I couldn’t take the soulful, accusing looks from man’s best friend, my best friend, Pard, much longer. Yet, although his stress was increasing, my life was surprisingly stable. I was comfortably established in my East Village apartment in one of the few ungentrified, thus affordable, buildings on east 9th street. I still had my job teaching drama at Gotham University’s School of the Arts, despite the enmity of the department chairman, Ernest the emoter, who I irked endlessly with my irreverent attitude towards authority. In one of my greater acts of self-discipline, I still strenuously resisted looking at the alluring thighs of freshman girls, amply revealed in short skirts. I ignored the periodic pangs of desire and left them to the seductive wiles of the predatory junior class lesbians, who had skillfully mastered the mechanics of roommate switching. I also continued to perform as a silent clown, outdoors on Central Park West and 72nd street, weather permitting. This gave me tremendous satisfaction and contributed substantially to my savings, which were intended to produce my first full length play, ‘Unravelings’, off-off Broadway.

My dog Pard, however, was not quite as well adjusted to his existence. I took him for three major park walks daily and fed him top of the line doggie food, supplemented with a fair share of my meals. This should have partially consoled him for the one glaring lack in his existence, the absence of intimate female doggie companionship. But it didn’t. Whenever I brought a girl to the apartment he stared at me reproachfully, already foreseeing that we would be doing the wild thing, which really freaked him out. As a young dog, Pard attempted to use me as a mating object. He would mount my leg, clasp me with his front paws, thrust against me until his red doggie thing was unsheathed, then sulk when I pushed him away. He next turned his affections on my visiting girlfriends, who were unanimously unappreciative of his non-romantic attentions and promptly departed in a huff.

It took me a while to really understand how important his doggie needs were, but then all my efforts to procure sexual gratification for him resulted in abject failure. I was still a virtual pariah at Tompkins Square Park, our nearby exercise area of choice, for aiding and abetting Pard’s lustful assault on a fluffy Pomeranian. His depredation had resulted in his ejaculating on her well-groomed coat, to the indignation of her outraged owner and the righteous defenders who sprang to her side. One wimp, trying to score points, actually tried to organize a lynch mob. We were banned from the park for a month for that first offense. Thereafter, we were always scrutinized with the utmost suspicion, which effectively prevented Pard from even coming close to mounting a desirable female doggie. I sympathized with him, knowing he could see and smell that exciting doggie flesh, but not touch.

I tried many other ways to find relief for my faithful friend, who had once saved me from muggers and was always protective, a valuable quality in a sometimes dangerous big city. But none of my efforts on his behalf succeeded. Kissinger would have been proud of my negotiations on his behalf for sex. I had offered several owners money. I had even attempted to distract a number of female dog owners so Pard would have a chance to have his way, to no avail. It was as if female dog owners had ESP to warn them of the approach of a horny dog. I had searched in vain for a doggie pimp, (I guess procurer would be more genteel), but reluctantly concluded they didn’t exist. My cleverest idea had been creating a newsletter, the Doggie Tribune, with a cunning personals column written by me to attract a potential sex partner for Pard and it was another disaster. It was also neglected for consideration by the Pulitzer committee. We received only one reply, a twisted, repulsive request by a disgusting degenerate to do perverse things to my best friend. This persuaded me to renounce the use of the personals column. My idea for a cable tv talk show to air the issue of doggie sex and find a sympathetic collaborator had foundered on the reef of insufficient funds.

My ex-girlfriend, Anitra, was a flighty know-it-all painter, the ultimate artiste, who created incomprehensible conceptual art that was so obscure that only her immediate circle of artist friends purported to appreciate it. She worked for the renowned Sophisto, the master of plastic, whose art consisted of wrapping man’s and nature’s finer creations in stifling sheets of plastic, to world acclaim. Anitra still maintained a well-regulated friendship with me that had survived my sardonic wit, often aimed at her master of plastic, as well as my lugubrious attempts to penetrate her chilly exterior. Anitra had no sympathy for my natural appetites, let alone those of my déclassé mutt. Her frequent advice, never considered by me for a moment, was to have Pard neutered. I suspected she felt the same way about me. In the absence of my accepting her smug, cutting edge solution to the distasteful problem, she urged sublimation to a higher ideal. Now I knew it wouldn’t work with me, but it showed how other-worldly she was if she expected a dog to sublimate primal doggie needs. Sometimes it was crystal clear why we didn’t connect.

Once again I had only my own resourcefulness to draw on. This didn’t help Pard, however, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him to understand that I was working on the problem. I didn’t dare indulge in past fantasies about finding a doggie whorehouse, where for a few biscuits Pard could have his ashes hauled, since he sensed I was daydreaming and howled miserably. Then, when almost at my wit’s end, I read a newspaper article about luxury doggie hotels and just like that there was a possible solution. I decided we would check into a non-fleabag hostelry and by hook or by crook I would arrange a rendezvous, a tryst, an encounter, an assignation, a sensual interlude that would bring the victim of deprivation at least temporary satisfaction. Who knows. I might even enter into a dalliance with an alluring female doggie owner, while Pard occupied her pet. Or would it be vice versa?

I immediately began online pet hotel research and lo and behold there were lots of doggie palaces offering the most outrageous luxuries. I couldn’t resist snickering at the pretentious website of ‘The Ritz Canine’, a posh five star doggie resort and spa that featured caviar and filet mignon dinners, pedicures, a jewelry shop, a personal trainer and bedtime stories, all for exorbitant extra charges, in addition to the daily rate of $295 for a pedigree suite. This was so far beyond my budget that I felt like a french peasant listening to tavern gossip about Louis XIV’s revels at Versailles. I had my first laugh in days when I visualized scruffy Pard cavorting in a hot tub with a pair of matched pink poodles wearing thongs. His disapproving gaze brought me back to the screen.

Now that I had another opportunity to help Pard, I got down to the serious business of identifying the right hotel. The first requirement was that it be affordable, then there had to be a way for Pard to be alone with the guest of his choice. I looked at websites for half a dozen hotels that all showed heated inground swimming pools, individual and group playpens, daily maid service, Swedish massage, freshly baked dog biscuits, costume parties and hot oil treatments. They offered accommodations in rooms, suites, bungalows and villas, all fully staffed. I couldn’t help thinking about the homeless in America, struggling daily for survival in a society with insufficient social services for humans, while the pets of the elite wallowed in lavish comforts. I idly wondered if these hotels had blue collar doggie staffs and could I disguise Pard as an assistant waiter or janitor?

In a moment of weakness I celled Anitra to ask her opinion. She was deeply immersed in preparations for Sophisto’s latest project, wrapping Mount Kilimanjaro in colored spiral strips of plastic. She was her usual chilly, distant self and responded cuttingly: “Only someone with anti-social tendencies would consider something that vulgar and extravagant.” I visualized her exposed on the north face of Mount Kilimanjaro, covered only by a thin sheet of plastic to protect her from the salacious gaze of local tribesmen. Then her frigid farewell brought me back to reality. After I finished mumbling all the things to the disconnected phone that I didn’t dare say to her, the conclusion was inescapable. Once again Pard and I were on our own.

I was confident enough to believe that once we were legitimately established in the hotel I could find a way to get Pard alone with a female. Men had been liasoning with women in hotels for thousands of years. Wasn’t that how Socrates met Xanthippe? Then the first shocker. The obstacle that might be impossible to overcome. I finally noticed that owners didn’t stay at the hotel with their pets. They checked them in and came back for them when their stay was over. Even if I could get past the desk clerk for an inspection of the premises, probably not an unusual request, there would hardly be time to make a doggie connection. It wasn’t reasonable to assume that in a few minutes I could identify and suborn an employee who could be bribed to assist Pard. Sudden clouds were now obscuring the horizon of hope.

I was too stubborn to give up a good idea that easily and decided to at least outline a plan…. I would select a nice hotel, go there, of course leave Pard in the car…. The car. I would have to rent a car. I looked at my budget, looked at Pard, remembered the hero of Tompkins Square Park, looked at my budget again, felt his mournful, accusing eyes lasering my back and decided to splurge. How much could a car rental cost? Then the second shock of the day. The cheapest operational vehicle, devoid of frills, was $100 a day, plus mileage, plus all kinds of insurance, plus GPS. plus on-board computer interface…. The pluses went on and on and amounted to more than twice the rental fee. Was Pard worth it? Definitely.

I invited Anitra join me for a drive in the country, but she obviously suspected an ulterior motive and scornfully refused, not even offering the excuse of plastic preparation. So one balmy Thursday afternoon in mid-October, following my morning classes, Pard and I set out for a jaunt to the Velvet Paws Country Club, an exclusive resort for the pets of the elite in Southampton, Long Island. The stress started at the Econo-Car Rental, where after a thirty minute wait, despite my reservation, the indifferent clerk offered me a battered Honda that looked as if it was salvaged from the Highway of Death. The car was filthy, the engine kept sputtering and the tires were worn. Scrupulous control of my temper, plus a twenty dollar honorarium, got me a Ford sedan in decent condition.

We headed for the Midtown tunnel, came out in Queens, a dreary borough, and got on the Long Island Expressway going East. It was a warm, crystal clear early fall day and the leaves hadn’t begun to turn yet. The trees were a deep, lush green that contrasted dramatically with the sterile metal and concrete construction that uprooted nature. Pard had never been in a car before and he prowled back and forth on the backseat, poking his head out the window, doggie eyes bulging, taking in the new sights and smells as we whizzed along. Traffic was light and two hours later we pulled up in front of the guarded gatehouse of the Velvet Paws Country Club. It only took a few moments to establish my bona fides, I told them I was here for my employer, a noted Broadway producer, to determine its suitability for his Borzois. The guard looked doubtful, but phoned the command center or whatever they called it. Permission arrived and we drove into the hallowed grounds. I wasn’t the slightest bit daunted by the posh surroundings and Pard certainly wasn’t. His eyes, ears and muzzle were working overtime, trying to take in everything at once.

I had read that the estate had originally been built by a prohibition bootlegger who struck it rich, then became respectable and didn’t end up murdered in his swimming pool like the slightly unsavory Gatsby. The design of the main house was a tasteless confection of pink marble and pink stucco that defied simple identification with an architectural period. It was an uneasy amalgam of Bauhaus, Art Deco and MGM studios that strained the eyes of man, possibly even beasts. We pulled up in front of the shimmering entrance that would have served Tiberius’ villa and a doorman in a green and pink uniform, with more gold braid than a French admiral, opened the car door and asked disdainfully: “Will your companion be staying with us, sir?” Having grown up in a household with the most supercilious butler in the western hemisphere, I wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “No. He’ll just test the ph factor in the water before we leave.” I ignored his confusion, said: ‘Stay, Pard,’ hoped he might and went inside.

The lobby was enormous with pink marble walls and a pink marble floor, as well as a pink marble reception desk more suitable for Hadrian’s baths. I wondered for a moment if this was some kind of political or sexist statement. The impeccably green and pink uniformed reception clerks, one male, one female, both as remote as future android servitors, greeted me in unison: “Good afternoon, sir. May we be of service?” I gave them the ‘here for my boss’ routine and was surprised that they didn’t want to phone him and verify my authenticity. Then I concluded that terrorists hadn’t yet struck at the weak point of Homeland Security, the luxury retreats of the valued pets of America. My research on the web had revealed that 63% of the households in America owned pets. Granted, many could have been turtles or gerbils, but that still meant an incredible number of dogs and cats, whose owners would spend 38.4 billion dollars on them in 2006, 2.7 billion of that for grooming and boarding. That was more than the national income of half the countries in the world.

The female android clerk accompanied me on the grand tour of the dining room, the kitchen where they baked their own doggie biscuits, the tiled, in-ground, heated swimming pool, the recreation area, the spa, the music room, the spiritual retreat, and last of all the model suite. Except for its smaller size, it was as lavish as any luxury hotel. There were heated tile floors, a hi-tech ventilation system, picture windows, custom made furnishings, an orthopedic mattress and Ms. Android desk clerk informed me that a staff member slept in the room with the guest. Naturally they had veterinarians on staff, as well as a pet psychiatrist. She accompanied me back to the reception desk, where she gave me a brochure with the schedule of activities, then both androids chorused: “Have a good day.”

I glanced at the schedule as I went on the long march from the reception desk to the resplendent portals. It made a summer day at camp Mussolini seem casual. 5:45-6:30 AM – potty time (potty?), 7-10 AM – check in/check out, 7 AM - room service breakfast, 9 AM- 3 PM – playtime, swim sessions, ballgames, hiking, grooming and pedicure. The activities went on and on, all for dogs? 3 PM - yappy hour and naps, 4-7 PM - check in/check out, 5 – 6:30 PM – room service gourmet dinner, 7 PM – baths and massages, 8 PM – evening potty time, 9 PM – biscuits, bedtime stories, pre-sleep music and lights out. I had to chuckle as I pictured Pard, sly, mischievous and cunning, always looking for trouble, gracefully submitting to being treated like a doggie pasha.

The doorman, sneering at me, opened the door with his white gloves and tried several expressions of condescension. But I was a veteran of scorn from Ernest the emoter, whose repertoire outclassed a mere doorman, however gaudily bedecked. I opened the car door and Pard made his break for freedom and the good life. He was past me in an instant and dashed to a plump collie, moseying along with a personal care attendant. He easily evaded the PCA’s attempt to grab him, nipped the collie on the flank, which produced an astonished yelp, then raced around the building until he was out of sight.

The invasion of the barbarian hordes took the comfortable, ponderously moving locals by surprise and they were slow to react to the hostile incursion. The doorman sputtered with indignation and his face turned bright red with choler. He couldn’t decide whether to reach for his invisible halberd or succumb to a stroke. The absence of a rapid response team was evident and several green and pink clad attendants finally appeared and set out in pursuit of the rampaging Visigoth. Pard managed to nip several other aristocratic pooches, who protested volubly to their attendants, then he plunged into the heated pool and cavorted like a demented otter. I was particularly impressed by his aquatic ability, since he had never been swimming before.

The defending forces converged on the pool and two of their bravest risked the perils of the deep. Just as they seemed to apprehend him, Pard put on a burst of doggie paddle speed and slipped past them. He scampered by the rest of the posse, paused to shake off vigorously on the doorman, then ran to the car, stopping on the lushest patch of the scrupulously tended lawn to deposit a pile of doggie poop that was definitely not the byproduct of filet mignon. I concluded that flight was preferable to volunteering sanitation services and we drove off, leaving behind an infuriated doorman, whose impotent waving fist was our last sight of the Velvet Paws Country Club.

Apparently no one had notified the gatehouse of our assault and vandalism, because the gatekeeper waved a polite farewell as he opened the portals of freedom. Pard had his head out the window looking back contentedly on the havoc he had wrought, as the pink palace of pet dreams faded in the distance. He grinned at me so waggishly that I didn’t have the heart to rebuke him for his crude behavior. Truth be told, that pretentious joint needed to lighten up a bit. I certainly hadn’t intended to bring chaos to the palace of the privileged, but even eden would be ineffably dull without a serpent.

But the paw writing on the wall was clear. Even a run-down fleabag pet hotel wouldn’t provide Pard an opportunity for seduction or forceful violation. So I was out the money for the car rental and still was no closer to alleviating Pard’s sexual needs. At the moment, however, Pard looked very pleased with himself and showed no symptoms of lack of doggie nookie. The look on the doorman’s face as we drove off was partial consolation for another failure. It was frustrating not having anyone to tell about the day’s adventure, but I knew that if I related the incident to Anitra I could foretell what she would say: “Ill mannered, ill bred and ill disciplined.” So I indulged in a brief laugh and stored the incident in memory. Then I renewed my vow to help Pard, who wagged appreciatively as we headed back to Manhattan, no wiser, but at least entertained by the afternoon outing.