A CAT® on Paws

A View from Down Below: Mr. Watson’s Canine Commentary on Life and Human Quirks

It took longer than I had expected; Manhattan needed nearly three weeks to fully recognize my cachet. Doormen have a sixth sense for incognito celebs like me. They were the first to notice, even when I squinted in the morning sun because the gold stripes on the sleeves of their uniforms blinded me. They grinned admiringly when I emptied my overnight bladder against the parking meter on their freshly scrubbed pavement. I peed elegantly and looked them in the eye, as I have been taught.

"Hola, Señor," my puppy eyes were saying.

My peeing stare always works. You should try it someday.

But it was Pepe who truly confirmed my star status. Here I was, taking my family on a leisurely afternoon stroll along Park Avenue, when a brand new Range Rover came to a screaming stop with Pepe leaning out of the window, yelling.

"Hey, Mr. Watson, buddy. How are you today?"

That's when I knew that I had made it here—king of the hill, top of the heap.

I met Pepe just once. He lived around the corner on Park Avenue with his French wife and Lola. I must have left an indelible impression on him. What's new? Pepe was born in Gibraltar and moved to Venezuela. I have heard humans talk about a rock and a hard place. I guess that they must have been talking about him.

I know a Gibraltarian in New York. How cool is that?

Lola was taking Pepe out when we met. She's a cute Jack Russell, like me. Nice spots, too. Like mine, but darker. Elegant, with perfectly toned muscles under a flawless coat. Not at all like me. I'm beefy; if I were yellow, everyone would think that I'm a miniature bulldozer. I'm a CAT® on paws. But without the excavator bucket.

We didn't hit it off. For mutt's sake, Lola was louder than a kennel of noisy rescue mongrels during their weekly meet-and-greet. She was yapping relentlessly while Pepe was looking at us both, oblivious to the brouhaha. There were dollars and a litter of cute little Jack Russells in his eyes—Gibraltarians seem to have a nose for business.

If only Lola would shut up, I might be tempted. After all, the shady bushes in Central Park were just a block away. Not that R and H, my human family, would ever let me. They may be cool, but not that cool. As far as my reproductive desires are concerned, I am kept on a very short leash and wet dreams.

Sex kills, or so I've been told.

When he smelled a female in heat and went after her, a car struck James, my uncle. The female in heat was my mother. Her cycle wasn't wasted; I was conceived on the very same day my uncle died. That's why I'm still very careful around cars. And around females in heat.

My mother was a femme fatale.

It took R and H exactly four months to recover from their grief over losing James. They stopped mourning on the day they took me home. R has always had her priorities right; she picked me up first, then drove to the hospital to pick up H, who just had his knee operated on. Quite a spectacle. Bits and pieces of ligaments and cartilage were trimmed off inside the joint and sucked through a translucent tube that passed alongside his head on the operating table. We both felt miserable. I fell asleep on his chest. His heartbeat was slower and louder than my mother's. I looked in vain for a nipple.

According to H, a small dog deserves a big name.

"Listen, Mr. Watson," he said. I think that he was still dopey from the anaesthetic.

"I'll give you a bit of a head start. With a name like yours, you'll always be addressed politely. Work on the puppy eyes, and people will love you. Especially women and doormen. And maybe they'll glance at me affectionately too. The women, I mean. Don't forget to look them in the eye."

But how? With my short legs, my outlook on women is pretty down to earth, so to speak.

Take that literally. I look up to women: I spot the blueish veins under the translucent skin on the back of their legs as the hems of their skirts flare with every step; I detect the boogers up their nostrils; I sense the flicker of glee in older men's faces as young women cross the sidewalk in front of them, exuding confidence and poise; and I see their sneakers coming at me from every angle—even in Upper East—smelling of Bangladesh, Vietnam, or India. Manhattan smells like the whole world.

"Oh, my G-O-D! He's so cute!"

H turns around smugly, a self-indulgent smile on his face. It disappears immediately.

It's me she's raving about. Pretty much a daily routine. H was right; they love me. Women are trumpeting about me in loud, high-pitched voices over the screeching track noises for the entire subway car to hear. As if I were audibly impaired. Not so. They are all dyslexic, too. The word for canine should be spelled D-O-G. But what the heck? There's space in my toolbox for a bit of sanctity. An ego booster for sure; keep the compliments coming.

Forget the 'cutie pie' stuff, though. You can't have me for afternoon tea.

People, you are a godsend. There's never a dull moment when I'm around you. You're so beautifully unpredictable that I have started taking notes. Lest I forget.

I've asked H to be my ghostwriter. I hope he does a decent job.

Let me know.

https://www.aestheticnomads.com/

Contributors:

Hans Pauwels, words - Reinhilde Gielen, photographs

Featured artists:

Jenny Holzer: Light Line, Guggenheim - Christopher Wool: See, Stop, Run exhibition in the financial district - Delcy Morelos: El Abrazo at Dia Chelsea - Jean Prouvé: Lounge Chairs (1942), Patrick Seguin, TEFAF - Lucas Arruda: Assum Preto, David Zwirner Chelsea - Maurizio Cattelan: Sunday, Gagosian Chelsea

Locations:

Sleeping Beauties: Reawakening Fashion, Metropolitan Museum