A Man, His Dog and His Woman

If there were three things Sidney Altman loved more than anything, it was his bathroom, his dog and his woman. Apparently in that order.

This has caused something of a problem.

Altman made millions selling bathroom fixtures in West Hollywood until his death two years ago, which explains his first love.

His second love was Samantha, a cocker spaniel, and his third love was his blond girlfriend, Marie Dana.

That sequence of affection is revealed by the fact that when Altman passed on to the Great Bathroom in the Clouds he left Samantha $350,000 and his house in Beverly Hills. He left Dana an annual stipend of $60,000, but only if she cares for the dog until it dies. After that, she’s on her own.

This has naturally made her a little nervous since Samantha is 75 in dog years and not likely to live forever.

Well, yes, Dana was left another $50,000 to redecorate the house and to go on a shopping spree, but that, by her measure, wasn’t good enough.

She is suing for half of Altman’s $6-million estate, claiming to have been his lifelong companion, a term which in today’s lexicon, could mean anything from his lover to his golf partner.

Altman described her in his will as “my good friend,” a status one level below man’s best friend, traditionally his dog.

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I mention this today to emphasize the height of passion to which we have risen in our love of animals. I am especially sensitive to the existing climate of animal love because I am under attack by iguana people.

By that, I do not mean creatures in a 1952 science fiction movie, but those who, for peculiar reasons of their own, keep iguanas as pets.

I have earned their antipathy due to a recent column in which I addressed the question of what to do with a surfeit of iguanas in America. I suggested we eat them.

This is not a new idea. Iguana stew, for instance, goes back 400 years, earlier than either Rice-a-Roni or Hamburger Helper, two Valley favorites, but iguana lovers were still offended by my suggestion.

One even asked over the Internet, “We also have an excess of elderly people in nursing homes. Should we eat them too?”

The column was published in a magazine called “Serpents” to which, alas, I do not subscribe. My comments triggered a response by those who own computers and who, while not busy petting their lizards, spend their time replying to anti-iguana tirades.

I wasn’t suggesting in the article that one eat his personal iguana anymore than I would suggest eating one’s personal chicken if Chickie were your child’s favorite friend. But we do eat non-personal chickens, cows, pigs, ducks, frogs, eels and sheep, so why not an iguana?

Roasted slowly over a low fire.

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An iguana is not like a dog. You don’t snuggle with an iguana if you’re a whole human being, and you don’t take your iguana for a walk. Also, to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever left his estate to an iguana, but stories of dogs inheriting money pop up everywhere.

For instance, in Rockville, N.M., Master Teddy, a white spitz, was left $102,000 and a house. In Anchorage, Alaska, an English bulldog named Butch was left $98,500 to keep him on his regular diet of fried chicken, scrambled eggs, cottage cheese and ice water until his death.

Then there’s Samantha, who has a house and probably the finest bathroom fixtures in L.A. Her deceased owner, Sidney Altman, was famous for having put a waterfall in one bathroom. And while Samantha may be a very nice doggie, I doubt that she deserves all that more than Marie. Think about it.

I have a dog named Barkley whom I love dearly but I would not leave him the house. I would leave him dog food, dog treats and the old leather chair he considers his. He sits on it and looks around, wondering where he is.

Barkley is not the smartest dog in the world. We even have to teach him to bark. He makes a kind of a faint yowling-yipping sound which makes us suspicious of his capabilities as a guard dog. My wife is trying to teach him. She sits on the floor and barks for him. He yowl-yips in return.

“Perhaps,” she says, despairing of his inabilities, “we should give him my side of the bed and I’ll roam the yard at night.”

That’s a right generous offer. When I die, I’ll leave her the house and both bathrooms. But Barkley gets the chair.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Tuesdays and Fridays. He can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com