A Christmas Tail

Gus seemed determined to celebrate his eleventh Christmas in feline fashion. The gaily wrapped packages and the sweet smells were designed to intrigue kitties. He stalked the presents under the tree, poking with his paw to test their response. None struck back so he felt safe. He could toy with them to keep himself occupied. He batted at the ornaments and crawled under the tree to dig his claws into it. These were the comforting rituals of Christmas, even more so given the current situation in our home. As the eldest pet for the past three years it had been his reign, but unsteady lay the crown. His sister Daphney disdained his love bites unreasonably. And now there was the dog. Presumptuous and informal, the dog ignored all the formalities a cat expected.

For Hamilton this would be his first Christmas. The first time he would smell pine needles and feel the briskness of winter. He would be thrilled by his first snow fall and the sensation of pouncing into the drifts. He would not share Gus' hesitancy, but rather, grab the gifts under the tree with exuberance until scolded to drop them, retreating in momentary penitence.

Nuance versus abandon, Christmas brought out the distinction in both of them.

Unfortunately for Gus, life was taking an inevitable turn. When Hamilton arrived as an eight- week-old puppy, Gus did what he could to maintain his position and to keep Hamilton from insinuating himself into his world. A timely hiss and a strategic claw kept Hamilton at bay and left a scar on his nose as a reminder of who ruled the domain of our modest apartment.

Now six months had passed and Gus, all of twelve pounds , was faced with a behemoth fast growing into sixty-five pounds of sinew and blunder. Being only seven months old, Hamilton hadn't absorbed the import of their growing discrepancy in size. To him Gus was still this intimidating creature to be avoided if possible. Each time he slinked by Gus I imagined him rubbing the scar on his nose with his paw.

On Christmas Eve my wife and I returned home tired from a party and went to bed early, early even for fifty-year olds. Normally I would take Hamilton out for his evening walk but that night I was too exhausted. This left him with too much energy. He decided to attack the presents, grabbing one and chewing through the wrapping. Somehow, the bow from the gift attached itself to his tail. Prudent though Gus was , the sight of the bow on Hamilton's tail was more than he could handle. He pounced immediately causing Hamilton to cry out and spin in an attempt to shake Gus off his tail. The momentum of his spin and the weight of Gus in the air resulted in the Christmas tree in our living room hitting the wall, knocking ornaments to the floor and felling the tree onto the coffee table.

Groggily I rose and entered the living room to see the shambles of our Christmas present. Hamilton and Gus peered out from under the tree. In their mutual culpability there was a new born camaraderie. The look of guilt on their faces caused my anger to subside. Anyway I was too tired. I left them there with the fallen tree and the newly opened gifts.

In the early morning we came out and found the two of them sleeping on the couch, Hamilton on his back and Gus curled up beside him. It was Christmas Day.

Drive, He Said

Common, ordinary activities and amenities are unique challenges when you live in Manhattan. Except for people with seven figure incomes. Space of course is one example. Buying groceries and taking in the dry cleaning can test your mettle. People compensate by sacrificing economy for convenience. Also, you can have anything delivered, for a price, at virtually any time. Perhaps the most difficult challenge is getting from one place to another, particularly if you need to transport someone other than yourself.

The subway works well when you are just trying to get yourself around from home to work or play. It works less well when you are trying to transport a child as well. It is nearly nonfunctional when you are trying to transport a pet. A small dog or cat can be placed in a carrier and lugged on board. A dog Hamilton's size, about 65 pounds, is not welcome. Hence the popularity of lap dogs in Manhattan. Resolving logistical lifestyle issues is one reason people decamp for Brooklyn or the suburbs.

Being a magnet for clever, imaginative people and others willing to spend their money in unconventional ways, Manhattan is an incubator for the entrepreneurial spirit. This spirit has brought us the pet cab. Tired of flagging down a cab only to be passed by when the driver suddenly discovers a hygiene issue that your dog offends not evident by the interior of the cab? Manhattan has the solution -- call for a pet cab. They'll pick up your dog and take him to the vet, groomer or play date. Some are licensed, some are not. None are cheap. I can take a cab to Kennedy airport and it will cost me no more than the fee for taking Hamilton Uptown to Chelsea, a three mile trip.

We had to get Hamilton to his puppy training in Chelsea. The classes were scheduled for
7 p.m.. I couldn't walk him there after work, not enough time. Flagging down a yellow cab was to unreliable. Driving myself a virtual impossibility -- parking being the one other normal aspect of life as endangered in Manhattan as an affordable apartment. And, of course, the subway was verboten.

Hamilton needed a driver. I was searching the yellow pages when a colleague at work volunteered a name. His dog had developed a serious condition and needed to be transported to the vet several times a week. My colleague had been referred to Issac by a friend as a reliable person. Isaac was taking him and his dog to the vet two and three times a week. It was getting quite expensive along with the vet bills. As the dog's condition deteriorated Isaac began to only charge my friend for a one way trip. Then he stopped charging him all together. Finally, my friend's dog passed away. He never forgot Issac's generosity.

Issac seemed a sound recommendation. I scheduled him for our first training class. He was late. Well, not really late, just later than I would have liked. I am an anal person obsessed with punctuality. Tell me to be somewhere at a specific time, I'll get there 15 minutes ahead of schedule and just wait until the agreed to time. My wife hated this quality of mine. If we had a date at 8 p.m. I'd be at her door at exactly 8 p.m. Her custom was to view scheduled times as starting points. An 8 p.m. date meant starting to get ready at that time for the reasonably expected time of 9 p.m. There is an obligatory one-hour minimum grace period to any time frame in her view.

Issac split the difference. His business required him to be punctual, but his nature lead him to just in time planning. A nagging in his brain reminded him at the last possible moment that he had to be someplace and hell bent he would get there, not being inconvenienced by a few nitpicking traffic laws.

He pulled up at the exact time of our appointment and tumbled out of his car shaking our hands with both of his. Hamilton immediately adored him. As was now his habit with any human he loved he got down on his belly and squirmed his rear end towards Issac raising it for his approval. Being around dogs all day, Issac knew how to respond, patting Hamilton's rump.

When Issac opened the front car door Hamilton, with his innocent puppy instincts, jumped right in only to come face-to-face with Guinness, Issac's Scottish Terrier. As we discovered, Guinness normally rode shotgun for Issac during his rounds, tolerating the other dogs as most were relegated to the back of the SUV. Unfortunately, Hamilton had jumped into the front seat. Guinness immediately corrected this transgression by snapping at Hamilton's nose. Sensing the need for discretion, Hamilton jumped into the back seat and barked at Guinness as if to say, "Don't blame me. He told me to jump in."

Issac apologized and we sorted ourselves out with Guinness in his usual seat and my wife, myself and Hamilton in the back. Having now lost ten minutes we had 20 minutes to get to Chelsea at end of rush hour, at best a half hour drive. We grossly under estimated Issac. Going as much horizontal across lanes as vertical up the streets he maneuvered uptown. We saved time by taking the traffic signals on an advisory basis, with yellow obviously meaning accelerate in Issac's interpretation of the rules of the road.

Hamilton adored being in a car so he was oblivious to the bumper car ride we were taking. My wife was not though, and she looked at me with a stare that I knew all too well. A long discussion would follow tonight. We made it to the New York Dog Spa and Hotel with five minutes to spare, surely a land speed record for Manhattan.

Altogether Hamilton went to twelve training sessions and Issac managed to get us to each in one piece. We did experience many firsts, even for long time cab-riding Manhattan residents like ourselves, that included transversing a sidewalk to get around a nuisance intersection backup. Issac drove with the confidence of someone who, from experience, trusted his instincts and reflexes. The car seemed to be an appendage of his body. Our worry was not to become a body part.

Hamilton never doubted for a minute. Each time he wriggled with glee when he spied Issac, jumped eagerly into the car, gave Guinness a brief look, and settled onto my wife's lap, head jutting out the window. Maybe it was the innocence of youth, but we were learning to trust Hamilton's instincts about people. If he would have Issac as his driver, what choice did we have?