Howl

by Bark Editors

Dog shows are a blessing and an addiction, no doubt. But in truth, every dog is a good dog simply by virtue of his dogginess. Anyone who’s ever noted the uncanny resemblance between the eyes of Jesus and those of a Golden Retriever knows there’s an air of the holy, of the uncanny and blessed, that hovers over the canine world. Go. Look into your dog’s eyes, and it’s there. It says, “I forgive you. I forgive you everything you’ve ever done and will ever do. I forgive you my empty water bowl and the night you went home with that accountant instead of coming back here and walking me. I forgive you for failing the bar exam the first time around. I forgive you your crooked teeth. I am your dog, and my love is unconditional, man.”

  It’s no coincidence that “God” spelled backward is “dog.” And now a final confession: Westminster was grand, and I love me a good Shar-Pei. But I believe the holiest of dogs is, beyond a doubt, the mutt. Preferably a mutt with lopsided ears, a missing eye, and one gimpy leg. Sui generis muttology rules! When will we have a dog show celebrating the wonders of the wholly unique? (Cut to: Neva weeping while a Dachshund/Terrier mix grants absolution.)

  As you’ve doubtlessly guessed from the depth of my obsession, I am currently dogless. I do have resources to feed my habit, however. I will now share my favorite with you, because canine evangelism is a good thing. Go to virtualpetadoption.com and admire the gallery of four-footed wonders. Marvel at Tutti Frutti, the grinning quasi–Pit Bull. Do a Snoopy dance over Carson, the Basset Hound/Retriever mix. Coo at Maddie, equal parts Chihuahua, Dachshund, and Terrier. Scrutinize Ponzo, who is listed as a black Lab but looks more like an amalgam of seal and Martian. Revel in the pleasures of all things dog and, if the mood takes you and circumstances permit, adopt one or more of these glorious specimens. Remember: all dogs go to heaven, and if you work it right, they might take you with them.

  Now, if you’re prepared, the ultimate in muttology and species fusion: www.humandescent.com. I lack the adjectives to describe this site, operated out of Sussex, England, by a guy named Martin. Let’s just say Martin likes beer, salted nuts, potato chips, and creating animal images that are…well, they’re…hmmm. Let’s just say opposable thumbs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and leave it at that.

  Let the Heeling Begin

  [Bill Scheft]

  ENOUGH.

  I was about to enter my third decade of psychotherapy when my nutritionist gave me a cheap calculator for Hanukkah. I began crunching the numbers. Conservatively: 45 sessions a year at an average of $80 per session over 20 years. Adjusting for inflation and global warming, I came up with a figure that contained more zeroes than the house on Big Brother.

  Freud once said, “The best therapist is the one inside ourselves.” Spoken like a guy with a lousy HMO. But the man was not wrong. That’s why I decided to rid myself of all the couch jockeys and start seeing someone who would only listen, not judge, and always be happy to see me. My neighbor’s dog, Trotsky.

  So, for the last six months, once a week, faithful as the Latin I definition of “Fido,” I let myself in to Norman Spiegel’s junior-4, sit opposite Trotsky, and speak my conscious mind for fifty minutes. Trotsky’s technique, while unorthodox, has yielded unquestionable results. I feel the need to share excerpts from my postsession journals in the hope that others will benefit, and, as I have, be able to reintegrate themselves into society. A humane society.

  18 January 07

  My first session went incredibly fast—at least for me. I spoke mostly of my privileged upbringing and I was afraid Trotsky, part Border Collie, part Harrier, would not be able to relate, being the product of a decidedly working-class background. But I mistook his docility for confusion. Hardly! He was especially attentive when I spoke of my half-year at Park Country Day, a school for bronchially challenged boys. In fact, every time I mentioned “Park,” or used the phrase “coughing boys,” Trotsky excitedly jumped to his feet. I was only at Park for four months, but it is suddenly clear to me that this is an emotional field that has lain fallow too long.

  1 February 07

  I think I was given my first test today, and I’m afraid I failed. For over half the session, Trotsky stared at me, while a clump of something that looked like potting soil and Russian dressing hung from his usually kempt white goatee. I said nothing, so desperate for his approval that I would risk the uncomfortable silence. Finally, Trotsky got up and walked out of the room. Just walked out. I looked at my watch. Only thirty-six minutes. I sat for the remaining fourteen minutes, then left. I said nothing. I did not call out. I did not yell. I did not complain. I did not stand up for myself. Again.

  8 February 07

  Session cut short when Trotsky got sick on the kitchen floor. Took exactly fifty minutes to clean up, so I guess that counts as free association. Only theme we picked up on from last week was when I wiped up under the oven and found an empty bottle of Russian dressing.

  8 March 07

  Steady progress, which I attribute to one of two things: My growing sense of trust in Trotsky, and the realization that my abandonment issues have more to do with me leaving people than with people leaving me. It’s either that, or the dried pig’s ear I bring every week and lay at my feet, which takes Trotsky over an hour to chew through.

  Of course! I need to chew on the tough issues! Even after my fifty minutes are up! Such understated blatancy.

  (Note: Bring dipping sauce for pig’s ear next week. Russian dressing?)

  17 April 07

  Okay, I’ll say it. Trotsky is wise beyond his eighty-four years. In the past, I thought his constant fang-splayed yawns were rude rather than constructive, and his herding me into the less comfortable straight-backed chair was gratuitously obstinate rather than what it was, a practical demonstration of boundary setting. (One Collie’s border is another man’s boundary.) But today, he outdid himself. When I started in on how I found it irksome that my super is letting himself into my apartment every afternoon to take naps, Trotsky kicked a tennis ball at me. When I tried to pick it up, he grabbed it in his mouth. We struggled off and on for the next twenty minutes, until I began mimicking the sound he kept making. Grrrrr. Grrrr. Grrrrr. Suddenly, the ball was gone, but I was still making the sound. And I have not stopped, even as I write this.

  I am NOT irked. I am NOT miffed. I am NOT not thrilled. I AM angry. I need to experience my anger. And I need to buy a tennis ball.

  1 May 07

  Well, it finally happened. Trotsky fell asleep in the middle of the session. Did I say middle? Ten minutes in, Trotsky’s breathing got noticeably heavier, and his extra-dry cappuccino ears flopped over his eyes like a night mask. He was out. Twice, I woke him with a sharp yelp of “Kitty!” (My new attempts to experience anger can lapse into cruelty.) Both times Trotsky’s eyes only stayed open for the amount of time it took to adjust his squirrel-chasing-toned torso. I then tried rousing him by doing an impression of an electric can opener, which was not only unconvincing, but aggravated a canker. The whole process exhausted me, which I know now was the point. Trotsky was encouraging me to probe my subconscious in his presence. I dropped off deeply for a solid half hour, and when he subtly buried his snout into my groin to nudge me awake, we still had a bit of time left for me to tell him the dream I had while under. I’m sure we’ll delve further next week, so I’ll just give broad strokes now: It’s me, in a lingerie store, trying to buy a bowl of soup, when Trotsky walks in on his hind legs, tail cinched at his waist, blond highlights in his ears, leading former Attorney General John Ashcroft around on a leash.

  22 May 07

  Trotsky met me at the door, as always, but immediately ran into the hall and ducked into the elevator just before it closed. I ran down the stairs and beat him into the lobby, where he raced past me out onto Fifty-sixth Street, squatted, and left a rather large package in front of where Benihana used to be. I gave the super $10 and said if he cleaned it up I wouldn’t have his ass fired for taking naps in my bed.

  When I walked back into the lobby, Trotsky was holding the
elevator for me. He jumped up and hit the button for our floor. As I got off and waited for him, Trotsky looked up from orally scrubbing the loading dock of his digestive system and sighed. I let the elevator doors close. I knew.

  My neighbor Norman Spiegel goes away every Memorial Day weekend to Brighton Beach. He takes Trotsky with him.

  I don’t know when they’ll be back.

  I don’t know when I’ll be back. We never made another appointment.

  Hey, maybe I’m cured. If that’s the case, from now on, when I see him, it’ll be clear that our relationship is purely social. I’ll say, “Hey, it’s Trotsky!” and he’ll go back to licking me unconditionally.

  Come to think of it, he never did respond when I called him “doctor.”

  Recently Retired Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan Warns His New Puppy Against “Irrational Exuberance”

  [Michael Ward]

  MEMORANDUM

  TO: Roark

  FROM: Your buddy Al

  DATE: October 21, 2006

  RE: The Challenge of Stabilizing Your Exuberance Level Throughout Your Continuing Development

  In the two months since I obtained you from the shelter, I have had ample opportunity to collect data on your behavior, and I have to report that I am, for the most part, quite pleased so far.

  Although you initially had numerous problems with excessive liquidity, you have done an impressive job of developing internal controls, as well as external communications to provide others enough warning to take preventive action.

  Your early problems of insufficient consumption also proved to be transitory. In fact, your consumption has grown so fast that we may need to switch to a stance of tightening our policy so you can avoid excess weight that might put unnecessary drag upon you. Another area where you have made admirable progress is your risk profile. Initially, I was worried that you had a distinct tendency to underweight situational risk. Whether it was wandering casually toward the freeway or nipping at the tail of a 120-pound Pit Bull, you displayed a distinct inability to assess potential threats. Fortunately, you seem to have made measurable progress in this area, even if it did take the claws of a large tabby to focus your attention on this matter.

  All in all, I must applaud the upward trend of most relevant indicators for your development from puppyhood to maturity.

  There is, however, one aspect of your behavior that does portend some trouble, and that is your continuing irrational exuberance. While it is understandable that immediately after your arrival you would find everything to cause the most extreme excitement, it seems like a threshold may have been crossed where your excitement must stabilize.

  So that you do not think I am issuing this warning without cause, let me enumerate a few examples. When you enter a room, your current practice involves sprinting full speed to each person in the room in turn, jumping onto him or her, and then proceeding to the next one. Although this was laudable behavior in your earlier days, it is time to consider a more restrained entrance and greeting policy.

  Another case where your exuberance occasionally crosses into irrationality involves flying objects. While there are many cases where flying objects in your vicinity are intended for your pursuit, this is not always the case. A less exuberant stance toward flying objects would allow you to discern more accurately which objects were not intended for your pursuit.

  The final example involves ingestion. The enthusiasm you display upon finding any biodegradable substance within reach of your mouth creates a potential health hazard. Your current protocol of treating any substance that can be devoured as one that must be devoured exuberantly is unsustainable and should be revisited without delay.

  Although I offer these examples and this gentle warning, it is not my intention to move you “dogmatically” to an entirely nonexuberant posture. Quite the contrary. Exuberance in a dog is frequently the appropriate demeanor. My warning applies only to situations where such exuberance is irrational.

  I suppose that you could argue that my logic is untenable due to the incessant problem in economics of defining “rationality” and “irrationality.” You could claim that a strong definition of rationality requires that I make improper assumptions about preferences, and that a weak definition forces me into the tautology of declaring that all choices must be rational because they were chosen. You could make these arguments, but I do not believe you will, because you are a puppy.

  Since corrective action is always less difficult and less complicated when taken early, I am offering you this mild warning to assist you in planning appropriate steps. Now let’s play fetch.

  Kill Jerry

  [Anthony Head]

  MY DOG DIED last night. I knew it would happen, and I talked with him all about it beforehand. I even trained him for it. But we really didn’t know what it would be like until we both arrived at the preapproved location, a miniature-golf course.

  As we walked through the magic castle arcade, which led to the tiny putting greens, someone asked, “Oh, is that Ruthy?” I said it was, even though my Beagle’s name is Jerry.

  I noticed that the man wore a telephone headset as he bent over to scratch Jerry behind the ears. “We buried you the other day,” he cooed in that cutesy voice people use when speaking to dogs. “Tom,” he barked into the mouthpiece, “the dog’s here. Can you read me?” Then he turns to me and says, “Okay. Time to die.” Jerry smiled—he does that—and flipped his tail in the air like he was tracing his name in the sky.

  I was a little confused. I knew we were all here to kill Jerry—Ruthy, that is—but I wasn’t aware that he’d already been buried. I guess that’s Hollywood.

  You see, I live in Los Angeles and my dog was discovered this year. It happened just like in the movies, when some young hopeful starlet is discovered in a diner. Only in our case, the diner was a sidewalk and none of us have Lana Turner’s legs. We were walking in our neighborhood when a guy approached and chatted me up about the dogs. (I was also with Clark, my Weimaraner, who plays no significant role in this story.)

  He starts sizing up Jerry, literally measuring him with his hands and squeezing his belly like he’s figuring out if my dog’s ripe. He says that he’s working on a film and needs a Beagle.

  When I ask if Jerry needs to be trained, I’m informed that if he can lie down, he’ll do just fine. What luck! Apart from eating and pooping, lying down is my dog’s raison d’être. I start envisioning a great future for Jerry: a double-wide trailer on the set, walks up and down the red carpet before the Academy Awards, maybe even first-class tickets to Cannes. I tell the guy that I’ll throw in the Weimaraner at no extra charge. The guy says no thanks and tells me that Jerry won’t be paid for his time, so it doesn’t matter anyway.

  A few weeks later when we get to the first set location, which is a house, the atmosphere is electric. Everyone is wearing headsets—it’s like we’re at NASA. There are miles of thick black cable lying everywhere. Three trucks of equipment hold a gazillion lights and a wardrobe collection. I actually hear “Quiet on the set” and “Rolling” somewhere in the distance. Jerry, though, is only interested in the table crammed with peanut butter crackers, Cup-o-Noodles, muffins, and bottled water. (It’s good to see that stardom hasn’t changed him.)

  We then learn that Jerry is playing a female dog named Ruthy. To cover up Jerry’s…uh, maleness…we take a trip to the wardrobe trailer and try on his new doggie pajamas. He comes out wearing a onesy with holes in it for his front and back legs and his tail. It is sunshine yellow with white baby ducks all over.

  Jerry sets his chestnut brown eyes on me with true disdain, but he’s such a professional that he marches right onto the set undeterred. The director and the actors light up when he enters, all decked out in his baby-duck PJs. When the sound engineer wants to get Jerry’s voice—his lines, if you will—down on tape before the cameras roll, Jerry improvises some fantastic barks and howls. Really inspired stuff. Then he tries to sneak back to the buffet table.

 
; This is where it gets tricky, because contrary to what I was told earlier, Jerry does not just have to lie down. He must lie down, then stand up. It sounds simple, but if you’re familiar with the axiom “An object at rest tends to stay at rest,” then you’ll understand Jerry’s philosophy of life. It doesn’t help matters that he has scarfed down two or three muffins on the sly and has begun to lapse into a carbohydrate-induced coma. But since there are endless delays on a movie set, I have time to run through a quick training session covering how to stand up on cue.

  And it works. Jerry nails it the very first time. And then he does it again. After each take the director says “Perfect”—and we have to do it all over again. After a few more flawless tries, the director yells “Cut” and says we can go home. We’ve been on location for four hours, and were on the set for forty-five minutes. By my best guess, the scene will last about eleven seconds on film.

  The director comes over and says Jerry was better than he expected. “So, we’ll all get together again real soon when we need to kill him,” he says with a wink.

  Jerry displays a flawless “play dead” at my feet, then lets out a huge, exhausted snore.

  Which brings us to our second day of shooting. It was a night that would culminate with Ruthy’s (Jerry’s) death scene, and he was ready for action. On the drive out to the miniature-golf facility, where the scene was to be shot, Jerry rehearsed playing dead in the backseat, though he sometimes broke character with a loud snore.

  We arrive at midnight and he perks right up when the scent of toaster waffles from the set’s buffet table wafts into the car. We both head through the medieval castle arcade to find the crew. At first, we’re told that the director is ready for us, but then there is one of many delays on the set. So we head off to the putting greens, where Jerry burns off some of his nervousness by chasing a squirrel through the windmill and down past the candy house before ultimately losing the pursuit after it scampers into the clown’s head.