Recently, my wife got laid off from her job. To comfort her, Archie has been staying home a lot more and skipping out on coming to the office with me. This has led to a dichotomy in Archie’s little life.

His days at the office are full of structure. His days at home are completely random.

A typical Archie day at the office goes something like this:

• 8:45 – 9:00am: Arrive at office, roll around on carpet scratching back, furiously chase ball up and down halls, greet (and sniff) arriving staff, drink some water, get a treat and settle down.
• 11:00 – 11:15am: Quick tour of office to greet (and sniff) late-comers, find sunny spot in conference room, rest in sun for a bit and then back to work.
• 1:00 – 1:30pm: Recess! Head outside to dog run in park for some off leash, butt-sniffing, ball chasing fun! Plus a daily attempt to try to drag me to Petco.
• 3:00 – 3:15pm: Play time! Furiously chase ball up and down halls; tease staff with ball and try to lure them into chasing him, get another treat before napping (again).
• 6:00pm: Quitting time. A good walk on the way home (weather permitting).

Naturally, there also unscheduled visits from staff members to pet him along with various attempts by him to tackle staff as they walk by.

At home, there is no typical day for Archie. One day it’s furniture shopping in Greenwich Village with the wife (Archie’s been testing out couches), the next day it’s an all day nap-a-thon at home. Some days it’s a free for all at the dog run near the house, other days it’s obedience training (and stick chewing) in the backyard. No rhyme, no reason, no structure. Just free and easy.

To wit, I came home the other day to find a strange sight. My wife had taken Archie shopping for the day which included a stop a new local pet store (naturally).

Archie was wearing a new Philadelphia Eagles football jersey (home white, number double zero). He looked good and not too grumpy about wearing it (which is saying a lot for him).

As I admired Archie in his new outfit, I noticed something else – he smelled. In fact, he reeked. And not in a stinky dog kind of way. Not in a “I just rolled in horse manure” kind of way. Not in a “I just ate my own vomit” kind of way either.

It was so strange a smell that it took me a minute to process it. In fact, it wasn’t the smell itself, but the fact that it was coming from Archie.

Archie smelled like he was heading out to a nightclub for the evening to pick up ladies. As my wife laughed, she told me that the pet store had a sample of a new dog cologne called (of course) Sexy Beast. She had lathered Archie up with the stuff and now, well, he stank. Bad. From a distance.

And then I realized that I was having a flash back to hanging around South Philadelphia in the 1980’s. Here was Archie wearing an Eagles jersey and doused in way, way too much cologne. Archie resembled, in fact, a guido. It was truly the last thing I could have imagined when I arrived home.

The cologne was so strong that after removing the jersey and petting him, the cologne actually came off on your hands. This called for an immediate intervention via some water and a towel.

So there you have it: a day of structure at the office versus a day of…well, I guess shopping and urban parody?

This is the dichotomy Archie now faces.

It always happens just when I’m feeling most insecure about carrying a dog in a sling over my shoulder through the NYC subway system. Just when I’m pushing my way down the stairs against traffic and the eyes of annoyed passengers are daggers full of scorn and judgment. Just when I’ve found myself at a loss for words to describe (explain? rationalize?) to a dear friend why I won’t leave him in the car.

And it happened again this morning.

We get on the parked Q train at 57th and before we can sit down on the empty train a woman calls out to me. She has stopped on her way out of the station. She has separated from the leaving herd and come over to us.

And she tells me that she was having a really bad morning until she saw Archie.

Naturally, I bring him over and he (despite the panting) is happy to be petted. She tells us she’s a photographer and that she was having a really, really bad morning (which is saying something for 8:00am) until she saw us coming down the stairs.

She thanks us, though we did nothing, and leaves with a big smile to go about her day.

She feels better. I feel better. Archie strikes again.

One of the responses I get from people on the subway when they see Archie is some version of “I wish I could be carried like that.”

Now, maybe its a sign of the growing waistline of America and maybe it’s just me, but I’ve never really wanted to be carried around or thought of that as pleasurable.

The litter, palanquin or sedan chair does have a long history around the world, but has mostly been reserved for royalty. And while Archie may disagree, he is decidedly not royal in any sense of the word. The sounds (and smells) he makes are an example of his pedestrian roots.

Does this kind of comment arise from the fact that my fellow commuters are just plain exhausted? Possibly. Archie and I make regular subway runs during rush hour when folks are just waking up or burn out from the work day.

Or is it some fantasy of being royalty? The illusion of being carried through the masses, held aloft, praised (and despised) but always above the fray, above the dirt, off the ground as if flying.

It is certainly not my favorite thing to do — to carry Archie. I think it’s safe to say it isn’t his favorite thing either. He’s too stubborn and proud to enjoy being carried. We’d both be happier if the MTA just gave in and allowed dogs. Anyone who has been a keen observer of the clientele of the MTA subway system quickly realizes that dogs would in no way contribute to the decline of the system or reduce the overall level of humanity.

Really.

I saw a man push a woman out of the way on the stairs the other day and then they got into a shouting match about it.

A walking Archie may actually improve the level of discourse on the subway.

But I digress. The real issue, one I cannot understand, is the desire to be carried. The wish for some sort of relaxation or dislike of walking. A wish that I, as someone who loves walking, who loves having his boots on the ground, never really considered.

Perhaps it’s connected to flying. The dream of flight. This dream is somewhat universal as I understand it so combined with exhaustion it could explain the desire to be carried through life.

I guess the main thing that I find weird is something more personal. The idea that by carrying Archie, I’m pampering him. And then by extension, I’m the type of person who pampers their pet. When in fact, I’m just adhering to the rules of subway (barely).

And sure, Archie is spoiled in many regards, but being carried is certainly not on the list.

I think, for me, it’s the snap judgment about me as a person based on the dog. I’m sure this happens all the time for a variety of reasons, but this particular judgment, this particular perception seems to rub me the wrong way.

Stupid humans don’t seem to understand that if I don’t get a solid 16 hours of sleep every day, I’m an absolute wreck.

How can I be expected to maintain my good looks with a measly 12 hours of sleep? Not to mention all the ball chasing.

It’s preposterous.

–Archer

Despite all the hours of training, all the treats and all the affection, Archie has turned to a life of crime.

In a sad turn of events yesterday, Archie was busted in Central Park by the Park Enforcement Patrol (PEP) for being in an area where he was not allowed.

And despite the fact that I was holding the other end of his leash, I’m taking no responsibility for his illegal behavior.

As it was a mid-week holiday, we decided to meet some friends for a picnic in the park. Not knowing exactly where we would end up dropping the blanket, my wife inadvertently jinxed us by saying, “It would be just our luck — we’ll get a ticket for the dog.”

At the time, I agreed with the humorous statement. Ha ha ha!

Naturally, our friends wandered right out into Sheep’s Meadow and I stopped at the gate. Sure enough, right there on the sign was the old, “No Dogs Allowed” line.

Did we blatantly ignore the sign? Well, not quite at that moment.

We decided to go find another spot close by that was dog friendly. As we walked about 100 yards away, one of our friends (who shall remain nameless — but who infamously ordered the Jewish Nachos which hurt my stomach) called us and said that there were tons of dogs running around the meadow.

Well, if everyone’s doing it, naturally, we should too. I mean, what are the odds that they’re going to pick us out of the crowd of thousands?

Turns out the odds are very good.

After eating, drinking, talking and playing for about an hour, up roll two PEP officers.

Now, mind you, we’ve been watching people walk their dogs on and off the leash all over the meadow. Archie has remained safely on his leash the entire time and often perched in my lap (mostly to help control his “must destroy Frisbee” mania).

But oh no…Archie is the problem in the meadow. He’s the troublemaker. He’s the bad dog.

The PEP officers inform me that dogs are not allowed and attempt to gather more information from me. In my usual fashion, I play dumb and friendly. Given the crowd we were hanging with — let alone the wife — I’m quite sure that someone else will play the role of smartass and start wise-cracking to the officers.

No, they can’t give us a warning. Yes, if we don’t leave with the dog, they will come back and give us another ticket, etc.

To her credit, the wife does not get up and intervene, but merely tosses snide comments at the PEP officers from the peanut gallery. This prevents jail time for all of us.

The officers tell me that dogs peeing on the grass is a health issue in the meadow as lots of people like to lay in the grass. (Apparently, human urine (i.e., homeless) is not a health issue.)

It is at this moment that I look down and find Archie, in his best “stick it to the man” behavior, peeing on the grass. In fact, he is almost peeing on the leg of one of the officers.

I started covertly tugging on the leash in a futile attempt to stop him, but being a stubborn SOB he just finishes. For all I knew, I was about to get a second ticket for his public urination.

While this is all happening, I looked out across the meadow and watched the other dog owners pack up there picnics and run away. Cowards! Thanks for the support losers!

And so we end up leaving with Archie and a $50 ticket. He’s a criminal. I guess I could actual attend the court hearing and protest his innocence, but I’ve got better things to do (no, really, I do).

Personally, I like to think Archie took one for the team and prevented the entire group from getting individual tickets for public drinking which — as the nice PEP officer pointed out — is also illegal.

The vast majority of cubicle-sized apartments in NYC are blessed (and cursed) with hard wood floors.

In many of the cities I have lived in, this is a very valuable attribute in an apartment. It’s a sign of prestige and something to be proud of, something to brag about, something to show off.

Archie does not agree.

And he’s winning me over to his side.

(Not that I ever had enough prestige in my wallet to afford hard wood floors before I moved to NYC. And even the fact that we have hard wood floors now is a fluke.)

While hard wood floors are great for cleaning up dog puke, they tend to collect fur into large tumbleweeds which wander around looking for trouble. Couple that with a down filled couch and large masses of feathers and fur appear under our furniture. Guests think we leave dead birds just lying about. (We don’t. We eat dead birds. Especially ducks.)

And no amount of sweeping will ever keep pace with a shedding Archie/feather couch combo.

Having spent his young life amidst this chaos on the floor (often of his own creation) and being quite lazy, Archie runs into a problem I have experienced in the past.

Hard wood floors are just not that inviting when one wants to lie down and stretch out. And if one has an itch on one’s back, the problem is compounded.

Which means that when Archie gets to work, a place filled with nice scratchy carpet, one of his favorite activities is to roll around on the carpet. I like to call this behavior “turtling” as his legs flail around wildly, but it has been compared to a seizure of some sort (which it is not).

As you watch these videos, bear in mind that Archie does this of his own accord with no training (ha!), prompting or even any recognition by us at all.

Freak.

Why in the hell do humans find the need to anthropomorphize animals? More specifically, why did they put me in this stupid costume?

Naturally, I took it out on them by being a right bastard all day yesterday and crapping on the floor this morning. Take that, beeyotch! I’m the alpha dog now!

–Archie