Watching the man treat his dog like shit while the dog was just trying to take a shit, I had to wonder why people like him would want a dog at all. Was it solely to be abusive? The thrill of being “allowed” to act so abominably toward another living creature simply because it couldn’t talk back? Only those who felt weak and powerless themselves would stoop to such a means to gain something like “control.” But using a (semi-)defenseless animal to achieve that was not only cruel, it was pathetic. And, quite honestly, made me want to march right up to this guy and kick him in the dick (except he probably didn’t even have one). 

Instead, I developed another idea. One that would require days—maybe weeks—of careful plotting. Or perhaps “stalking” was the better word. Something that all people technically have the time to do, but that, seemingly, only unemployed people like me would “engage with.” Because I had so much “free time on my hands,” right? As if having “free time” (the phrase itself playing into how the only “valuable” time is paid time) meant you couldn’t use it for anything other than “frivolous” endeavors. But what could be less frivolous than rescuing an abused animal from its diabolical owner? Nothing, as far as I was concerned. And that’s why I made the irreversible, committed decision to snatch the canine and make her my own. Save her from a miserable, tortured existence. One she presumed she could never get out of. Because animals, unlike humans, could never imagine a fate beyond the one that was presented right in front of them. 

In some ways, that was a blessing. It meant you could accept whatever fate you had to endure. But I, I could not endure it. And I would do everything in my power to save her from hers. Even if some (read: many) would try to tell me that there were far “better” ways to spend my time and energy. What did these people know? They were money-obsessed, not “goodwill”-obsessed. Or however the fuck you would label what I was doing. Which was a lot of watching. And waiting. It didn’t surprise me. How I had to bide my time like a tick waiting to drop (as Grenouille from Perfume would be described). Plus, I’d seen Stakeout (and Another Stakeout) enough times to know what to anticipate. Which was the opposite of the action-packed moments presented in the narrative. For, whatever the movies tell you, any shrewd person ought to know the exact opposite is true. 

Unfortunately, the cliche I hadn’t banked on about stalking Tony (obviously, I found out his name) was becoming oddly attracted to him. This happened in those rare instances when he wasn’t baselessly attacking his dog, who he had named, ha, Carmela. It goes without saying that I would need to change that demeaning The Sopranos reference as soon as possible. That is, if I could ever pry my focus away from Tony’s incredible body. Which he paraded around all day through the unobstructed living room window he was practically begging to be ogled through. Doing those pull-ups and sit-ups, lifting those weights. Glistening with sweat. 

Those were the scenes that forced me to take my eyes off the prize: Carmela (soon to be Victoria…a nod to “victorious,” naturally). So much for my dignity. But then, I had a revelation that briefly shocked me out of my primal attraction to Tony: what if he was “training” for the lone purpose of beating his dog with more efficacy? 

Victoria’s only respite when Tony wasn’t training took place during the early hours of the morning when he worked on a construction site. That, I knew, would be the period during which I should take her. Just scoop her up and steal away with all the subtlety of a bat out of hell. For a while though, I was frozen. I don’t know why. Because even though it was killing me to watch him keep beating Victoria, the thought of ceasing to watch him felt, I’m ashamed to admit, equally unbearable. So now I was just some fucking freak who watched a guy abuse an innocent creature so I could think about his body later and masturbate to it. I’d even taken to playing “I Wanna Be Your Dog” during my wank sessions. It was then I knew that there must be something horribly wrong with me. Here I had been trying to pass myself off as some sort of self-righteous savior, yet I kept standing (/masturbating) idly by while harm continued to be done. 

I knew that, theoretically, I could have taken the dog and kept going back to watch Tony sculpt his body through the window. Yet part of me was afraid that with Victoria out of the picture, he might start acting differently, change his routine. Or worse still, sink into a depression because he couldn’t take his constantly bubbling-to-the-surface male rage out on Victoria anymore. And also, it occurred to me that taking this dog from him would only prompt him to procure another one with which to repeat the cycle. It would probably become too suspicious if I stole every dog he kept replacing the original with. That’s why I remained paralyzed. Stuck in this fucked-up daily routine of observing him from afar just before he would kick Victoria or throw her against the wall or generally smack the shit out of her. There was no one I could talk to about my problem. My unhealthy fascination. The one that proved “evil prevails when good (wo)men do nothing.” 

That’s what finally led me to a conclusion I didn’t ever want to admit to myself. I am evil. Or at least a shitty person. Someone who would rather keep her masturbation material happy than risk “poking the bear” by stealing his dog (note to self: find video of a bear and a dog just living their best life together). I didn’t know how long I could go on like this, but it was almost as though the orgasms I had became more intense the more I knew I needed to stop my stalking and carry out the original plan. It was this threat of losing my pleasure routine that made me complacent and afraid. Like I might never cum this hard again once I stole Victoria. 

They say life is what happens when you’re making other plans, and I guess that’s what transpired when I ended up literally running into Tony at the park one day. I was actually running to get to his apartment on time to stalk him and then smacked right into shirtless Tony during his apparently new running regimen. One look at me, and it was as if he knew. How bad I wanted him, that is. We started talking and, well, one thing led to another…as the euphemism goes. Before I could process what was going on, we were back at his place and he was fucking my brains out, just the way I had been fantasizing he would after all these months. It was a matter of minutes before I came like a rainstorm. 

It didn’t take long for him to “make me” his girlfriend. I was suddenly over at his apartment all the time. Cooking him dinner, gritting my teeth through his venomous behavior so I could get to the sex portion of the program. In this manner, though, I became the absorber of his abuse, protecting Victoria (who I told him openly was her new name) from his vitriol and transferring it to me.

I suppose that was one way to make the plan I had previously hatched work. But now how am I going to tell him, “I don’t wanna be your dog” and still make it out alive? Ideally with Victoria in tow. Because sometimes, all you need is to have a fantasy fulfilled before it becomes too intertwined with bleak reality.