Essays

We live in cynical times when so many silly people say there are no such things as unicorns or flying dragons. They even say there is no Santa Claus, but just last week I had lunch with him and his wife Helga (a real charmer, especially since she had electrolysis on her upper lip). They also say that everyone has become so contentious that acts of niceness are a thing of the past. Every time I hear that one, I want to track down the bozo who said it and beat the kaka out of him. Recently I witnessed an act of human niceness involving my dog, and I’m going to tell you about it. Bear with me or I’ll make you regret it.

(The account of niceness is 5 paragraphs away.)

Elsa, our golden retriever, goes to dinner with us on restaurant patios and receives many compliments, usually to the effect that she is beautiful or cute. This does not happen to me. The nicest thing strangers say to me is that they like my books. When I give them my most winsome look and ask if I’m not cute too, they never say I am. At best, they mention my books again, but with less enthusiasm. Often they squint as if suddenly alarmed, and they back away.

(The account of niceness is 4 paragraphs away.)

There was a time when Elsa, taken to her veterinarian for treatment or for her weekly bath, was as well behaved there as anywhere else. The other dogs awaiting grooming or medical attention were frequently barking and lunging and trying to drag their owners out of the office before they could have their temperature taken from the wrong end. Sometimes those mutts were later so embarrassed by their behavior that they sent Elsa their apologies along with flowers and rawhide chews. (As long as I’m in charge, she won’t have rawhide chews. They are dangerous. Too many dogs choke on them. Besides, I find them delightful with a good red wine.)

(Just three paragraphs.)

Then a time came when she scratched her nose on thorns while taking the advice of lifestyle influencers to “smell the roses.” The scratches became infected, and during treatment, the vet had to clean them out. This hurt a lot. I’m not just speculating about that. To understand what Elsa went through, I stuck my head in rose bushes, scratched my nose, made sure the scratches became infected, and then went to the vet to have them cleaned out. Mama mia, that hurt!

(The account of an act of niceness follows the next paragraph, so this is not the time for a bathroom break.)

So following her experience, Elsa became terrified of going to the vet, and I needed a Prozac cocktail before I could drive her there. Once in the exam room, she becomes a golden retriever version of Scooby-Doo with a monster tangled in his leash. She ricochets from the exam room entry door to me then to the exit door, again and again, with the quickness of a pinball from post to flipper to post. I think you get the picture without need of another analogy.

(Get ready to believe in unicorns again.)

Recently, when it came time for her annual physical evaluation and a couple of shots, I asked her vet if I should give her 15 mg of fluoxetine, which is generic Prozac, before bringing her in. Instead, the vet said he didn’t want to drug her. To spare her anxiety, he would come to the parking lot to conduct the exam and give her the vaccinations in the car. Curbside veterinary service. So there were the veterinarian, the vet tech, and Elsa in the backseat, as if we were all about to set out for Vegas or maybe Disney World where she could meet her idol, Pluto. There were some odd but necessary contortions in the process of giving her a full exam and shots, but she remained calm because this was her car, her turf.

Niceness. Kindness. You know what would be a very kind thing you could do? Order my most recent book, Going Home in the Dark, which is a comic horror novel. Or if you’re a forward-thinking person, you might want to preorder The Friend of the Family, which is not a comic novel, but I think it’s one of my best. However, what you think matters more. Just be nice.