Patrick Lenton tries to find romance as a single parent to his furry, foibled greyhound. But it’s ruff out there.

Thanks to 90s screen entertainment, I grew up knowing only two things with absolute certainty: the phone number for Pizza Hut delivery (9481 1111), and the inherent and unchangeable evil of stepmothers.

Stepmothers had blonde hair cut into bitchy little bobs, loved money and hated children. They were well-dressed predators out to steal our simple horny dads! From Cinderella to The Parent Trap, a stepmother was someone to overcome, often through the medium of twin-related schemes.

But since becoming a single dad to my long stinky greyhound son, Basil, I’ve been forced to question just how villainous stepparents actually are, and revisit this trope from the perspective of an adult who just wants to smooch another adult without their dependant ruining the moment and pissing on their couch in protest. Could it actually be the stepchild who is the unreasonable one?

Last year, after taking on the sole responsibility for Basil after a break-up, I found myself navigating the excruciating world of dating while having an anxious dog-son who hates any deviation from his routine. Basil is a tightly tuned string in the world’s most dramatic church organ. If kept in the right circumstances – temperature-controlled, monastic silence, expensive polishes – then he is almost an ethereally beautiful and delightful dog. But if there are any changes, then he no longer sings, he howls. It doesn’t have to be much: rain during his afternoon walk; a different brand of dog slop; my unfortunate commitment to gainful employment… He’d be happiest if I simply sat still on my couch all day, rising only to walk and feed him. And nothing changes his routine like his dad rolling back home after 10pm (his bedtime), with some hot stranger in tow, ready to do terrible things to each other. The first person I brought home had to deal with a long, scary shadow staring at them unblinkingly from the corner of the room, sitting grumpily between us on the couch, and then howling at the bedroom door for hours.

There’s nothing more romantic or sexually exciting than saying “hold on…I have to put more peanut butter on the licky mat.” This is not gross innuendo, just routine enrichment I have to provide for my hound.

After a few more aborted attempts like this, I found myself shifting my dating life to fit around my dog’s needs. “This has been lovely,” I’d say, looking at the time. “But I have to get home before my son worries. It’s best if you don’t come, because he will hate you.”

Because of my age bracket, I often see dating profiles on the apps for single parents of human children, who will usually flag that they are “the parent of a rambunctious four-year-old” in an effort to stave off time-wasters who aren’t interested in someone with a kid. I decided to do the same, flagging that I have a precious dog who gets more resources allocated towards their mental health and gut issues than I allocate for myself. “Proud father of a long stinky boy,” I wrote. “Can’t go out too late!”

Nobody I dated ever reacted negatively to Basil – but I reasoned that in order to push through his stepchild hostility towards all of my suitors, I needed to find a true dog fanatic to date. Someone who wouldn’t just tolerate his baleful looks, who wouldn’t just be fine with him chewing things in a sinister way while we kiss, but who would actively find all these traits…cute.

On my first date with my now boyfriend, he suggested going for a walk with Basil – and I think he (rightfully) paid Basil more attention than me. A good sign. As a former owner of two greyhounds, he not only adored Basil, but also completely understood many of the breed’s weird quirks, and found Basil’s intense and unreasonable hatred of him “adorable”. Yet the more my boyfriend tried, the more Basil seemed to be annoyed. Had I been fed anti-stepmom propaganda my whole life? Was Meredith Blake actually the hero of The Parent Trap? Watching it again only confirmed my suspicions – I too would have shipped off Lindsay Lohan to Switzerland.

Luckily, Basil doesn’t have a twin to help break up my relationship – because as the months have worn on, I’ve watched him gradually thaw towards my partner, to the point where his arrival is now the most exciting part of the day. When my partner comes over, he gets the signature greyhound lean, teeth chittering gently, which is the highest form of affection you can get from these weird snake dogs.

Basil might have made it harder to date in general, but in reality he’s done me a favour. By being a bratty stepchild, intent on ruining my love-life, he’s made sure I only date people who hold the same values as me: namely, prioritising the needs and wants of dogs that look like a sack full of coathangers.

 

By Patrick Lenton @PatrickLenton

Patrick Lenton is a writer and author living in Melbourne.

Published in ed#735

 

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