Our Thanksgiving dinner was a small disaster, thanks to Howard. He has generally become terrible whenever anyone comes over, but last night he reached a new level of annoyingness, perhaps because the steroid he's taking for an inflamed rash on his chin is making him a bit aggressive. I used to think of him as comparable to a toddler, but I now realize that he's different in at least one respect: When I'm walking him and he has a meltdown, barking madly at anyone and everyone, including inanimate objects, and I yell, "Get a grip, you little shit!"—well, you can't really do that with a child, not in Tribeca anyway.
In the apartment, we've had some success discouraging him from barking by shooting him with a water pistol, purchased for that very purpose. Last night, however, the technique wasn't working as well as it had in the past. I was getting frustrated with the gun, which wasn't drawing water, when one of our guests, Mike, recalled from childhood how sometimes you have to suck the business end of the gun while you squeeze the trigger, as if you're siphoning gas. This was news to me, but I was willing to give it a try. As I put the pistol to my lips, however, I just couldn't do it, especially not in front of everyone; it felt transgressive, dangerous, a little dirty. So I went into the other room, while Mike's girlfriend, Tonya, announced, "We know what you're doing!" The pump drew water, but the gun failed to deter Howard from going apeshit.
I shall forever remember yesterday as the Thanksgiving when I "ate the gun."
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