought she smelled like warm honey, she'd let you have your evil way with her faster than if you told her you thought she was pretty. 

Rex was bored and thinking, as he often did, about why humans did what they did.  Such a fascinating species Homo sapiens sapiens.  So complicated versus Canis lupus familaris, the "domestic dog."  

Satisfying a sudden itch Rex rubbed the right side of his nose vigorously with the back of his right paw.  A few Bulldogs waddled by, several cougars slinking, a couple of sabre-toothed tigers, many of them casting him a sidelong glance, a tentative sniff in his direction, but there were no Poodles in sight.

He pulled out his iPhone, checked for news from his online dating accounts and put it back in his shirt pocket.  His jeans were pushing his ‘package’ to one side and he shoved his hands in his pockets to rearrange things as surreptitiously as he could while leaning against a wall on a busy street in the city's bustling business district.

Another Poodle approached from up the street, her teased-out mane framing an attractive, though not striking, set of features.  Her snout was a bit long for her face, he mused.  She looked at him as he started his assessment down at her clacking wedges and worked his way up the A-line skirt, the ringless left hand, narrow waist, smallish B-cups and long neck, sipping her like a iced cocktail in a tall glass.  She rewarded his attention with a frigid glare.

Rex smiled wryly, tipped his head and, as she came within range, said “If that hem was an inch shorter, I’d have asked you out.”  Her face went blank, the glossed lips parted slightly, her eyes shifted ahead then came back to his as she drew near, her stride faltering just a little.  Her head swiveled towards him, then she thought better of it and, with renewed purpose, continued down the sidewalk, her hips swaying just a tad more than a moment before.  Rex took in her hindquarters for a moment, then looked up at the gathering clouds, wondering if it might rain and chase the Poodles, Pekingese, Whippets and curvy Terriers off the street (the Bulldogs and cougars didn't meet his highly specific set of predilections).  

He glanced idly back at the Poodle.  She’d reached the corner and took the opportunity while waiting for the light to look back, as though accidentally.  She met his eyes briefly, then away, then back again.  He held up his thumb and index finger about an inch apart then pointed at her hem and winked, smiling.   She flushed, broke into a big grin with a coy dip of her chin and tripped off across the street tugging self-consciously at the seams of her skirt.  “Another happy customer” he muttered and strode back up the street towards his office, his thoughts returning to the project he'd abandoned earlier when the scent of Poodle shampoo and warm sunshine had drawn him out of his den.

Rex didn't really care if they were married, single, desperately in love teens, desperately depressed mommies -- or 'lipstick lesbians,' for that matter -- he just wanted to sniff them, his muzzle lifting their skirts from behind, his wet snout probing the narrow space bridging their thighs, a muffled cry escaping their startled mouths.  He loved that moment when he sent their eyebrows skittering upwards unbidden, the animalistic recognition of a potent combination: a potential mating partner in close proximity combined with his open acknowledgement of their sexual appetite.  Rex liked getting a rise out of women and he really didn't care if it was shock, amusement, bemusement, or instantaneous attraction, he knew how to lead the dance and loved learning new steps, the latest being the 'bossa nova' with a Venezuelan terrier he'd met on the subway returning from a black tie affair downtown.

Those he showed little interest in huffed at him and said he harboured a deep and disturbing disrespect for women.  They misunderstood him.  Noting their frustration, occasionally he'd stop next to these angry, attention-challenged females and lean in to explain himself, giving them his 'muzzle nuzzle,' his nose lifting the hair over their ear, his lips brushing the cup, his whispered words leaving them flushed and a tad more frustrated, but decidedly happier than they'd been a moment before: "I like the way you smell," "You should wear this colour often, it shows off your eyes," "Your mother wouldn't have approved of how flimsy that top is, you bad girl!"  Sometime he got slapped.  Not often.  Sometimes they changed their opinion of him.  Most of the time they felt friskier than they had in awhile.

Yes, Rex loved women.  He wasn't a sex addict -- he was an aficionado, a connoisseur, a sipper of long, cool cocktails and short, spicy concoctions alike.  Rex was a lover, not a hater, and loved nothing more than pleasing a woman.  Deeply.  Repeatedly.  Near-numbingly (but not quite).  Rex was a lot of other things, too, but he just wanted you, dear reader, to understand this about him upfront.

How do you like Rex so far?  He certainly likes you...