I Was a Teenage Dwarf

by Max Shulman

  “Dobie, I don’t like your attitude,” said Chloe, looking at me with grave concern. “It troubles me. What kind of father are you?”

  “An insolvent one.”

  “Is that all you think about—money? Don’t you love your son? Don’t you want him to have the common, ordinary things that every child has: good food, good care, good playthings? Don’t you want your child well-rounded?”

  “Uh-huh,” said I.

  “Me too,” said Chloe, “That’s why I’m sending him to nursery school next week.”

  I felt the blood rush to my head.

  “Why,” I said weakly, “are you sending him to nursery school?”

  “To develop him socially,” she replied. “He needs the company of other children.”

  “Chloe,” I said in a shaky vibrato, “the families in this community are reproducing like mice. The streets are choked with children. Why don’t you just put Pete outside?”

  “A child needs guided play,” said Chloe.

  “And a woman needs a firm hand!” I thundered, rising to my full height. “Pete is not going to nursery school, and that’s final!”

  In reply to this ultimatum, Chloe stated that if need be she would hire out as a charwoman, but Pete, by heck, was going to nursery school. As usual I wailed and gnashed my teeth and flung myself about, and as usual Chloe prevailed.

  This scene, with variations, was repeated regularly during the following three years; my dream of a nest egg receded farther and farther. Then Pete entered public school, and hope was kindled anew in my breast.

  “Chloe,” I said, stroking her hand, “listen to me, sweetheart. Pete is a big boy now. He is going to public school. There he will get guided play and educational toys and all kinds of wonderful things. Maybe now you won’t have to spend so much money on Pete. Huh, Chloe?”

  “I am enrolling him in ballet school next Saturday.”

  I overcame a strong urge to bite her to death. “Darling,” I said calmly, “please don’t enroll him in ballet school next Saturday.”

  “But why not? Don’t you want him to have all the advantages?”

  “Yes, dear,” I said, still calm. “But I would like to have an advantage myself. As you may recall, I have been trying for many years to accumulate a small nest egg.”

  “I know, dear,” said Chloe kindly, patting my haunch. “But we must forget our own petty ambitions. Everything is for Pete now. After all, we’ve lived our lives.”

  “What are you talking about?” I screamed, stamping both feet. “I am twenty-nine years old!”

  I screamed some other things too, but nothing helped. Pete went to ballet school on Saturday.

  He lasted a few weeks; then Chloe took him out. “He liked it at the beginning,” she reported, “but then he got tired of it. Naturally I’m not going to force him to go.”

  “Naturally not,” I said. “Did they give you a refund?”

  “Don’t you ever think of anything but money? No, they didn’t give me a refund.”

  “Swell,” I mumbled.

  “I’m putting Pete in a fencing class,” said Chloe.

  “Why?” said I. “Almost nobody fights duels any more.”

  My wit was lost on Chloe. Into fencing class went Pete, and, in a short time, out of it. Next came art lessons. Then there was a dramatics class, and after that a class in handicrafts. And then came The Case of the Sailing Camp.

  One night last May I got home and found Chloe skulking around with the truculent expression that always meant money. “What now?” I said nervously.

  “Sailing camp for Pete,” she answered. “All of Pete’s friends are going to sailing camp this summer, and so, by God, is he!”

  I licked my lips. “How much?” I said.

  “It will be a wonderful experience for him and all of his friends are going and we can’t let him sit home alone while everyone else goes and—”

  “How much?” I repeated hollowly.

  “Two hundred dollars,” said Chloe.

  I gibbered. Until that moment I didn’t really know what gibbering was, but I gibbered. I gibbered and ran out of the house and into the nearest bar.

  I ordered a bourbon. I drank it. I ordered another. I didn’t drink it. Suddenly, looking into the glass, I saw Pete’s face—poor little Pete, sitting home all alone while his pals went out sailing. Could I do it to him? Could I be so hard-hearted as to leave the poor kid all by himself at home, without a friend, without a playmate, without even a dog?

  Suddenly I blinked and sat bolt upright. A dog! That was the answer! Get the boy a dog. That would make up for the sailing camp, the kid wouldn’t be alone all summer, I wouldn’t be a heel, and the two hundred dollars would stay in the bank where it belonged. A dog—the perfect solution!

  “Chloe!” I cried, rushing into the house. “I’ve got it! I know what to do with Pete this summer.”

  “What?” she said, poisonously. “Apprentice him to a chimney sweep?”

  “Now just a minute,” I said, bristling. “I’ve had enough bum cracks. I love that kid as much as you do and if I could afford to send him to sailing camp, I would. But I can’t, so I won’t. And that’s final.”

  “So he stays home alone all summer,” said Chloe bitterly.

  “No,” I said with a happy smile. “He won’t be alone. We’re going to get him a dog.”

  Encouraged by the flicker of interest in Chloe’s sullen eyes, I went on to describe the joys of owning a dog in such glowing terms that next to me Albert Payson Terhune would have sounded like a vivisectionist. “Pete won’t miss the sailing camp,” I said in conclusion. “He’ll be the happiest kid in town.”

  “Well, maybe,” said Chloe grudgingly.

  I took her hands in mine. I drew her close. I nuzzled her cheek. I nibbled her ear. “Sweetheart,” I whispered, “let’s kiss and make up.”

  This we did forthwith, to my immense satisfaction. As previously noted, I love that spendthrift.

  “When will you get the dog?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow,” I replied, stroking her nape. “First thing tomorrow I’ll go down to the dog pound and pick out the best they got.”

  “Dog pound?” she cried, wrenching herself out of my arms. “Is that where you’re going to get a dog?”

  “But of course,” I said, looking with surprise at her trembling lip. “What did I do now?”

  “You’ll bring no dog pound mongrels into this house,” declared Chloe. “My child is not going to have some strange, misshapen, diseased mutt. If Pete has a dog, it’ll be a pure-bred dog from a good kennel with a good pedigree.”

  “Hm,” I said, feeling a pall fold around me. I knew absolutely nothing about dogs, but I remembered hearing that pedigreed pups cost fifty, seventy-five, even a hundred dollars. It was obvious now that I was not going to escape unhurt from this evening’s brawl.… But still, I thought with a slight rallying of spirits, fifty dollars for a dog was better than two hundred for sailing camp. And besides, with a little haggling we might get a dog for less than fifty.

  “All right,” I said to Chloe. “We’ll get him a pedigreed dog.”

  At this point young Pete came into the house. “Well?” he said, addressing his mother. “Talk him into it?”

  “Dear,” said Chloe gently, “I’m afraid we can’t afford to send you to sailing camp this year.”

  Tears welled to Pete’s eyes. “But listen, son,” I said hastily, “we’re going to buy you a dog.”

  Holding our breaths, Chloe and I watched to see how Pete would accept the substitute. For a minute his face was perfectly expressionless. Then a big smile broke out on it. Then on Chloe’s. Then on mine.

  “What kind of dog would you like, dear?” asked Chloe.

  “Gee, I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ve got a book in my room with all kinds of pictures of dogs. Let’s go look.”

  So we went to his room where he had a big book called, inevitably, Man’s Best Friend, illustrated with photos of every known breed.
We sat down, the three of us, on Pete’s bed and leafed through the pages.

  “Here’s one I like,” said Pete, pointing at a picture of a boxer.

  “Oh, that’s a very nice dog,” said Chloe. She read the caption under the picture: “‘The boxer is a magnificent beast, a rare combination of courage and gentleness, high spirits and obedience. Small wonder that he has become one of America’s most popular breeds.’”

  True, I thought glumly, the boxer was a popular breed, and that is precisely why I didn’t want one. Though I was a total ignoramus about dogs, I did know a thing or two about merchandising. I knew, for instance, that when an item is selling briskly—like boxer dogs—the dealers are not susceptible to haggling. I had to tout Pete and Chloe off the boxer and onto some less popular brand—some hard-to-move line where the dealer would listen to an offer.

  “Boxers!” I sneered. “I wouldn’t have one on a bet.”

  “Why not?” asked Chloe.

  “Fits,” I said. “Fellow down at the office raises them. Says they have at least one fit a day, sometimes two or three.”

  “Why does he keep raising them?” asked my wife.

  “Ah, here’s a splendid animal,” I said, ignoring her question. I pointed at a picture of something called a basenji, a weird-looking creature that could no doubt be had for a song.

  “Never heard of it,” said Chloe.

  “It’s the coming thing,” I assured her and read the caption: “‘The basenji, a small hound of African origin, is unusual in two respects. First, he is the most fastidious of dogs and cleans himself like a cat. Second, he is unable to bark.’”

  “Make a great watchdog,” remarked Chloe.

  “Here’s another one I like,” said Pete, pointing at the picture of a collie. The boy had a positive talent for picking best-selling dogs.

  “Bless you, child,” I said with a wise chuckle, “you don’t want a collie. They’re sick all the time.”

  “With what?” asked Chloe.

  “Colic,” I replied. “That’s why they call them collies.”

  “Oh,” said Chloe.

  I continued my hunt for an odd brand—some slow-selling species that just laid around the kennel running up feed bills.

  “I like this one too,” said Pete, pointing with his customary astuteness at a cocker spaniel.

  “Here!” I cried, thumping my wife and son on their backs. “Here’s the one I’ve been looking for. Isn’t he a beauty?”

  I showed them a picture of a big gray beast called a Weimaraner. “I never heard of this one either,” complained Chloe.

  “Chloe, where’ve you been?” I said, looking at her pityingly. “This is the sensation of the dog world.”

  “Yeah?” said she.

  “I like him,” said Pete.

  “Smart boy,” I said, patting Pete on the back. And myself too. It looked like I’d chosen a winner this time—an unknown breed that I could pick up cheap and yet satisfy my family.

  Chloe read the caption under the picture: “‘The Weimaraner has often been called the Gray Ghost because of his unusual silvery gray hue. He was bred in Germany to hunt wolves, mountain lions, bear, and wild boars, and introduced to the United States only a short time ago. He is responsive, affectionate, a good watchdog, and especially fond of children.’”

  I could scarcely keep from rubbing my hands with glee. “How about that, Pete?” I said heartily. “A dog that was bred to hunt lions and wolves and bears!”

  “Gee!” breathed Pete.

  “The Gray Ghost,” I said in a shivery voice.

  “Gee!” said Pete, his eyes starry.

  “What do you think, Chloe?” I asked my wife.

  “Well, he seems all right,” she said with no great enthusiasm, “but don’t you think we ought to get a more familiar kind of dog?”

  “Heck, no!” I declared. “I want Pete to be the only kid in the neighborhood with a Weimaraner. I’ll call the Kennel Club first thing in the morning, and find out who sells Weimaraners around here and drive right over and get one.”

  “Gee,” said Pete.

  Bright and early the next morning we all got into the car and went to visit a lady named Mrs. Ridingwood, the only breeder of Weimaraners in our area. It was a cheery ride. I kept describing the glories of Weimaraners to Pete, and he kept getting more starry-eyed by the minute. Chloe was wary, but not hostile.

  Mrs. Ridingwood lived on an estate of at least fifty acres, part covered with a magnificent stand of oaks, the rest beautifully landscaped. I hummed merrily to myself as I drove up the winding gravel path to her house. A woman with this much money clearly did not raise dogs for profit; there would be, I felt sure, no trouble getting a dog cheap.

  I pulled up in front of a stately house of whitewashed brick. We got out, went up on the portico, and rapped the brass knocker on the big front door. It was opened presently by an outdoor-type woman—tall, rangy, flat shoes, tweed suit, crew haircut.

  “Mrs. Ridingwood?” I said.

  “Yes,” she boomed.

  “I’m Dobie Gillis and this is my wife and son.”

  “Hiya, Gillis,” said she, giving me a handshake that brought tears of pain rushing to my eyes.

  “We’ve come to see your Weimaraners,” I said, flexing my fingers to test for fracture.

  “Follow me,” said Mrs. Ridingwood. She set out across the lawn, walking with long athletic strides. Chloe, Pete and I loped along beside her.

  “Ever had a Weimaraner, Gillis?” she asked.

  “No,” I confessed.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’d have known if you did.”

  “You would?” asked Chloe. “How?”

  “Every Weimaraner owner belongs to The Club,” said Mrs. Ridingwood.

  “The Club?” said I.

  “The Weimaraner Club of America,” she explained. “To protect the breed. We don’t want our dogs mating with all kinds of other dogs.”

  I stopped Pete’s ears.

  “We’ve got high standards, we Weimaraner owners,” declared Mrs. Ridingwood.

  “Did you hear that, Pete?” I said proudly.

  “How could I?” complained Pete. “You got your hands over my ears.”

  “Here are the kennels,” said Mrs. Ridingwood.

  The kennels were in a low building of white siding. Behind each kennel was a wire-enclosed run for each dog, and behind the runs was a big exercise yard, bounded by a high wire fence. Kennels, runs, and yard were all spotlessly clean.

  As they heard us approach, the dogs came frisking out into the yard—nine of them, with soft pink noses and soft pink feet and velvety short-haired coats, a kind of gray-tan-silver in color. They ran with the clumsy grace of pups, their short tails wagging furiously, their hound ears flopping as they barked and leaped and hurled themselves against the fence in a frenzy of excitement.

  “Why, they’re beautiful!” cried Chloe rapturously. “They’re simply beautiful!”

  “Gee!” said Pete.

  I concealed a triumphant smile; there was no doubt now that Chloe and Pete were completely sold. The time had come to start negotiations. First I would ask Mrs. Ridingwood the price of the pups. She would say something like sixty or seventy dollars. I would counter with twenty. She would drop to forty. I would come up to thirty. We’d settle for thirty-five.

  “Mrs. Ridingwood,” I said with a pleasant smile, “how much are you asking for these pups?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” said Mrs. Ridingwood.

  “Eek,” I said and toppled to my knees.

  “That’s for the males,” said Mrs. Ridingwood. “The bitches are seven hundred and fifty.”

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  “Goodbye,” Chloe said.

  “But you promised me a Weimaraner,” said Pete, the tears flowing now.

  “We’ll get you another kind,” I said.

  “I don’t want another kind,” wept Pete. “I only want a Weimaraner.”

  “Come on,” said I
, slinging him on my hip.

  “Just a minute,” said Mrs. Ridingwood.

  I paused.

  “Gillis,” she said, “if you get a dog, do you intend to show him?”

  “Show him what?” I asked.

  “I mean enter him in dog shows,” she replied crossly.

  “Why, no,” I said.

  “You just want a family pet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mm, hm,” she said thoughtfully. She stood for a moment in silent deliberation. “Listen,” she said at length, “I’ve got a dog up at the house—he’s no show dog, but he’s a fine animal.”

  “How much does he cost?” I asked fearfully.

  “I’m not interesting in making any money on this dog,” she answered. “I just want to place him in a good home where he’ll get plenty of affection.”

  “Madam,” I said earnestly, “my wife, my son, and I are probably the most affectionate family since Little Women.”

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show him to you.”

  She started back to the house with us trotting beside her. “This dog is called Warrior von Hentzau,” she said.

  “Gee!” said Pete.

  “I took him instead of a stud fee,” she went on.

  I closed Pete’s ears.

  “His sire was my stud, Champion Chalchik von Farfel. The bitch had eight pups and the owner liked them all except this one, so I said, ‘All right, give him to me and never mind the stud fee.’”

  “What was the matter with him?” Chloe asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered vehemently.

  Then how come you’re giving him away, I thought, but I was silent. Never look a gift dog in the mouth, is my motto.

  “He’s a fine dog,” said Mrs. Ridingwood. “He just doesn’t happen to be a show dog. That’s why I’m not interested in money. All I want for him is a home where there’s plenty of love.”

  “At my house,” said I, “we spend most of our time just hugging each other.”

  We were in front of her portico now. She went into the house and came out directly with Warrior von Hentzau. He was in every respect—except one—just like the other pups we had seen. His coat was taupe and his nose was pink and his tail was short and his ears were long and he was friendly and happy and eager. The only thing different about him was the way he moved. This, I must admit, was most unusual. He moved with his hind legs swinging together—like a big jack rabbit, or a small kangaroo.