"making out with you killed my dog"
She lived in some creepy, Truman-Show-esque, gated community, where all the houses looked the same, and where Stepford-Wives-looking characters walked their dogs in straight lines down perfect sidewalks past perfect lawns. She had an enormous house (paid for by her parents), a Mercedes-Benz (paid for by her parents), and a grand piano (paid for by her parents) at which she gave piano lessons to little Asian neighborhood kids.
These were some of the most promising weeks of my (romantic) life. Here was a beautiful, whip-smart girl who laughed at (and sometimes even made!) jokes about racism and pedophilia, who shared my epicurean streak, who liked the terrible 80s movies they show on cable, who was impressed that I could play Van Halen "Jump" on the piano, and who needed just about the same balance of "active time / passive time" as I did.
And then one weekend, her parents (who lived in Fullerton) were out of the country, and so she was taking care of her childhood dog, Candy. As soon as I got to Irvine, she told me that Candy was feeling sick, possibly on account of being away from home, and that we were going to spend the weekend at her parents' house instead.
So we did, and that night, when we were doing whatever it is that people do when they're dating, Candy kept scratching at the door.
"Quit it, Candy, you're cramping our style!" we'd yell, and then turn the radio a little louder and go back to what we were doing. The rest of the weekend went pretty well, and then Nancy Drew mysteriously stopped returning my phone calls and emails. The gate around the community made it impossible to just drop by, so I sat around, left messages, bit my nails, and worried.
Several days later, I finally got an email from her. Candy had died, and she (Nancy Drew) had been too beset with grief to communicate with the outside world. I thought about sending a "You froze Candy's head, right?" or "I wish I had a dead dog so I knew how you felt!" card, but opted instead just to offer my nurturing support.
The next day she found me on instant messenger:
nancydrew: you may not understand this but
nancydrew: a huge part of my guilt comes from that week my dog was scratching at our door
me: I do understand that
me: are you saying you blame me ?
nancydrew: no i blam myself
nancydrew: for not listening to her
nancydrew: and spending my time making out
nancydrew: so i can't do that anymore
me: do what anymore ?
nancydrew: make out
me: huh ?
nancydrew: i can't make out with you
nancydrew: it killed my dog
Sure, I'd had relationships go sour before, but never in such a spectacularly nonsensical way. And it's followed me around ever since. When I meet new people, my friends sidle over, give me a little wink, and ask snarkily, "Does she have a dog?" Then they look at whomever I'm talking to, point a finger at me, and blurt out, "He kills dogs, you know!"
"Making out with you killed my dog" has become this terrible (albeit pretty damn funny) albatross that I can't seem to get off my neck no matter what I do.
Anyway, here's the point of my story -- are there any intelligent, witty, evil, attractive girls out there who won't get angry if I'm partially responsible for their dog dying?