While Marvin and Leo reunited—no tears or thrown chairs, but we do think the two recognized each other—Tara told Jason that she had herself tried to adopt Marvin, but we had beaten her to the application. When she lost out, the owner of the rescue offered an alternative: Marvin’s previous owners had maxed out on the number of pets allowed in their new home and had surrendered not just Mavin, but one of his sons too. Did Tara want him? She scooped up Leo, who had come to New York in the same transport as Marvin. A few weeks later, another son became available, and Tara match-made the rescue with Anne.
It took Jason a few minutes to recover from the shock. (Did this make us . . . Leo’s grandparents?) But when he did, he called me from the sidewalk to scream-recount all this, which is what a person does in response to discovering that his dog fathered children at 10 months old. Jason and Tara exchanged numbers; Anne and I were soon added to a text thread. We gathered dad and sons a month or two later at a dog run near the Museum of Natural History—a neutral space. Marvin did not demonstrate a ton of paternal instinct, but genetics don’t lie. All three dogs stand on their hind legs, bark at rollerbladers in Central Park, and bear a striking resemblance to the fictional canine character Benji, star of the 1974 film Benji with a cameo in the 1976 flick Hawmps!
The reunion attracted a bit of attention, with Marvin, Leo, and Murray passing through a dubious New York rite of passage: Having their photo in the New York Post. o. In the true spirit of dramatic day-time television, we did later confirm their relationship via a dog DNA test. Marvin is believed to have mated with a rather noble Bichon Frisé mix. He turns out to have no trace of terrier blood at all. He’s a chihuahua-poodle mix. So far, Marvin has been able to maintain a low profile and carries his modest internet fame with grace.
We have gotten the clan back together a few times, although it’s harder now that Leo (with Tara) has left New York. Father-son relationships—fraught! Jason sometimes wonders about their previous lives in Texas, but I know Marvin, like Nora Ephron, Philip Roth, and Isaac Bashevis Singer before him, was meant to end up on the Upper West Side. He knows how to drive a narrative.
Marvin is five now, and—as befits a dog who lives within walking distance of Zabar’s in a neighborhood overrun with AARP subscriptions—has developed a series of gastrointestinal issues in addition to his angst. Jason and I continue to find him enchanting. So do a lot of other people, except for women with backpacks.