Our friends Pete and Pete (we call them Pete and Re-Pete) were in town for a couple of nights after a cruise. They called to see if we could get together while they were here and I had the idea that they would enjoy a home cooked meal after a long time at sea. I was wrong.
Pete and Re-Pete are the type of high-maintenance friends who become slightly anxious when they are not in total control. They live in an “architecturally significant” (their term, not mine) townhouse in Georgetown which was recently photographed for a local magazine that swooned over their “innovative use of texture and hue.”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” I told my partner as I put the lasagna in the oven.
“I think they were referring to that shag area rug in their dining room,” he said acutely.
“That rug was gross,” I said. “I felt like I was walking on an Airedale.” My partner shrugged.
Pete and Re-Pete’s architecturally significant house can only be described as pristine. No tube of toothpaste disturbs their vanity and God forbid that a dirty dish should temporarily reside in their kitchen sink.
“You realize that they probably feel they’re in a Third World Country when they come here,” I said.
“We have a puppy and a kitten,” said my partner, defensive now; “it’s hard to have a showplace when you have young pets in the house.” I shrugged, not mentioning that our house was something less than a showplace even before we had young pets.
Pete and Re-Pete arrived precisely at 8 PM. When I opened the front door the puppy, our Goodwill Ambassador, wriggled through, jumping first on Pete and then on Re-Pete, wagging her tail enthusiastically and slobbering slightly. I saw them exchange a glance and I suddenly remembered a conversation from long ago when Re-Pete explained that having a pet in the house was ”hygienically unacceptable.”
“Disgusting,” Pete had agreed.
Now, I pulled the puppy back far enough to let the Pete’s come into the house. As we exchanged pleasantries, Re-Pete pulled a bottle of Purell out of his pocket and rubbed his hands vigorously before handing the bottle to Pete. My partner and I exchanged glances.
The Pete’s had never seen our new house and they looked around curiously, as though they had landed in an alien environment. “Well,” said Pete after a moment, “it certainly has that ‘lived-in’ look.”
I looked at our house through their eyes, taking in the woodwork that the puppy had chewed when she was eight weeks old and her nose marks on the sliding glass door. I saw the kitten’s bed on one corner of the sofa and the scratches on the wood floor that were very clearly the result of a puppy and a kitten playing tag. I saw two sets of bowls, one set each for the dog and the cat lined up, cafeteria style, on the kitchen floor.
“Charming,” said Re-Pete, knocking thoughtfully on the wall, as though checking for termites. At the sound of his knock the puppy started barking fiercely, and the kitten, startled, jumped on top of the kitchen counter, her refuge in times of stress, and hid behind the salad I had just mixed. Pete gulped audibly. “Really cute,” he said as I deposited the kitten back on the floor.
Before I could respond the puppy ran out of her room with Baby, the horrible, filthy stuffed monkey that is her constant companion and dropped it at Pete’s feet. He kicked it away as though it were infected. The puppy brought it right back. This went on until Pete, grimacing, finally took Baby and hid her under the sofa. “She’s bringing you a present,” my partner said stiffly. “She wants to be friends.” Pete nodded grimly and reached into Re-Pete’s pocket for the Purell. “Lucky me,” he said stiffly.
My partner’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll open the wine,” he said without ceremony, reading my mind. “I’ll check on the lasagna,” I said.
Pete and Re-Pete exchanged distressed looks. “Lasagna?” said Pete. “I’m lactose intolerant now.” “Is it gluten-free?” said Re-Pete. My partner filled his own wine glass first. “Let’s eat!” I said hastily.
We were just passing the bread and salad when I heard a triumphant “meow!” from the back porch. My partner and I exchanged glances because we knew what that sound meant. He shrugged and I shook my head in resignation. A minute later the kitten ran in from the back porch and jumped on the table, a large, horribly active lizard wriggling frantically in her mouth. She made a bee-line for Re-Pete who, I was sure, was about to stand on top of his chair and shriek.
“Look,” I said; “she’s bringing you a present. She wants to be your friend.”
“We have plenty of friends,” said Re-Pete.