Wall Street collapsed this fall. The whys were discussed by countless TV analysts. None of them seemed to make any sense of the collapse and the government appeared out of touch with the economic disaster. The catastrophe had no effect on me. I was broke, despite having lived the past three months in Palm Beach, so I couldn't have been happier to have been invited by my doctor to join him for dinner at the Strip House on East 13th Street. A pharmaceutical company was picking up the tab.
"Just bring a good appetite." My doctor suggested and I always follow his instructions on matters of health. "Be on time too."
I arrived three minutes before the appointed time and was led into the red-lit restaurant by an attractive hostess. My doctor introduced the two reps. They were in suits. I guessed their age to be 30. Both enjoyed selling their production. The medicine was aimed at reducing cholesterol in men. The tables in the restaurant were swelling with meat-hungry men. Most looked to be perfect candidates for this drug.
"A steak house is a funny place to promote that." My LDL (Bad) Cholesterol Level was 110 according to my last check-up. I could eat anything.
"I play hockey three times a week," boasted the younger rep. Jim was from New Hampshire. He was in better shape than I had ever been in my life. "I ran a marathon last month. I eat what I want."
"I'm not so lucky." His partner was drinking Diet-Coke. Mike's LDL was in the 200s. He ordered the 12 oz. shell steak. "I'm trying to cut down, but I suggest the 23 oz. rib eye."
It was a giant slab of meat. Mine was medium raw.
"What about when you visit Dr. Martini?" My doctor had been in practice with this GP.
"Damn, he eats like the world is going to end tomorrow." Jim described the portly doctor scarfing down two steaks, a plate of clams, three bottles of wine, dessert, and several gin and tonics. "And then we went back to work."
"It's a good thing he was operating heavy machinery." My doctor joked, but barely touched his wine throughout the meal. In his mind if they talked about Dr. Martini, then they would talk about him. My doctor maneuvered the conversation away from doctors and medicine to sports, then family, and finally my housesitting in Palm Beach. "He was staying in a mansion on the beach."
"It was a modest mansion and I had to take care of a crazy Airedale." Pom-Pom had been rescued from a crack house. It took the better part of two months to teach her how not to attack me. "Afterward she wanted to sleep in my bed. It was a good thing she as spaded."
"I would have thought you found an old heiress." My doctor had held high hopes for my marrying a billionairess with an open heart.
"Nope, only a crazy dog.'
"Well, a dog is the only animal that loves you more than it loves itself." Jim was finishing his steak. I had barely consumed half and signaled the waiter for a doggie bag. None of the other diners seemed to be having trouble with their meals.
"I wasn't so sure about Pom-Pom. She was a little vicious." Actually Pom-Pom was on probation by the Palm Beach Police. "She had attacked two dogs in the last year. Her owner was scared she would be put down. I was lucky nothing bad happened."
"You were lucky, but not so my old girlfriend." Jim waved for the dessert menu. "She was up in Arlington, Mass. on the Green Line."
Being a Boston native I was familiar with that trolley line.
"My girlfriend was asked to take care of this old Lab. The family was going to Italy. They didn't want to put her in a kennel. My girlfriend thought it would be easy and it was for the first week, then one morning she comes in the house and the dog is lying on the floor. It isn't moving. It's dead."
"Bad dog." His partner had heard the story before but obviously enjoyed every re-telling.
"My girlfriend calls the family a little freaked out, except they're cool with it. The dog was old. They tell her to call the vet and he'll take care of the body. The vet is two stops away on the trolley. The Lab weighs about 80 lbs., so she puts the body in a luggage bag, you know, the kind with wheels. She rolls the bag out of the house and struggle down the street to the station. A young man helps her up the stairs and onto the trolley. When she gets off, he says he'll help her. She thanks him for his effort and once they get of the main street, he says that the bag is really heavy and asks what's in it. My girlfriend doesn't want to say a dead dog, so she tells him its computer equipment. The good Samaritan punches her once and runs away with the bag. When she comes to, he's gone. Good-bye, dog.
"That's a horrible story." My doctor had a Lab.
"And I wish it had a good ending." Jim had told this story countless times without ever fabricating a punchline. "She was even more freaked out about the dead dog being stolen than it being dead."
"What about the family?"
"The vet gave them ashes from a pit bull. They buried it in the backyard. My girlfriend thought she should tell them the truth. I stopped going out with her before I found out what happened in the end."
"She probably told them." Most people can't keep their mouths shut and I ordered a 12 year-old port. It was delicious and the next morning I ate the rest of the rib eye for breakfast ever so glad I didn't have to share it with Pom-Pom. She was living in Palm Beach and dogs down there don't have to worry about the collapse of the world economic institutions. In fact no dogs do, especially dead ones.
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