Mission: Impawssible

In the 2000 comedy Meet the Parents, Robert De Niro’s character Jack Byrnes delivers arguably the most compelling Cat Person defense since the emergence of domesticated pets.

“Cats make you work for their affection,” Byrnes declared to a visibly damp Greg Focker, played by Ben Stiller. “They don’t sell out like dogs do.”

I think about this often.

The idea that nothing of profound value comes in the form of instant gratification is a theme that continues to confirm itself throughout life. If da Vinci hadn’t spent seven years agonizing over a painting, Mona Lisa’s first introduction to the world may have been by way of a mildly-creative adult film star. Running is awful, but only up until the point one finishes a marathon. Puzzles exist.

Buying into this perspective is the only way I’ve found peace with my step-dog Byron rejecting my very existence for the first eight months I began dating his mother, Aneli.

Maybe it was because we were both vying for Aneli’s heart and technically, he had seniority. Maybe it was the flatulence I blamed on him when my now-wife and I were still denying the existence of bodily functions. Maybe he considered me fling-worthy, unsustainable, disposable.

Whatever the gripe, it was monumental. A grudge not rooted in hate, but something far more insidious—apathy.

Day after day, week after week, the moment the bite-sized terrier heard my voice, he scurried under the bed for hours on end, only making his presence known with an occasional growl or indoor protest pee.

Turns out, there’s only so much urination one woman can clean before she begins reevaluating the upside.

What started as an amusing standoff between Man and Dog devolved into a full-blown character colonoscopy---Could Aneli truly accept a man who’s so entirely loathed by the most important figure in her life? What did Byron know that she didn’t? Had he somehow caught wind of my checkered history with pet goldfish or my middling credit score? The lingering questions sat heavy on our collective hearts, and ultimately manifested in bickering arguments about nothing.

One night, after a particularly contentious battle over the size and buoyancy of driftwood in The Titanic, I made myself a promise: I was going to make this dog love me even if I had to bathe in Cheez Whiz and legally change my name to Kong. It was, after all, the only antidote against dying alone.

From then on, every time I showed up to Aneli’s Brooklyn apartment, I came correct---a bully stick for the pup, truffles from Milk Bar for mom. I engaged in long-winded, totally one-sided conversations with Byron while he begrudgingly gnawed on the olive branch from his enemy. I constantly attempted to lure him from his lair with belly scratches and impromptu walks.

Still, nothing.

Aneli registered the effort, maybe even appreciated it, but for as long as her first love treated me like an electric fence, I’d never truly escape the doghouse.

Then February 21, 2018 happened.

In the off chance any New Yorkers bothered remembering this day in the doldrums of winter, it’s likely because the high temperature soared to a balmy 78, breaking the previous record by 10 full degrees.

But to me, 2/21/18 was far less about the evaporating ozone than it was about something more existentially pressing: my evaporating love life.

In what felt like a last-ditch bonding effort, Aneli planned a Date Night for the three of us at Lucky Dog, a pet-friendly neighborhood bar we frequented. Lucky Dog dates were particularly soul-shattering in that I’d be forced to witness Byron lay at the feet of drunk strangers while I lied through my teeth about his lovability.

We received no less than six offers to adopt the performative puppy before the attention grew exhausting and Aneli opted to park him on her lap, within inches of the man he’d been ignoring for a near calendar year.

I was in no mood to beg for Byron’s acceptance. Hours before, after four interviews, I was turned down for a job I deluded myself into believing I was overqualified for.

Embarrassed and despondent, I dropped the veil of composure and began rambling to Aneli about my lack of professional purpose, missed financial goals, deteriorating self-image, receding hairline, you name it.

I was unhinged, using the little emotional bandwidth I had left to fight off the warm wave engulfing the back of my eyeballs.

Then, right as Aneli reached for the Kleenex in her purse, impossible happened.

Byron reached his tiny white paw over and placed it directly on my hand in a gesture that could only be interpreted as an act of compassion and companionship. He looked me in the eyes for the very first time in 240 days and I hadn’t felt that level of dignity since my father told me he was proud of me that one time in 2009.

Aneli not only snapped a photo of the heartfelt embrace, but referenced the exchange on that balmy day in February in her wedding vows as the moment I went from Boyfriend to Prospective Husband.

In the five years since that fateful day, Byron and I have been as close as Man and Dog can be. Inseparable. A true bromance.

I often contemplate my profound relationship with Byron as it relates to De Niro’s words about the value of labor in love, and I’d pose only one question to those struggling to connect in any relationship, canine or otherwise:

Have you tried hating each other first?