THEY SAY THAT ANIMALS can sense when an earthquake is coming. Somehow, their keen senses detect the oncoming arrival of disaster. Similarly, I once had a student who suffered from epilepsy. She went everywhere with a dog named Ginger. Ginger could somehow sense when the girl was going to have a fit, and would start barking to warn her. The girl could then lay down and get ready so the attack did not come by surprise.
If only they could teach dogs to predict dating disasters.
Just imagine the bar of the future. You wander on in with your dog at your side, stroll to the bar, and order a martini. The dog lays down at your feet, perhaps lapping at a bowl of water. Along comes Mr. Disaster. Oh sure, he looks good--they always do--but your dull human perception can't detect the rotten core. Your weak nose can't catch the old leather whiff of serious baggage. Your puny ears can't hear the dry tick of his dull and humorless soul. Fortunately, you have your Guide Dog. As the fiend draws near, she lifts her head, folds back her ears, and starts growling. Mister, this just ain't happening. Piss off. Hallelujah! Man's best friend to the rescue. What's that Lassie? This jerk has serious commitment problems? What I would not give for a dog like that.
Take the cautionary fable of the Money Boy, for example.
Once upon a time, a single English teacher living just outside the metropolis of Tokyo paid a visit, as he often did, to those dens of iniquity collectively known as Shinjuku Nichome. Settling down into a quiet section of just such a bar, the young man drank a local concoction known as the Lemon Sour and watched the boys prance by (prancing being a form of locomotion not solely reserved for gay men in Japan, but common to most of the male population under 30).
After awhile, a very attractive young man wandered over, and stumbling over the rubble of monumentally broken English, asked if he could sit down. Now, our intrepid hero was never one to turn down a young and pretty boy, no matter what linguistic barriers stood before them. He asked the guy to sit, and they struggled through a conversation.
He was such a nice young man. His family was Catholic, placing them in that rare 1% of Japanese who are Christians. because of this, he had done a lot of volunteer relief work overseas. He even produced a digital camera full of photographic evidence to prove it. A poor college student, he really wanted to practice his English, but had no money. Could the English teacher help him out? A language exchange perhaps?
Three meetings later, the English teacher and this lovely young man began to exchange just a bit more than language. Well, alright, a lot more. The guy could not possibly be more perfect. Sweet, considerate (sending little emails throughout the day), cute, earnest, thoughtful. An all around delight. And dynamite in bed, it must be said (yes, stop pretending that doesn't matter).
And so, feeling that helium in your head buoyancy that comes with growing infatuation, the English teacher went about his business until he was at a friend's house, watching TV and having a drink or two. It was a Saturday night, and he received a text message on his phone. It goes something like this;
Hello. How are you?
I am fine. How about you?
I am Nichome.
You are in Nichome? (the English teacher begins to feel alarm here...no, they had not promised each other anything yet, but the boy was already out cruising the bars again? What had he done wrong?)
Yes. I in Nichome.
(playing it cool) Oh. Meeting any nice guys?
Actually not.
Oh? Too bad.
Maybe you not understand.
Why? What do you mean?
I working.
(slightly puzzled...the boy mentioned a part-time job in a department store) In Nichome? Where? You work at a bar?
No. I am so busy. University student. Department store. And Nichome. I urisen.
("Urisen?" We have passed the limits of the English teacher's Japanese) What is that?
Me. I sell me.
What do you mean?
Sex. I sell my body. Get money. But tonight no customer.
Ah, the nice Catholic boy. The nice Catholic boy who also happens to be a male prostitute. The nice Catholic boy prostitute that you just started sleeping with.
Thanks Lassie, where were you when Tommy got stuck in the well.
