Size Matters

I don’t have a clear idea of Bubbles’ size – a sense of just how large or small he actually is, how much room he will take up in my lap or on the seat beside me.  I’ve visited Bubbles’ web page a dozen times to study his three photos, but while they give me a clear idea of the colors and markings and texture of his coat — a black and brown saddle, white blaze, and a mostly white underside with some pale gray blotches – they don’t help me understand his size.

The first photo – his profile shot — shows the puppy from the front, walking toward the camera while distracted by something off to his right side.  The second photo shows him standing in profile, and in the third, a young child is cuddling Bubbles, squeezing him around his middle in an awkward way that reveals Bubbles’ pink, freckled belly.

Bubbles’ eyes are closed or at half-mast in each of the photos, and the child – whose head is cropped out of the shot — is the only element that offers a sense of scale.  But there’s no telling how old the child is, and he makes what’s supposed to be an eight-pound dog look much bigger.  I wish the child were holding a quarter or an iPhone or a yardstick — something that would establish the dog’s proportions.

Hmmm.  What else weighs eight pounds? I cast about for a point of comparison and picture a five-pound bag of sugar.  I imagine its heft, then, to make up the difference, I imagine adding three packages of bacon to a shopping bag with the sugar, then imagine holding it at arms’ length, mentally attempting a useless calculation that, at best, would only help me understand Bubbles’ weight – and… what it might be like to carry him in a shopping bag.  I think it’s a volume calculation that I’m after, which is beyond my mathematical abilities.

When I glance away from the photos on the screen my eye lands on a small plastic water bottle.  I reach for it – a 16.9 ounce AquaFina — and turn it on its side, picturing it with a head, tail, and legs.  The emerging image of an actual dog – a really small one – prompts an unsettling thought:  He’s going to need a coat.

I express this concern to my friend Julie, adding, “but I just don’t want Richard and I to become a cultural stereotype.”

“You already are a cultural stereotype,” she replies.

“No, I mean I don’t want us to be ‘the gay men with the small dog,’” I said, framing the phrase in air quotes.

“But you are the gay men with the small dog,” she says.

“Alright – but this dog isn’t going to be some pathetic stand-in for a missing child.  And you won’t see it at the end of my leash wearing a sweater or a raincoat.  He’ll wear a life-jacket in the kayak, maybe, but not a raincoat.”

A moment later I’m looking at Chihuahua coats on the Internet – pictures of tiny dogs wearing fleece hoodies and goggles, leather bomber jackets, Dalmation prints.  I take hold of myself and close that browser page then open a new one to order something I have no doubts about: an ID tag: nothing cute or clever  — no bright colors or bone shapes – just a plain, small, round, stainless tag with Bubbles’ name and phone number.

Bubbles doesn’t know it yet, but now he has a phone number.  And a home.

Photo: TheSterlingPet.com