The Truth about Soda

At a petite 5'2, I once had a friend tell me that I looked like a chihuahua or pug type of girl. I told him I wanted a boxer. He said I was too small and that a boxer would disproportionately overpower me. He can talk. He can own any dog he wants, what with that sporty, blond haircut and 6'2 frame as if he walked out of a Leni Riefenstahl film after frolicking with the other polo sport players.

We sat in the grass after a pickup soccer game, talking about how I had always wanted a dog.

"But," I argued, "having a chihuahua reinforces the 'high-maintenance, bulimic girl feeding tidbits of her french toast to her pathetic purse-dog on Quaaludes' stereotype. I can't have that. I'm too progressive."

I'd be good at owning a dog. I would name him Flapjack or Tater. I try them out in my head like this, "Taaaaaaaateeeer. Come Tater, come! Have you seen a short, chocolate dog named Tater?" This would be posed to a handsome, slightly awkward bachelor who is doing his contemplative walk around the park. He might be reading Noam Chomsky so I would never have to, but I'd sound smart after he summarized it for me. "He was right here," I'd say, "and I always let him off leash because I love to watch him roam free, unfettered by his commitments to his loved ones and our home."

While I'm daydreaming about how good my +dog life would be, a set of fluffy, black haunches sit beside me in the grass. He is a chow mix, the size of a stand alone shoe rack. He is perfect, nothing I'd be forced to carry, not anything that could drag me into traffic. Best of all, he does not have the typical crunched Chow snout as if someone tried to cram him into a too small packing box. He is cool as a cucumber. He hunkers down next to me and I picture him saying, "So, I just got off the phone with a co-worker. I probably have to work on Monday." He's that casual.

He lays down and leans into me and I pamper him shamelessly. He eats my bread crust.

"NO, NO, NO! Bad Soda, bad bad bad! Did you just feed that to my dog? You could have killed him." His owner looks at me as if I shat on the carpet.
"Oh, sorry, it was just some bread crust. Not chocolate or anything."
"That's just as bad. Never, NEVER feed human food to a dog."

Soda sighs. He cups his hand towards his mouth and whispers to me, "I'm not really with her. She's just a bump in the road to finding my real owner.

"Come Soda, come!" and she barrels down the path. Soda leans into me for a heartbreaking minute, unfazed by the distance between himself and his shrill owner. She must be 100 feet away when he finally stands up and trots 10 steps toward her. He pauses and turns his head towards me, then his body and he ambles back and flops down next to me.

I knew it. The truth about Soda is that I'm his real owner. He's supposed to be mine. He's my size and temperament. But I let him go as he meanders away into the park.