I Was a Teenage Dwarf
Page 16
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Chloe with unmasked consternation, as the dog bounded around like an oversized hare.
“Not a thing,” insisted Mrs. Ridingwood. “He just runs a little peculiarly, that’s all.”
“He,” said Pete flatly, “is the craziest looking dog I ever saw.”
My heart grew heavy within me. Three things were clear: one, that my wife and son were not charmed by this canine wallaby; two, that the only kind of Weimaraner I could get for Pete was a free Weimaraner; three, that Warrior von Hentzau was the only free Weimaraner.
“I don’t think he’s so bad,” I said with a wan smile.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Ridingwood stoutly. “Look at him.” She thumped the dog on the chest. “Look at that pretty brisket.”
“Prettiest brisket in town,” I said heartily.
She grabbed him indelicately under the belly. “Ever see such a fine tuck-up?” she demanded.
“Never!” I declared ringingly.
She lifted up his legs. “Look at those pasterns. No dewclaws. No fiddle-foot. Perfect angulation.”
“Superb angulation!” I cried.
She opened his mouth. “Observe the flews.”
“Quelle flews!” I exclaimed, kissing my finger tips.
“Not a thing wrong with him,” she summed up. “It’s just that he runs a little peculiarly. But he gets around perfectly well. Here, I’ll show you.”
She started sprinting across the lawn. “Here, Poo-Poo,” she called.
“Poo-Poo!” exclaimed Chloe, her lip curling in horror.
“I thought his name was Warrior von Hentzau,” wailed Pete.
“Poo-Poo for short,” yelled Mrs. Ridingwood, racing across the turf with the beast hopping close behind.
“I think Poo-Poo’s kind of a cute name,” I said, stifling a retch.
“I don’t want any crazy-looking dog named Poo-Poo,” said Pete, setting his jaw. “And that’s final!”
I thought fast. “All right, Pete,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to.”
“You darn right,” said Pete with an energetic nod.
“We’ll just leave him here,” I continued in the same quiet tone. “All the other pups will find homes. They’ll have lots of fun and plenty of love and all kinds of boys and girls to play with.… But not Poo-Poo.”
“No?” said Pete, looking at me with troubled eyes.
“No, Pete, Poo-Poo will never have a boy or girl to play with. Just because he runs a little bit funny, nobody’s ever going to take him home. Poor little Poo-Poo—all alone here, no boys and girls to play with, no fun, no friendship, just years and years of loneliness.”
“Gee,” said Pete, biting his lip.
“It’s okay, Pete,” I said, patting his shoulder gently. “You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to.”
“But I do!” cried Pete. “I do, I do, I do! I want Poo-Poo. I don’t want any of those other dogs that run regular!”
“Mrs. Ridingwood!” I called joyously.
Mrs. Ridingwood and Poo-Poo, both panting, came running over. Pete instantly threw his arms around the dog and sobbed into his soft, taupe coat.
“We love your dog,” I announced. “We’d like to take him.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Ridingwood. “Love is what I want for Poo-Poo, not money.”
“I hear you,” said I.
“As I told you,” continued Mrs. Ridingwood, “I took Poo-Poo in place of a stud fee, so that’s all I’m asking you.”
“What?” I said.
“My stud fee,” said Mrs. Ridingwood. “Two hundred dollars.”
“Oh, no!” I shrieked. “Oh, no!”
“You buy me that dog, you stingy old man!” howled Pete, kicking me in the pasterns.
“All right, Brains,” snarled Chloe. “Think your way out of this one.”
My wife was clearly teetering on the brink of divorce, and my son on the brink of shock, and I knew I was a gone goose. There was no way in the world now to save my two hundred dollars; the best I could do was save myself an extra mouth to feed.
“Pete, my son,” said I with my most winsome smile, “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s not buy a dog. Let’s send you to sailing camp instead.”
“I don’t want to go to sailing camp,” shouted Pete. “I want Poo-Poo.”
“Just picture it, Pete,” I said, making grand gestures. “A trim sailing ship—a blue sea—a fair wind—the white sails bellying out—the white spray flying—and you—you, Pete, bronzed and fit and confident—you at the tiller …”
“Gee,” said Pete.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “Yo-ho-ho,” I sang, “and a bottle of rum.”
“Gee,” said Pete.
“Sir Francis Drake,” I said. “Captain Kidd. Captain Blood. Mister Roberts … and you.”
“Gee,” said Pete, glassy-eyed, lost in a maritime trance.
The sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever-free,
I recited and guided Pete gently into the car. Then I guided Chloe, somewhat less gently, into the car. Then I got in myself.
“Goodbye,” I said and drove away, leaving Mrs. Ridingwood and Poo-Poo open-mouthed in the driveway.
The luminous dial on my wrist watch said half past three. I groped around the night table for cigarettes and matches, found them, and struck a match as quietly as I could, so as not to wake Chloe.
The lamp on the night table flashed on. “So you can’t sleep either,” said Chloe.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“The dog, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. I keep thinking about him—all alone, no kids to play with. Poor little Poo-Poo.”
“Poor little thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thanks.”
I lit a match for her. “Listen,” she said, “my winter coat—I hardly ever wear it.”
“No,” I said.
“But—”
“No,” I repeated. “I’ll buy the dog.”
“But how about your nest egg?”
“Chloe, listen. I’ve been lying here thinking about other things besides the dog.”
“Like what?”
“Like love.”
“Oh?”
“Love is something I’ve been chasing all my life. Since I was knee-high to a girl I’ve been looking for love. I’ll admit I’ve taken some pretty spooky detours on the way, but all the same, the game was worth the candle. Battle-scarred and weary as I am, I can still say I’m glad. Because what I was after was the greatest prize of all.”
“Agreed,” said Chloe. “But what’s your point?”
“Just this: today I’m chasing something else: the nest egg—money. Sure, a man needs money and, sure, it’s worth scrambling for and, sure, I’ll kill you some day for the idiot way you throw my money around.”
“But?”
“But I’ve lost sight of something. Brooding about money, I’ve forgotten that I’ve found the real goal of my life.”
“Love?”
“Love! Deep, true, abiding love.… I love you, sweetheart, and I know you love me—and there, Chloe, is my nest egg.”
“Oh, darling!” she said and vaulted into my bed and she kissed me and I kissed her and it was very sweet and tender and fine and surely none of your business.
And so, good friends, my story ends. Today I have a wife I adore and a son who can sail like Magellan and a dog who is mostly kangaroo, and multiple overdrafts and I hope, dear hearts, that you are just as lucky as I am.
About the Author
Max Shulman (1919–1988) was an American novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and short story writer best known as the author of Rally Round the Flag, Boys! (1957), The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (1951), and the popular television series of the same name. The son of Russian immigrants, Shulman was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and attended th
e University of Minnesota, where he wrote a celebrated column for the campus newspaper and edited the humor magazine. His bestselling debut novel, Barefoot Boy with Cheek (1943), was followed by two books written while he served in the Army during World War II: The Feather Merchants (1944) and The Zebra Derby (1946). The Tender Trap (1954), a Broadway play co-written with Robert Paul Smith, was adapted into a movie starring Frank Sinatra and Debbie Reynolds. His acclaimed novel Rally Round the Flag, Boys! became a film starring Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Shulman’s other books include Sleep till Noon (1950), a hilarious reinvention of the rags-to-riches tale; I Was a Teenage Dwarf (1959), which chronicles the further adventures of Dobie Gillis; Anyone Got a Match? (1964), a prescient satire of the tobacco, television, and food industries; and Potatoes Are Cheaper (1971), the tale of a romantic Jewish college student in depression-era St. Paul. His movies include The Affairs of Dobie Gillis (with Debbie Reynolds and Bob Fosse) and House Calls (with Walter Mathau and Glenda Jackson). One of America’s premier humorists, he greatly influenced the comedy of Woody Allen and Bob Newhart, among many others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1959 by Max Shulman
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2784-7
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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