I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship Read Free

in Private Benjamin the first time she saw Goldie Hawn in the army.
    â€œGo on! Tell the class!” she said and motioned with her tree limb.
    I turned to face roughly twenty other dog owners, all sucking down lattes in North Face jackets, and their puppies, outfitted in bright bandanas and expensive collars.
    â€œWell, it’s sort of a special lexicon that we’ve taught Marge.” I smiled creepily, as if I were standing in front of the judges in my Wow Wear performing my “Sassy Walk.” I smiled prettily, hoping these well-bred, by-the-book owners and pets might just suddenly forget what was happening.
    â€œGo on!” barked the trainer.
    And then, for the first time, just like she had hoped, I realized I had to explain this insanity to the world, retract the curtain and let everyone see that the wizard was actually Joaquin Phoenix, a mass of quirks and instability.
    â€œEnlighten us!” Xena growled again, a mortified Hans seeming to smile at someone else’s predicament.
    So, I raised my voice roughly four octaves, and said as rationally as I could in my Alvin and the Chipmunks falsetto, “Margie! Itty-bitty-boo!”
    The yuppie crowd doubled over in laughter, and applauded, like they were watching a seal perch a striped beach ball on its nose. But, above the din, our mutt, Marge—our little rescue Heinz 57, who fit in with these purebreds as much as me and Gary—did as instructed: She sat on my command.
    â€œ ‘Itty-bitty-boo’ means ‘sit’?” the trainer bellowed.
    â€œYes!” I said in my falsetto, before correcting myself. “Yes!”
    â€œAnd how, pray tell, would you say ‘Come!’?” Xena asked.
    â€œDum-diddle-dum-dum, Margie!” I chimed.
    And our reddish puppy—her giant paws still too big for her burgeoning frame—rushed over to me, dragging her leash.
    It was then that the crowd took on a different emotion, a mix of enchantment and disbelief, like fanatics do when they discover the image of Jesus in a Pringle.
    â€œEnough!” the trainer yelled. “You have spoiled your dog. She will learn the commands as taught— the normal way —like the rest of us. Everyone here speaks the same language. Marge, sit!”
    Marge looked up at the trainer and barked.
    â€œMarge, sit!”
    Marge looked over at me and barked.
    â€œMarge, sit!”
    And, with that, Xena walked over, bent to the floor, and forced Marge to the ground, yelling, “Sit! Marge, sit!”
    Marge battled her every inch of the way, finally succumbing with a sad yelp.
    â€œShe only understands simple, direct commands in a forceful tone,” the trainer barked at me. “Have a backbone. You must be the leader of the pack. She doesn’t understand you. Say a simple, direct command in a forceful tone.”
    â€œYou’re a Nazi bitch!” Gary suddenly said.
    Cue crickets: Everyone stopped breathing, even the energetic puppies.
    That command, it seemed, everyone understood.
    â€œLet’s go, Wade,” Gary yelled. “Marge! Dum-diddle-dum-dum !”
    And, with that, our wacky little family left class.
    On the drive home, as I nuzzled my mutt with the soulful brown eyes, thick auburn fur, a white stripe going up her nose like a highway divider, and the fuzziest ears I’d ever felt, I seriously wondered if we had jacked her up right out of the gate, if she would be a rotten baby, churlish teenager, spoiled, selfish adult.
    Gary caught the look on my face, and said, “No one there spoke our language, Wade,” before inserting a CD of the musical Chicago , which he knew would make me smile. As we sang the lyrics to “All That Jazz”—“I’m gonna rouge my knees/And roll my stockings down”— Bam! Bam! —I began to think of the opening scene in Terms of Endearment , where a baby Debra Winger is sleeping soundly, and momma Shirley MacLaine isn’t satisfied