Last night, the light turned and I let my dog bolt off the curb and across the street. At the opposite side, a man bent down to pet her, doing a kind of tchdoo tchdoo tchdoo sound that is common among people fawning over dogs. I let him, because I tend toward friendliness at weird times, and because I’m flattered when people love my dog.
What’s her name? he said.
Yacha. I explained the origin of the name, which is Mandarin, which interests no one ever, busy as they are in being disappointed in us for not naming her Penny or Dixie.
Keeping Yacha in my lap in the dog run to protect her from this, which was rampant:
Bonus shot: The post-dog run fist bump…
(photos courtesy of Merna)
Lena Dunham Stole My Dog, Career
During our search for a rescue-able, grey, scraggly, 10-pound dog in January, S. Jam Fitzgerald and I stopped by the BARC Shelter in Williamsburg one evening. We visited a dog named Velvet, who was awesome but ultimately five pounds too big (she found a home, don’t worry, we checked on that). When I described exactly what we were looking for to the guy running the show at BARC, he said, “Lena Dunham just went home with your dog yesterday.” Then he told us she might be bringing it back because of an allergy situation. She didn’t.
Yacha: Still a Girl, No Longer a Woman
This morning we picked all seven pounds of our Yacha up from the animal hospital, minus her lady parts. She was terrified and groggy and her face was oily and she wore a lampshade around her neck. It was the saddest sight I’ve ever seen, aside from that sight yesterday when I dropped her off and the surgical assistant carried her off to the back rooms of the animal hospital, Yacha wearing a look on her face that said, I am brave but also scared, and me, who would have been far less sad about it if she had only been scared.