by Bark Editors
I couldn’t continue to call him Dewey, and not just because of how much it sounded like Bosco. I didn’t want him going through life hearing that name, given the contexts in which he might have heard it before. So I renamed him Lucas, and he came running the first time I called him. Smart boy.
More must be said about the fact that Lucas wasn’t neutered when I brought him home. Specifically, I must be honest about his testicles. I decided not to have him neutered immediately, because I wasn’t sure of his age (his grown-up teeth were brand-new), and because he was so traumatized. I decided to wait a month and let him settle in. Fay had been spayed, and there was no chance Lucas could get out of our fenced-in yard and make more little hyenas, so I didn’t worry much about it. But I’d never had a, shall we say, intact male dog before. I prefer females (a real dog person would write “bitches” there; oh, and I shall). I prefer bitches. Walk around saying that. The only male dogs I’d had were already taken care of in the reproduction department.
The first thing I noticed about Lucas’s parts was that they were really noticeable. He’d been with us only a couple of weeks when my daughter gave him the nickname Fat Tony, because he swaggered like a wiseguy in the Mob. In fact, he acted in all ways like a mafioso; it had something to do with his demeanor around dogs much larger than he (he came to us weighing about sixteen pounds to Fay’s fifty, for instance), as if he had nothing to talk to them about because he was packing greater heat. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was packing the genuine article, and his testicles were visible with every step he took. I couldn’t get over it. I’d see him run through the house toward the back door: testicles. He’d jump up on the couch with me: there they were. I wasn’t sure where to look.
And also I didn’t know how adorable those little guys can be. Lucas slept sitting up like an old man in a recliner, with his head thrown back. He also snored. He preferred to do this leaning up against me. So one night Kat and I were sitting up late talking; I was in one corner of the couch with Lucas on my lap. He was sound asleep, bent like a question mark. Kat was at the other end of the couch. I pointed out to her (in an educational way) that Lucas’s testicles resembled little furry eggs. I said, “Look! Look how cute they are.” Perhaps I had said this a few times already.
She said, “Yes, Mom, I see them.”
“Do you think he’d notice if I just poked them?”
“Oh for the love of God,” Kat said, exasperated. “No, I don’t think he’d notice.”
So I did that. When Kat tells this story now, she makes a little gesture with her first and middle fingers together and says “poke poke,” which was exactly what I did. They felt like little furry eggs, too, which I took to be a bonus. Lucas not only didn’t mind, he didn’t even stir. He just kept snoring through his black lips. He slept so hard he eventually slid down my left arm and ended up on his side on the couch.
Maybe fifteen minutes had passed, and Kat and I had moved on to more important topics of conversation, like Kant, or the death penalty, something like that, when Kat suddenly leapt off the couch screaming, “OH MY GOD!” and pointing at Lucas.
He was enjoying what I learned in seventh-grade health class to call a nocturnal emission. I’m sorry to say that it wasn’t merely the nocturnal part occurring, but also the emitting. I too jumped up with great haste, but was unsure what to do after that. Does one awaken an ejaculating dog, or does one absolutely not? For his part, Lucas appeared to still be sound asleep (although quite happy). I decided to just let him have his moment, as it were, and headed toward the laundry room for towels and upholstery cleaner. Kat covered her face and said, “I am scarred for life. I am SCARRED for LIFE.”
By the time I got back to the living room, Lucas was awake and seemed confused. I picked him up and put him on the floor, and began cleaning the couch cushion. “Okay,” I said to my daughter, who was by this time pacing, “when you get into therapy in a few years, you’re welcome to say that I poked at the little furry eggs. I encourage you to be honest. But please don’t jumble this all up in your mind and make it look like satanic ritual abuse.” I was afraid of losing the right to ever open a day care.
I eventually had Lucas neutered while I was out of town. That was the only way I could go about it. I never expected to feel the way I did: me! Ms. Neuter All of Them! Including most human men! But when it came right down to it, I didn’t want anyone to hurt Lucas, and I didn’t want some of his little parts to just vanish. I kept thinking of his days at the shelter at the foot of the mountain; how diminished he was when I found him. He’d emerged with almost nothing but his big personality and his, well, other things. And I couldn’t help feeling like he deserved to hold on to what he had, what he’d entered the world with. But in the end, so to speak, I did the right thing. When I came home and saw him prancing around, just a little blank space between his legs, I felt a moment of real sadness, then considered what a better world we might have lived in if someone had done the same thing to Lucas’s former owner. Kinny would have done it at a discount, I’ll bet.
Ball and Chain
[William Wegman]
Dog of the Day
[Laurie Notaro]
MY DOG MAEBY has always gotten good grades.
Every evening when I pull into the driveway at the doggy day care center that she attends, Maeby, a fluffy Aussie/Lab mix, is waiting for me, along with her daily report card.
Although it is fanciful thinking that one day the center might provide classes in “The Mailman Is Only in It for the Pension and Not Your Territory, Therefore the Barking Looks a Little Silly,” “A Fart Is a Fart and Not an Invisible Stench Rocket, So Stop Looking for It,” or “Picking Up Your Own Poop,” my dog consistently got good marks in areas of interest such as playing nicely with others and making new friends, and was apparently well heeled in the saucy arts, since it was reported that the flirty miss had a new boyfriend every week. While I wasn’t exactly proud that my little Lady was shaking it up for the Tramps on the playground, I was delighted when she was promoted to the position of “greeter” at the center, which is a dog who is assigned to play with new dogs in the doggy day care pack to get them adjusted and make their transition easier. She was even asked to participate in a marketing video for the day care center in which, according to her report card, “Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.”
I mean, really. That one is still up on our refrigerator.
So, honestly, I was a little surprised when day after day, week after week, I would pick Maeby up from day care, get her report card, and glance at the chalkboard of honor that stands at the entrance to the center, only to see that the Dog of the Day—the highest honor of distinction that any dog could receive—was proclaimed to be Blackjack.
Last week it had been Mossimo.
The week before it had been Sammie.
The week before that, Ziggy.
The previous week, it went to Hercules Wu, whose parents had once taken our leash because theirs looked similar and then returned it a week later with HERCULES WU written across the back side of it in black permanent marker, along with Hercules Wu’s phone number.
You know, I thought to myself as I drove home with Maeby fast asleep in the back of the car, I don’t know what’s going on here, but something’s got to give. Look at her, so busy greeting and teasing all the boys on the playground that she falls asleep the minute she gets in the car! My dog is a hardworking hussy, pouring her heart out, giving her all, and what does she get in return? A nice report card. A scratch on the ears. That’s not enough, I said to myself; that is not enough for my dog.
“I hate to break it to you,” my husband said that night at dinner after I had voiced my Dog of the Day concerns. “But I highly doubt Maeby is upset about not being The Chosen One. She is far more concerned at the moment with licking the floor where you dropped a hot dog yesterday.”
“That’s not the point,” I argued. “Do you not remember that Maeby was the one who stole the show with her pla
ytime skills? Because if you’ve forgotten, I can show it to you.”
My husband sighed. “She doesn’t know how to spell ‘Maeby,’” he offered. “Just point to the sign the next time you’re there and tell her she is the Dog of the Day.”
I was stunned. “If that’s how you prefer to handle a crisis—with deceit and trickery—then I don’t even want you in this house when I finally have to tell her she’s adopted,” I stuttered.
“Did you ever think,” he finally said, “that maybe those dogs got the distinction because they earned it? That maybe they just gave a little bit extra?”
I gasped, not knowing what to say, but my mind began to race. Was it possible that the other dogs got better grades than Maeby? Could it be true that other dogs contributed more, were harder working? How could that be? Maeby was a greeter, showing new dogs the way, making them feel at ease, helping them with the introduction to the group. That was real dogitarian work. What could the other dogs possibly be doing that could outshine that? Was Sammie brokering peace accords between Indian and Pakistani dogs? Was Mossimo peacefully fighting for the rights of dogs not to be forced into wearing hats and sweaters if they chose not to? Was Blackjack removing land mines, making the playground safe for everyone else? Had Ziggy finally talked Mr. Winkle into retiring? And what was Hercules Wu doing, besides stealing leashes? Was Hercules Wu a greeter? I really doubted it. Was Hercules Wu asked to be in the video? Probably not. Did Hercules Wu steal the show with his playtime skills and his appropriated leash? Not very likely.
So I decided to do the only thing I really could do, and that was ask. I wanted to know what the Dog of the Day criteria were, what the mitigating factors might be, and then tackle the problem from that angle. But when I went to pick Maeby up after her next day at the center, I was not at all prepared for what I saw.
It was an empty chalkboard.
No one had been proclaimed Dog of the Day yet.
This was my—and Maeby’s—chance.
I stood still for a moment, listening. I heard nothing, not the rustling of collars, or leashes, or barking. Everyone, it seemed, was outside on the playground.
Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
I took a step forward toward the front desk.
Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
Where they keep the chalk.
I took another step. And another. And another, my steps becoming quicker as I neared the desk. And the chalk. And my dog’s redemption.
And I saw it, a pink, slim tube of chalk, right there next to the computer keyboard. I was a step or two away from reaching over and grabbing it, because it was lying right there in the open, when I stopped.
Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
It was true. But how would Maeby feel if she knew that I stole the title of Dog of the Day and gave it to her, with her name written all over the back of it in pink chalk? I didn’t take another step. Instead, I waited there for Mandie, the center’s owner, to bring Maeby out with Hercules Wu’s leash, and then told her that Maeby would be coming in an extra day that week because I had finally made an appointment to have my terminally ill nineteen-year-old cat, Barnaby, cross over into the Kitty Light. It would be better if she spent that day shaking her milkshake on the playground at the likes of Ziggy and Blackjack, I told Mandie, than to be at our house when something sad was going to happen.
And I was right; the day we sent Barnaby to a hereafter stocked with an all-you-can-eat buffet of Fancy Feast and Pounce was awfully sad, beginning with the moment we brought Maeby over to his cat bed to say good-bye to him. She nudged him gently, licked his head, sat and waited for Hercules Wu’s leash, and was off to day care.
When I went to pick her up later that day, I couldn’t wait to see her. Although Barnaby’s passing couldn’t have gone any smoother due to our sympathetic and patient vet, it was as emotional as any experience of letting a friend of nineteen years go could be. My eyes were red and puffy when I arrived, and as I walked into the lobby, Maeby bounded in through the side door.
“What a good girl!” I said as I scratched behind her ears and she jumped and hopped around with excitement. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“That’s not all you should see,” Mandie said, and I looked up to see her pointing away from us.
I looked in that direction, and that’s when I saw it. The chalkboard, on which Maeby’s name was written in pink, swirly letters.
“You’re Dog of the Day?” I asked as she jumped and I jumped a little too, as I petted her head and she panted with excitement. “That’s wonderful! Look at that! Maeby is Dog of the Day!”
Mandie handed over the leash and we were just about to walk out the door when I realized I still had a question and was dying for the answer.
“So,” I said before I pushed the door all the way open. “How do you know who’s Dog of the Day? In what way do you judge who deserves it?”
Mandie laughed. “It’s not who ‘deserves’ it,” she explained as she smiled. “It’s who needs it the most.”
“Oh,” I said as I smiled back. “I think that’s a great way. That’s really nice. Thank you.”
“Don’t forget her report card,” Mandie said as she pulled it from her pocket. “Maeby has two new boyfriends on the playground, you know.”
[Back from scattering birds, all dogs swagger a bit.—Dan Liebert]
Home on the Mange
[Neal Pollack]
ONE NIGHT IN January, my family sat on the couch, watching television. We’d just moved to Los Angeles and we knew almost no one. A terrible freezing rainstorm had driven us inside; we cuddled for warmth and friendship.
There was a knock at the door.
My wife, Regina, and I looked at each other, a little annoyed and a little fearful. In our previous neighborhood, in Austin, Texas, we’d been constantly bothered at home by people asking us for money. One night I’d chased a couple of guys off my lawn because they were fighting over a prostitute. Then, the week we’d moved into this rental, Regina had answered the door to reveal a one-armed woman who was asking for money to benefit the family of a teenage girl who’d been slain in some random act of gang violence. Regina gave her a dollar. A panicked call to the neighborhood beat officer later revealed that this had been a scam. All the gang violence had moved either six blocks to the east or to the south, he assured us.
We’d learned to be skeptical of knocks at the door. But on nights like this, even scam artists stayed home. So I got up.
Through the slats of our door-length plastic blinds, I saw the French-woman who lived in the house behind us. A Ph.D. candidate in bioengineering at USC, she made a good neighbor: quiet, rarely home, and prone to taking weeklong surfing trips to Hawaii. We were friendly enough with her, though she never thanked us for the Christmas cookies we left on her doorstep.
“I have a leetle problem,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“Eet’s a dog.”
She opened the door further. Behind her was a medium-sized terrier. Its white fur had been torn away in chunks from its torso, leaving a hideous vista of red-raw skin and sores and eminently visible bones. The dog was soaked and desperate to come inside; it stank like an entire animal shelter full of filth, with that certain kind of desperate putridity that presages death.
“Eet followed me home,” she said. “I don’t know much about dogs.”
“We have a dog!” I said proudly.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
Our dog was a neckless Boston Terrier named Hercules. His hobbies included eating cat barf, licking my ankles under the bedcovers, and moping on the couch. When we did take him for walks, we had to lift him over puddles because he was afraid of water. Particularly compared with the other dogs in this neighborhood, hungry-looking Pit Bulls and Boxers who spent their entire lives shitting in concrete lots enclosed by wro
ught iron, Hercules was really more Muppet than dog. Owning him hardly qualified me as an expert in canine care.
But I’d only been in town for two weeks, and was feeling neutered and useless. This was the perfect mission to break my slump. A great surge of heroism and duty welled in my chest. I began barking orders.
“Regina! Get me some dog food! And a bowl! No! Two bowls! And a towel! And some treats and some doggie shampoo! We’re going to clean this mutt up!”