I woke up on Sunday morning and decided that since my life has been nothing but a repetition of constant obligations and work, I was going to play hooky from church. I told Jesus I was spurning him for the morning—not because I don’t love him, but precisely because I do love him and that’s what people who love each other do. At least if you want your love life to be interesting.

I told Jesus that if he really wants my attention, and my devotion, and perhaps an obsession with him, he should probably spurn me, too. I think we just need time apart, I said. Maybe you need to be cruel to me. I think that whole “God will always love you no matter what” thing is what really gets him in to trouble. If people thought God might actually just say “fine! I’m outta here--- but you’ll miss me!” they might think twice about the whole, “catch you later”, “maybe another time”, approach to divinity. If God could leave you with the bated breath and neuroticism that a bi-polar lover can give you, I think a lot more people would be checking in to churches.

Just an idea, God, I told him. And by the way—the boy I tutor? He thinks your Son was mentally handicapped because Mary and Joseph came from the same family tree. I told him they weren’t brother and sister, but still, you might want to talk to my student about that one, I thought as I arrived at the church of the dog park.

I had to go to the dog park because Tweak woke me up attempting to fly through the large bay windows in the apartment I share with Prima whose nickname comes from the fact that she was a professional ballet dancer and not actually a dessert as the name seems to suggest.

“Where’d you get your dog? This thing is a spaz!” A man called from the far side of the park where people were stopping to ooh and ahh and drool all over Tweak even though his three pound fluffy self had hitch-kicked a dog twice his size to the ground and proceeded to gnaw off its nose.

“The Internet,” I said softly, afraid that some animal rights activists in the lot of people might start throwing slobber-covered balls at my back.

“Huh? Where? A Kennel?” The park went silent.

“No! Heavens no!” I said bracing myself for the slobber balls. “Online…the woman had one puppy” I coughed.

“You’re sh—ing me!” the man replied. I was about to assure him that no, indeed I was not sh—ing him (whatever that means) when I was interrupted by a small girl with big blue eyes and a brown bowl haircut.

“Well isn’t he a crazy little thing!” the girl said. I was about to tell her she was perhaps a crazy little thing when I noticed something: a delightful accent.

“I’m from heh (here),” she said when I asked where she got it. “But my motheh is from England. And my name is Elizabeth McCarthy and my gym teacheh calls me his little English Muffin because of the accent and those are my initials—E.M. And I’m seven.And we're going to England for Christmas-- and we might have a white one.” I was going to steal her from the park but instead I decided that I would speak to my children with a fake English accent their entire lives so that they would mimic me and turn out like little English Muffin here.

“We have a Bichon-Frise” she said to me as properly as anyone could imagine (Bishon Freesay) and quite unlike the way I normally hear the breed: Bich-on-Freeze, which to me sounds like an icy woman put on layaway. The breed is often mixed with a Poodle creating a title that sounds like an expletive sneezing: Bich-Poo. Why the animal rights activists would probably hang me by my toenails for adopting a dog from the Internet (the shelters and adoption groups here would not allow me a dog in my tiny apartment, unfortunately) but somehow they disregard that an entire breed is practically named a swear word— is beyond me.

“I didn’t know what it waaaaaas…” muttered a young woman who was definitely having a lovely time in her own mind from some illegal substance and the piercings cutting off oxygen to her brain. “It’s like you need to remove his batteries or something…” Kind of like your brain has been?

“I thought it was a guinea pig at first!” said another man who asked if his daughter could take a picture with my dog. You can take a picture with my dog if you show me that guinea pig the size of a three pound Maltese.

“He’s just so adorable!” another person coos. I thank them, but awkwardly so, since I don’t know the proper response. Does one say “Thank you" when you have nothing to do with the thing being complimented? I mean, it’s not my fluffy white genes pulsing through his body.

“You know my dog was like that when he was younger,” said a girl with the largest Yorkie I have ever seen.

Really? I said, imagining Tweak the size of a German Shepherd-- and swallowing me whole.

“Yeah…” she said and added something else I didn’t catch. What I do remember her saying though, was very strange:

“He really picked me, you know?” and looked at me with soft brown eyes in a way that seemed as if I HAD to know what she meant.

No, I thought to myself. Woman I have no CLUE what you mean and I really wonder if anyone does. Did you walk into a pet store and see the pup, then he saw you, raised his paw and said to the cashier—I’ll take THAT human, thankyouverymuch,?

I didn’t inquire further because I think, from all the lessons I’ve learned lately as well as that interchange--- everyone just wants to be picked.

Even if it’s only by a dog.