El Sid

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Sid and his 'lady partner' Esmeralda sit opposite me in the Santa Monica Barney's Beanery. They are huddled unnecessarily close to each other, their heads pressed together so as to be tilted in the manner of curious pigeons.

While separately neither is entirely repellent, their combined effect as a couple in love is somehow entirely disagreeable – repulsive even. The concept of a contented, fulfilled Sid – even in just one aspect of his life – seems entirely unnatural. In a bar such as this, it always seemed to suit him to be peering out from behind a large drink at the waitresses with a frustrated, desperate longing that bordered on anger. This afternoon he has barely acknowledged the slim, sparsely-attired work of natural art that brought him his one beer and salad. It has been left to me to drink recklessly and ogle the staff, a job that, if it is to be done adequately, needs at least two people.

“Is it gay to pet a male dog?” Sid decides to ask.

He and Esmeralda have been droning on endlessly about their new 'baby', a two year-old French Boxer they rescued from Battersea Dogs Home. Due to mistreatment and neglect by his previous owner, Buster has severe abandonment issues. Sid has put him in a Dagenham kennel for the duration of their three week US holiday.

He glances from me to Esmeralda, although as he doesn't move his head away from hers, even with his eyes strained so far to the side that half of his pupils disappear behind his skull, he can surely see no more of her face than a blurry white smudge.

Esmeralda gives his question serious thought. “I don't think so...” she says after a while. “Do you think so?”

“I hope not,” Sid says. “But, y'know, it might be. I wouldn't touch a man that way. So why a dog?”

“Oh,” Esmeralda says. “I've never thought about it. Maybe I shouldn't be touching girl dogs then.”

“I'm talking about when you really get into the petting. Rolling around on the floor with them and rubbing their bellies.”

They both look at me for a response, as though there is anything reasonable one could add to this conversation. But I am forced to try.

“It's only gay if you're experiencing some sexual thrill from the experience. And if that's the case, I don't think you should be petting any dogs. Or any animals. Or anything, really.”

“I don't get a boner, Daniel.” He takes a minute sip of his beer, twisting his lips awkwardly around the glass rim so that he still doesn't have to leave the warmth of Esmeralda's hair and face even for a second. “Sometimes the dog does, though.”

“Where are you stroking this dog, Sid?” I say.

“Just at home,” he tells me. “Sometimes the park.”

I drown a silent scream in my vodka and Sprite and nod at the waitress for another. She doesn't remember me. The girls are far too busy and beautiful for me to have a story here.

After a few seconds, Esmeralda suddenly grins. “Silly. He means where on Buster are you touching.” She looks at me for confirmation. “Right?”

Agreeing with her suddenly feels as if it would alter and spoil the already tenuous relationship between me and Sid, which has always involved a fair amount of confusion and ignorance, and is something I realise I have got used to.

“No,” I say, shaking my head for needless emphasis, and the almost relieved expression that shapes Sid's blank face confirms that I have made the right choice.

“Tell Daniel about our business idea,” Esmeralda says, nudging Sid's head with hers. She looks at me. “Just in case being an agent doesn't work out for Sid.”

I only just manage to stop myself from snorting laughter. I want to ask her if having one unsuccessful client for a year and then nothing for the next eighteen months doesn't constitute a failure, when exactly is the line drawn? But I don't, and I realise again that Sid is the only person for whom I censor myself, which must mean something. With a new element thrown into the equation, things have become more complicated, and, oddly, I am suddenly resentful of Esmeralda's intrusion into my relationship with someone I have never particularly cared for.

“What are you getting Sid into?” I ask with barely disguised animosity that she fails to pick up on.

“It was both our ideas actually,” Sid says, beaming at his own cleverness. “You know how cute puppies are? Everyone likes puppies, right?”

“You're going to sell puppies? I think it's been done.”

“No,” Esmeralda says. “People want cute little puppies but then they grow big and expensive and unmanageable. Especially big ones like those Dulux and Marmaduke dogs.”

“So you know those DVD rental websites where you have a list of films and then you watch them and send them back and get a new one?” Sid says, his excitement building. “Like that but with puppies!”

“Yeah!” Esmeralda says. “You pay a subscription and you get a puppy a couple of weeks old or whatever, fully house broken. Then after a few months when it starts to get big and lose its cuteness, you send it back and we send you the next puppy on your list!”

“You don't need to worry about getting it shots or vet bills or anything. If it gets ill you just send it back and you get another one. Like when the DVD is scratched.”

“It's a big problem of course,” Esmeralda says, “People abandoning dogs or not taking proper care of them because they're too much for the family or people get bored of the same one. Now it's no longer a problem.”

“Hang on,” I say, rubbing creases on my forehead that have been deepening over the last year. “This doesn't solve anything. I mean, I can see the benefit for the customer, but what happens to the dogs when they're sent back to you?”

Sid and Esmeralda look at each other – as best they can – as though they actually haven't thought about this. “Well...” Sid fumbles. “There must be something...”

“Horse food?” Esmeralda says very quietly.

“Huh?” Sid says.

“Well...dogs eat horses. Do horses eat dogs?”

“Hmm...”

“There's no way,” I say, utterly incredulous at their naivety. “What about PETA?”

“Peter who?” Esmeralda says, predictably enough.

“The fucking animal people,” I say. “Those people will kill you. They're fucking insane. They think blind people shouldn't even have guide dogs. How do you think they're going to react to the mass culling of adolescent dogs?”

“Ah!” Sid says, delighted with himself. “Asia. Vietnam, Korea, they eat dogs. Put them on a boat, ship 'em over, make a bloody fortune.”

“Why not just sell them in London?” Esmeralda suggests. “Chinatown, I mean. There're loads of restaurants. Chinese, mostly.”

“Because this way,” Sid says, “We can claim ignorance. 'It's not our concern where they end up in Asia', we'll say. 'As far as we know, they're living in doggy luxury in rich people's mansions'. We'll have international protection. Probably.”

“God you're brilliant,” she tells him.

They roll their heads around until their lips meet and they exchange a sloppy kiss that makes my stomach turn.

“Let's go to the beach then,” Sid says, and when Esmeralda picks her bag up a bikini almost spills from it. I gasp, and order another shot with the check.