Neighbors

About five months ago I met a puppy when he was four weeks old. I’d been looking for a dog as a help for a little bent I have toward depression and anxiety, but the shelters were a challenge with COVID, and the rescues were as well. A friend had just had a litter of golden doodles, and though they were all spoken for I could come meet them to see how I felt about being around puppies. I’d had a suspicion I was a dog person, as on hikes during the pandemic I would coo at every dog I saw, until a friend said, “Do you maybe want a dog?” She put a puppy into my arms, saying, “I think this one is Seamus.” They whole litter of five males had Irish names, having been born March 19th, in proximity to St. Patrick’s Day. He fell asleep in my arms and stayed next to me for a couple of hours. When she said she was wrong, they weren’t all spoken for, I was done for. I mean, he literally fell into my arms, right? It turns out he was Conor McGregor, but that wouldn’t work. Seamus he was and Seamus he would be, right down to his red eyelashes.

He came home with me on May 18th. To say it’s been a period of a adjustment is an understatement. Though he is the sweetest of puppies, I’ve questioned my choice at times, while my heart has expanded and he’s compiled an untold number of nicknames. A dog changes your routine, forces you out of what you’re comfortable with, even in your own house. In four months he’s tripled in size, from eighteen pounds to sixty. So many things have had to change. But one of the most unexpected changes about having a dog is neighbors. I’ve lived in my neighborhood since 2004, but never knew my neighbors. Now I know a good number of them, since I meet their dogs or pass their places on a daily basis.

This morning I walked by an older woman raking leaves in her yard. She called out to my dog, and I brought him over. He’s a big, furry beast who resembles a muppet and loves people, so it’s not unusual for people to say hello. She told me about her King Charles spaniel who they had to put down recently because of heart troubles, and gave Seamus a couple of treats. The dog before that had died of a heart attack, which was a blessing as they didn’t have to put him down. Her son works for the dog treat company, and she showed me the label. Seamus was very happy about them, he could not sit still. Originally she and her husband were from Costa Rica, and two of the trees in the front yard came from there as well. She asked where I lived, and I mentioned how much the neighborhood had changed in the time I’ve been here. She told me they bought their house in 1975, when her second son was little. I would have been seven. I didn’t want to know what they paid, she said, which is probably true. Even then it was expensive to them, and they couldn’t afford furniture. But you build it one piece at a time, she said. She asked what my rent was, which still feels like a New York question, and told me that Leonardo DiCaprio’s father used to live in the turquoise house next door. These small houses built in the forties and fifties used to go for eighty to one hundred thousand dollars as recently as thirty years ago, and now they sell for over one million. The neighborhood has gone from working class to hipsters. In the last few years Teslas, BMWs and Mercedes have started showing up on the street. When I first moved here someone was shot in a gang shooting outside my window.

Dog habits, change in the neighborhood, and the cost of houses are usually the focus of conversations. Sometimes the weather.

On the way home I passed a little wooden book exchange and picked up a book about William James and the Victorian’s search for life after death. They built large houses, and then haunted them.

Down the street Seamus stops to say hello to Mae, a woman perpetually gardening in her large hat. When we met she asked how long I’ve lived in the neighborhood. I told her seventeen years. She said she’d never seen me. She wouldn’t have. There was no reason to walk around the neighborhood or know the neighbors. I got in my car and left. Now I pass her garden with its hanging disco ball, various ceramic structures and tangles of vines I can’t name. She always has a project going. Her husband wears jogging tights and walks their very tiny dog. He is all eyeballs as he looks at my miniature colt, who always wants to play. I would look just as suspiciously if a large furry creature the size of a house looked down at me and wanted to wrestle.

We ran into Felix, a small maltese poodle mix who loves to wrestle with Seamus, even though he’s a quarter of the size. Karen, his owner, used to live in New York, which we found out when we converged on a street corner one evening with a couple walking their older pit, Belly. All of us had lived in New York. As Belly warned Seamus off of mounting her with a firm growl, we figured out that we had all lived in Brooklyn at one time or another. As I’d been in New York first in 1989, I felt like the elder statesman. Belly’s parents had been in Bushwick, Karen in Williamsburg, me in Cobble Hill, and then Washington Heights. We talked about how much the neighborhoods had changed, and how expensive things were now. New York is never the same city.

On walks, I see the dachshund who can’t play because of back problems; the large golden doodle who has anxiety around dogs because of the pandemic; the three-legged bulldog whose mother tells him “cuidado” as he tries to play with Seamus. There is the disconcerting tiny poodle who screams like a human baby, is slightly blind, and once tried to charge Seamus and ran into a tree instead. There is Logan, a tiny dog who always wants to play but gets overwhelmed. His owner is very friendly and always wears a mask. There is a woman with five barking malti-poos who she couldn’t give up when they were born so she kept the whole family. There is a couple with a husky who recommended Seamus’ preferred dog park. There are the barking chihuahuas next door, who go off every time something moves, like a broken fire alarm. There is the guy down the street who told me how my dog would be when he was 8 weeks old, how difficult he’d be to manage, since his dog is part golden. His dog barks constantly and lunges at other dogs. My dog is nothing like his dog. You take what people tell you with a grain of salt. People have advice.

The neighbors in my building come out to pet Seamus, to say hello. I know what they do for a living. We even had a barbecue. We talk about rents, the neighborhood. We recommend restaurants. One of my neighbors is from Brooklyn, and tells me hip spots I never go to, including a great local Mexican place up the street where I’d never been just because I’d never walked in that direction. Now I do. They have Jamaica, a drink made from hibiscus tea, which is a deep burgundy color and as satisfying as Kool-Aid used to be when I was a kid. Another neighbor grew up in South Central LA, and has great stories about growing up here. Los Angeles is like a different city now. I saw his door open the other morning after he left, and asked the landlord to text him to make sure it was intentional. I’ve left my door open unintentionally and was shocked to come home to discover it, even though everything was fine. We all keep an eye out.

Seamus needs to walk a few times a day. It’s part of the routine. I nod to other dog owners if we don’t meet. Not all are friendly, though most are. Most realize that this animal pushes you to be a little more neighborly, a little more aware of your own habitat. A little more open, expansive. Dig different paths. Change.