Howl

by Bark Editors

  Breed origins: Of an ancient lineage, the friendly Liberal may be ultimately descended from primitive Gimme Dogs in Wales and northeast Germany.

  Bernaise Mountain Sauce Dog

  The handsome Bernaise will guard ½ cup white wine vinegar and was historically used to draw carts filled with 5 shallots, minced, and at least 2 T. minced fresh tarragon. It is an excellent herding dog, particularly with ½ tsp. white pepper, but is equally willing to gather 4 egg yolks, ½ cup of boiling water, and even 1 cup of warm clarified butter. It uses its size and strength to beat constantly with a wire whisk. Keeping the butter at the same temperature as the egg mixture can modify a tendency toward unprovoked aggression.

  Breed origins: An altogether ancient breed, it is said to be descended from the complex Hollandaise Dog.

  Britney Mouseketeer Spaniel

  This most popular breed enjoys worldwide renown, not the least of which comes from its distinctive seminudity combined with the charm of a relatively empty head. The dog excels in mindless whispering while performing cheerleading lap dances. It inhabits huge stadiums and Internet dreams, where it can be readily Googled. It should not drive an automobile. The standard is for the dog to be heavyset, notwithstanding its tendency toward bulimic behavior. Easily bred, waterproof, and steadfast, it will endure pointless marriages of very short duration.

  Breed origins: The Britney almost died out in the early years of this century, but was reconstituted in larger form by determined American breeders. These dogs were originally used to haul in the floating nets of Armenian fishermen on the Elephantine Coast.

  Iditarod Refugee Dog

  This active Spitz-type dog, described by Jack London in The Abysmal Race(1919), is strong and athletic and will happily battle anyone in its pack at the flimsiest excuse. Still, this furtive charmer is frightened of sleds and will try to go south given any small opportunity. Shy and timid, it especially distrusts TV crews and has bad dreams about lonely athletic women who love dogs to the exclusion of everything else. One interesting trait is that of refusing to be numbered. The breed has been known to demand lucrative television contracts. At its worst, it simply runs away.

  Breed origins: This large dog originated in motels along highways leaving Alaska. It was originally bred for hauling loads of bulk gold bullion in impossible weather at high speed with only minimal amounts of dog food available.

  Insatiable American Food Hound

  Now said to be the most common of all American dogs, the Insatiable is quickly gaining acceptance worldwide, thanks to the rapid proliferation of delicious dog food to all corners of the globe. This breed, more than any other, recognizes the urgent need for dog food and demands it upon every occasion. These animals can purchase airline tickets, rent cars, and open cans, especially the pull-tab variety, in their quest for more and more dog food. Certainly stalking is the ancient origin for this behavior, but the viewing of television food commercials—something this dog will do for hours—has largely taken the place of lynx, bear, and vermin hunting.

  Breed origins: At one time, nearly every small town had at least one of these dogs. When each had two, and their sexes were not the same, expansion of the breed was inevitable.

  [A dog’s reasons are always reasonable to a dog.—Dan Liebert]

  The Good Place: A Play in One Act

  [Roy Blount Jr.]

  The stage is all green. Here and there, above, is a puffy white cloud. Soft, pleasant music plays. A man in a dark suit, MICHAEL, is lying flat on his back at center stage. He begins to stir, then sits up suddenly.

  MICHAEL

  Where am I? All I remember is—oh!

  (wincing, noticing a lily in his hand)

  But where…? Hey!

  A mixed-breed, self-possessed dog, SASHA, enters, and starts licking his face.

  Michael, delighted, pets Sasha.

  MICHAEL

  Hey, there, fella. Nice dog! Can this be…? It must be! I’m in heaven!

  And there’s dogs!

  SASHA

  (stops licking)

  Welcome.

  MICHAEL

  (jumping to his feet)

  Talking dogs!

  SASHA

  Yes, you and I can converse. But only during Orientation.

  MICHAEL

  “Converse.” I love it—and it makes sense, you know? Because maybe I wasn’t so good to people all the time—but that was mostly Wilson, my partner, who did the rough stuff…. But I was always nice to dogs.

  SASHA

  That’s why you’re here, Mike.

  MICHAEL

  I knew it! I always thought, there’s something in a dog’s eyes…if a person truly honors the eyes of a dog…You know my name, huh? Wow. But Michael. It’s Michael.

  He looks around, blissfully.

  I always wanted to talk to dogs. Tell me, what’s it like? Being, you know, a dog.

  SASHA

  Here, it’s cool. On earth, some complaints.

  MICHAEL

  Tell me about it. The things I had to do, to make a living! I guess I must’ve never seriously hurt anybody, though, all that much. Wilson, okay, Wilson was a thug. I would tell him, Wilson, you’ve got to clean up your act, that stuff you pull reflects on both of us—and sure enough, he got whacked. Me, though—well, I did too, get whacked, true, but…Hey, I just realized…

  SASHA

  For instance, when people go out, and leave us all day in little apartments—just take us out briefly “for a walk,” so we won’t soil their floors. On a leash, so we can be pulled away from checking out the smells. The SMELLS. That’s the sweetest part of outdoors, the smells. Duh. A walk to a person is a straight line, toward—who knows what? Not toward smells, that’s for sure.

  MICHAEL

  …I don’t have to worry about what I did anymore. I made it to the good place!

  SASHA

  Smells, people jerk us away from. Food, people linger over. If you could watch people eat through the eyes of a dog—it’s disgusting, all that slowwww chewing. People know we’re watching! People know we’re salivating! But they just draagggg it out, and talk, and nibble, and fiddle with…what are those things, spoons and things. But when people leave something lying around that cries out to be chewed on, and so, of course, we chew on it, we get yelled at. Shoes. How can people walk around in shoes, and not want to eat them?

  MICHAEL

  (looking around, not really listening)

  Wow.

  SASHA

  And throwing a stick, like, twice? A dog can fetch a stick forever. And people want to throw it twice? Mike! Are you listening?

  MICHAEL

  Hmm? Oh, yeah. I guess people have more time up here, huh?

  SASHA

  They have forever.

  MICHAEL

  So I was essentially a good person. This is all just so…

  SASHA

  It takes some getting used to. People have to get over their earthly selves.

  MICHAEL

  (chuckling)

  Oh, is that so? So tell me about yourself—what breed are you?

  SASHA

  I’ll answer that with a question. What breed are you?

  MICHAEL

  Oh…Scots-Irish on my father’s side, mostly, except his grandmother was of Dutch extraction. On my mother’s—

  SASHA

  You could say I’m a Cockapoogle-Labmation.

  MICHAEL

  That’s some mix.

  SASHA

  Inbreeding is no dog’s idea, Mike. My last puppies were with a Boston-spitzihuahua.

  MICHAEL

  Puppies? It’s Michael, by the way. Puppies. There’s, uh, sex in heaven?

  SASHA

  You’d prefer to play the harp?

  MICHAEL

  Sex in heaven! Hot dog! Sorry. You know, you remind me of a dog I had when I was a kid. I think I’ll call you—

  SASHA

  Sasha. My name is Sasha.

  MICHAEL

  So
rry, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not used to talking dogs.

  SASHA

  That’s why we have Orientation.

  MICHAEL

  (petting her on the back)

  Which is really cute, by the way, for a dog—for you, I mean, to be my Orientater. But I was thinking, like speaking of sex. For instance. Or just generally meeting…people. Where do I go—

  SASHA

  Not there. The good place.

  MICHAEL

  (stops petting)

  Excuse me?

  SASHA

  Base of each ear, and in between. More of a kneading action.

  MICHAEL

  Well lah-di-dah, Miss Sasha. Base of the ears, it is.

  He addresses himself to that area. And chuckles as he follows her instructions.

  SASHA

  Mmm. Little farther back. Now both hands, both ears. A little harder. Not that hard. There, that’s pretty good. We can work on that. Now, Mike, the belly, light rubbing.

  She rolls over on her back.

  MICHAEL

  You got it. But, it’s Michael.

  He rubs her belly.

  MICHAEL

  You haven’t been missing any meals, I see. What do you eat up here?

  SASHA

  Squirrel.

  MICHAEL

  Oh! Somehow, I didn’t think…

  SASHA

  You expected ambrosia?

  MICHAEL

  I don’t know, I just—it’s not exactly heaven for the squirrels, huh?

  SASHA

  What a ridiculous notion.

  MICHAEL

  I guess. Enough rubbing?

  SASHA

  No.

  MICHAEL

  (rubbing some more)

  Oh, yeah, you like that, don’t you? So. Where do I go from here?

  SASHA

  (standing)

  You’re free to roam. Don’t worry, I smell you wherever.

  MICHAEL

  (chuckling, looking around)

  That’s okay for you, but—I don’t see any buildings. I don’t even see any trees.

  SASHA

  Trees? Trees would be heaven for squirrels. I smell one now! Squirrel! Squirrel!

  Sasha takes off running, barking.

  MICHAEL

  Hey, come back! Sasha! You come back here! Doggone that dog. Hey, there’s somebody…

  (waving his arms)

  Helloooo! Brother!

  He blinks, taken aback by what he sees approaching, which we see suddenly: a vicious man, dressed in rags, bursting onstage, thrusting his face into Michael’s and growling.

  MICHAEL

  Get back! What is this? Wait a minute! Wilson?

  WILSON

  (slowly circling)

  Grrrrrrr…

  MICHAEL

  You’re here? What kind of heaven—

  Wilson jumps on Michael and starts pummeling him and trying to steal his suit.

  MICHAEL

  Help! Get off!

  Sasha runs up.

  SASHA

  Quit that fighting! Willy! Mike! I had to stop chasing that wonderfully pungent squirrel to come over here and deal with you two. What do you think we’re going to eat, if you interfere with my work? Shame on you.

  Wilson stops pummeling. He and Michael pick themselves up—Wilson looking guilty, Michael dusting himself off, looking dumbfounded.

  MICHAEL

  Git!

  Wilson gits.

  MICHAEL

  Be thankful you’re not a stray.

  MICHAEL

  Look here, Sasha, you can’t talk to me like that. Enough of this “conversing” with, I’m sorry, but after all: a dog. Take me to somebody who can explain…Wh-whuh…what…kind…uhf…. Whuhf.

  SASHA

  Orientation’s over, Mike—don’t let me catch you fighting with that Willy again. And get your throwing arm warmed up, there’s a good fella.

  MICHAEL

  (struggling to speak)

  Whuh-uh—Wuff. Woof. Woof?

  SASHA

  (softening, rubbing herself against his leg)

  Come on, boy, stop oozing fear, it throws off the scent of—

  She sniffs. Turns.

  Another squirrel! I’ve got to run!

  She runs off.

  MICHEAL

  Woof! Woof! Ah-oooooooooo.

  Curtain

  Untitled

  [Gary Baseman]

  This Dog’s Life

  [J. P. Lacrampe]

  WE EXPRESSLY TOLD Emily, “No.” “Absolutely not.” “We’re not mature enough.” “We’re too poor.” “Never home.” “Completely irresponsible.” “Barely able to care for ourselves.” “No way.”

  The next day there he was—tiny and freckled and whimpering in a cardboard box in our clapboard kitchen, six weeks old: a beautiful Dalmatian puppy. A Nerf ball with eyes and a tail.

  Seven of us—five boys and two girls—lived in largely self-imposed squalor in a five-bedroom house in Tempe, Arizona—the host-town of Arizona State University. The house itself was not bad: three large-size bedrooms and two smaller ones. In back, it had a screen-window solarium, the screens long since shredded from misuse. And a kidney-shaped swimming pool, which, during our short tenure, had turned an unfortunate and hesitating shade of lime-green. The place was trashed.

  Individually, the seven of us may not have been slobs, but, as a collective, our house was an atrocity—an unkempt monument to filth. Weeks of grunge-caked dishes towered in Pisa-ian leans on our kitchen counter. Bags and boxes of fast food scuttled the floors. Half-empty beer bottles patrolled the furniture, unclaimed.

  So, it wasn’t so much the place, as it was us—our gross negligence and irresponsibility. Our major concern with this being, that if we have trouble taking care of a large, stationary, and inanimate object, what sort of chance do we stand with a delicate and eclectically mobile puppy?

  Collectively, of course, we caved. We caved the way anyone does when confronted by a soft ball of fluff and snivels—immediately and absolutely. We peered into that cardboard box, and our snarls of protest miraculously ceased. “Just look at him!” we said. “Isn’t he adorable?” A twenty-year-old’s version of “Oh, can’t we pleeease keep him?”

  And suddenly—collectively—we were dog owners.

  So, the seven residents of 2012 South Kachina congregated in referendum to name our newest and least bipedal member. From the corner store, elder Duncan purchased a 30-pack of Milwaukee’s Best—the beer to act as the group’s chief facilitator—and, with all of us huddled around the cardboard box, our meeting was called to order.

  The suggestions immediately poured forth: “Benito?” No. “Hatchet?” No. “Charlie Rose [the TV was on]?” No. “Leftwich?” No. “Lothar?” No. “Lewis-Meriwether?” Ehn.

  More beer; more suggestions: “Whatadog?” “Vache?” “Doctor T?” “Whistle?” “Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” “My Liege?” “Dexedrine [Terrence was ADHD]?” “Lord Nelson?” “Doglodyte?” “Yip-Yap?” “Worry?” “The Hydrant?” “Robot?” “Ro bot?”

  And there he was—Robot.

  Our little Robot.

  Sure, objections were voiced; words like “potty-trained” evoked in a cautionary, questioning manner. For it was unanimously decided that we’d enough shit in our house without any need for the more literal form. Cleanliness was already a hot-button issue for some (albeit, purely in its vocal form), and the addition of a puppy seemed a lot like trying to clean a dirty window with a dirtier rag—cute, but counterproductive.

  Yet, one look at our puppy’s blazingly white-and-black-spotted coat and it was hard to imagine Robot as being anything but clean. He seemed immaculate. Radioactive, even. Plus, there were our impromptu housekeeping solutions: “We could train him to be some sort of canine-maid.” “Or teach him to chew a stick and push him around like a Swiffer.”

  Our little cleaning Robot.

  The fears of messiness were misplaced. And, in subs
equent months, while the seven of us remained completely smitten with Robot—shamelessly parading him around ASU’s campus or at parties—it was becoming clear that he wanted out of the entire situation. As Robot outgrew his puppy-box, I think he became disillusioned over the fact that the cardboard-kennel he was to leave behind comprised the house’s cleanest spot. Our dog, it seemed, appreciated a different sort of lifestyle than the one he had been unluckily borne into. Robot, funny enough, liked clean carpet. And fresh smells. And the calm of quiet solitude. He was sort of like Jack Lemmon in a fancy fur coat—completely exasperated to be cohabitating with seven Walter Matthaus.

  And so, our beloved Robot would barricade himself in Emily’s relatively clean and quiet room—exiting only for matters of food and business. It was largely a self-imposed exile that we all hoped would soon end. We all hoped that our little Robo would grow to accept us; grow to enjoy the pros and cons of commune-style living—the joys of not doing the dishes until Flag Day.

  Robot had his own plans.

  His first attempts at escape were primitive, simple. A door left ajar, a window slid open too far and Robot was vamoose in a black-speckled and furry flash—his tongue waving “Ciao” as he sprinted from the malt-sour smell and garbage-strewn linoleum of our house into the sweet, crisp air of Arizona’s winter.