Crazy Beginnings...

I awake every morning to the sound of a dog humping the lamppost outside my bedroom window. It is not an all-together unpleasant sound, but is usually jarring once the dreamy haze lifts and I realize that instead of the reassuring rhythmic thump of a favorite song, I am actually listening to, enjoying even, the sound of a masturbating poodle. I don’t fault the poor pooch, of course. Any male covered in mounds of carefully groomed white curls can’t be blamed for getting some the only place he can; after all, what sensible bitch would give herself over to such a mockery.

The window that looks out over the lamppost, over the dog, is attached to my studio, which exists on the fine edge of a paradoxical anomaly of a town; a place that pulls tourists in with its antique stores and teashops while also trapping its residents with that same routine perfection, its scheduled cheerfulness. Half of my monthly income goes toward the rent of a 500 square foot bungalow attached to the property of an old house whose inhabitants, Mr. and Mrs. Greer, find the necessity to decorate with too many of those fake flower arrangements and an absurd amount of potpourri. The perfectly manicured lawn of their Adamstown, Pennsylvania French-Country style home matches identical cottages on the tree-lined lane, Jefferson Boulevard, and millions of others on every other street that bears a previous U.S. President’s name within a 9-mile radius.

The poodle is Mrs. Greer’s prized possession; a standard sized stud, groomed in his continental clip with parts of the legs, tail and face hairless (and I’m sure freezing) for his Hatboro Dog Club Show coming up in late October. The Greer’s never had children and in his need to pass along a little history and tradition to any namesake provided, Mr. Greer named the stud Colonel Bartholomew Greer III, to the horror of his wife, who wanted to name the dog Cottonbon—the  “cotton,” an obvious choice because of the dogs fluffy mane and the “bon” meaning “good” and a tribute to the only French phrase she knows, “bon apetit.”

Awake and cold, I pull on my favorite over-sized, burnt orange sweatshirt—the one that accents my brass colored hair and eyes--and black Ugg slippers, grab my keys, and head out to meet the mutt. Mrs. Greer lets me take him to Joe’s on Saturdays when her pinochle crowd comes over with their varying casseroles and vegetable dips. Joe’s has the best coffee in town, strong, with just a hint of hazelnut.