Jasper gets four walks a day. At 30 minutes each, he is on the road two hours daily, 14 hours per week, or 728 hours per year—equivalent to the month of April—with either Mike or me on the other end of the leash.
Given the math, it was odd that I would ask Mike to join us on one of my assigned walks that Sunday evening. But Mike’s mother had died the previous weekend and a code orange terror alert, warning financial institutions of an impending strike, had attracted swarms of cops to our United Nations neighborhood. We gravitated toward the security that only our little pack, in its completeness of three, could provide.
Neither of us was alarmed when a young man with tattoos and a shaved head sliced his way through a group of tourists in pursuit of Jasper, because Jasper, after all, is an 18-pound hottie.
Those who remember the “Thin Man” series call him Asta. In my opinion, Jasper, with his intense dark eyes, more sharply resembles a cleaned-up Colin Farrell. Reason enough, I figure, not to have argued with a woman who recently insisted that he looked just like me.
“Don’t tell me,” the hipster said. “That’s a Lakeland Terrier.”
I grinned, unimpressed.
“I had one once,” he said.
I dropped my guard. The odds of meeting someone with actual Lakeland experience are slim, like discovering a WMD in Times Square. I hope.
“They’re impossible to find. Where did you get him?” he asked.
Mike did, indeed, find Jasper. I had been the holdout. Since I grew up on a farm, the combination of “city” and “dog” made no sense to me. Mike, on the other hand,
is from Manhattan, the land of leash laws, doggie day care centers and sit-down “bark” mitzvahs.
“Pennsylvania?” the hipster said. “I had a Lakeland from Pennsylvania.”
“We got him from this guy who breeds, of all things, Lakeland Terriers and Great Danes,”Mike said.“His name is M. J.…”
“…Cohen,” the hipster completed.
“I got a puppy a couple of years ago from him. Weird, huh?”
We nodded. Weird.
“Had to give him up though,” he shrugged, “for work.”
The only way I could imagine giving up Jasper would be in a Sophie’s Choice moment of desperation. When Mike returned from his mother’s side for the last time a week earlier and collapsed, exhausted by the weight of her illness, Jasper, in an atypically affectionate move, jumped squarely upon his chest and began to lick his face. Proving that dogs often know what to do when people do not.
The hipster bent down to Jasper, but his girlfriend remained standing. She studied Jasper, carefully.
And then I did the math.
The hipster said that he got a puppy two years ago. Mike and I got Jasper one year ago…shortly after his first birthday. My ears buzzed, but not from the hovering helicopters. How had threats of terror, about which I could do nothing, blinded me to the clear and present danger crouched before me on the street, intimately caressing my dog’s ears?
I considered the options. I could: (1) remain silent and pray to be wrong; (2) make a preemptive strike, grab Jasper and run; or, (3) blow our cover.
“I think this little guy was yours,” I said, blowing our cover.
“You still call him Jasper?” the hipster asked.
I wondered if option two was still available.
“Well, of course,”Mike said.“He’ll always be Jasper. We could never change that.”
The hipster’s girlfriend looked nervously from the hipster to Mike. “This is weird,” she repeated. “He looks so different. I didn’t recognize him at first.”
Define “so different,” I thought, giving her the look.
The breeder had said that Jasper’s original owner was a photographer who had lived in New York before taking an assignment abroad.
“Oh, little buddy,” the hipster said. Jasper wagged his tail.Now I gave Jasper the look.
Mike and I had often imagined a version of this scene—the “deranged-birthfather- who-stalks-us-for-months-before- eventually-abducting-Jasper” scenario—in vivid, apocalyptic detail. Looking down upon the two of them, however, the hipster did not appear to be a dognapper.
Which could also mean that he was a very clever dognapper.