by Bill Boggs
All I hear is, “Hey, Spike, great news. You’re gonna be in a fashion show on a runway with beautiful models and parrots…. And oh yeah, by the way, even more great news, you get to be painted green for a day. Cool, huh?”
The morning of the fashion show they send a limo for us, but Bud, of course, is dealin’ with the small matter of bein’ on live TV, so Donna takes me. By the time we get to Bryant Park, she’s finished the bottle of champagne she managed to pry out of the limo’s back-seat bucket before she sat down.
Generally, if I’m gonna be painted, I like to have someone—maybe Bud, a close friend or, even better, a world-class expert on coloring dogs—supervising the ordeal. Donna’s supposed to ask the colorist a couple of crucial questions from Bud, but she wanders off to—’scuse the expression—the green room, searchin’ for more booze. I’m left alone with a cute little Cuban guy, who’s tellin’ everybody he’s worried that ’cause I got such short hair, the dye’s gonna seep into my skin.
Since no one with a brain’s around to ask him to test it—say, on the back of my leg—he dyes me the color of a Saint Patrick’s Day greeting card. I take one look at myself and head-ram the mirror five times, tryin’ to break it.
Late that night, after the fashion show and party, Bud and me are headed home. It’s pitch black in the giant limo, and I go nuts barking at myself, ’cause I’m glowin’ in the dark.
Bud makes a call. “Hey, Alexis, we’re sitting in the back of the car and Spike’s glowing like a neon sign. Illuminating him was not part of the deal. Your people just told me he’d be green, but now he’s so bright, he’s casting a shadow.”
“He needed that extra luminous pop for when the little monster and I first appeared on the runway, so the colorist used fluorescent green.”
“Oh really,” Bud says. “Well now he looks like a sixty-pound lightning bug.”
“Please, darling, don’t worry. You saw it; we were a big hit, and my boy Ryan will be picking him up tomorrow, and by the end of the day he’ll be whiter than country music.”
The next day, Ryan takes me to Mel’s Organic Grooming Spa and Canine Meditation Center on Amsterdam Avenue. I’m observin’ counters of cold-pressed fruitarian dog food, free-range vegan bison smoothies, and artisanal kale-infused antelope mini snacks, thinkin’, “Spike, get the Alpo, the Milk-Bones, and let’s get the hell outta here.” Feed me a can of anything with 100 percent real artificial flavors and I’ll be happy.
Some dogs are exhausted with blurry vision, ’cause their owners have ’em on the pegan diet. Others are watchin’ videos of the wonders of the Appalachian Trail while bein’ massaged and havin’ their teeth whitened, or enduring the tortures of belly waxing.
Ryan takes me to the private VID grooming suite, where every organic trick Mel’s got to clean a dog does nothing. By the end of the day they got a muzzle on me to stop me from biting Mel, who’s scrubbing my skin raw with Ajax-soaked Brillo pads.
I get home and I’m still glowing bright green. They tell Bud they’ll work on me every day till I’m white again, and that’ll be around eight days.
I never saw Bud so mad as when he’s yelling at Alexis on the phone.
Alexis starts sending Bud flowers and champagne and pictures of models he could date, sayin’, “You’re getting only their headshots without makeup, so you’ll know what they’ll look like in the morning.”
Life’s a nightmare. I’m a walking sight gag. Everywhere I go, people are pointing and laughing at me. Children scream and run away. I have trouble sleepin’ at night, ’cause my own glow keeps me awake.
The only comfort I’m getting is from little Benny, who feels like he’s a mad scientist in a movie with a radioactive monster.
And it’s under these dire circumstances that I get called up to active duty for the first time as a stud. Here we go…
13
Tryin’ to Get Laid
When Bud bought me from my breeder, Mrs. Erdrick, she told him she’d only sell me if Bud promised to do her a favor someday and breed me when she asked.
She said that I had a perfect head for an English Bull Terrier, and there would be clients who’d want me to “stand at stud.”
Anyway, all my life I’ve been waitin’ to unleash the power of my manhood to send forth into the world my so-called perfect head…. Expect me to make clever there with “perfect head,” “manhood,” and “Bud”? Forget it. I’m too pissed off being green to make up jokes.
Mrs. Erdrick calls Bud, frantically informin’ him that her lead stud dog, McFee, has an ear infection and can’t go to Secaucus, New Jersey, to pass on his own perfect head to some totally ready “in season” lady bull terrier named Edie. She’s tellin’ Bud this is the favor he promised. It’s not like she’s Carmela Corleone callin’ one in for the don, but the Budster takes his promises seriously and, completely overlookin’ that I’m green and my confidence is at an all-time-low, says yes.
Drivin’ to Secaucus I’m askin’ myself, “If I’m one of those drunk green-painted guys at a Jets game, what’s the chance of my gettin’ laid with a sober virgin in a luxury box?”
I’m feelin’ so insecure, I’d like to jump through a TV screen and get the E.D. pills the guy in the commercial needs as he’s hang gliding with a woman and suddenly feels the time is gonna be right for sex soon.
I was hopin’ the inflatable sex toy doll Bud got for Christmas from Mindy Mounds mighta come with a Viagra dispenser in its hand—but no, just a tag in Chinese and what looks like a faded Anna Nicole Smith trademark.
It’s a freezin’-cold night when we get to this big house in Secaucus.
The people who own Edie are Tom and Jane Rundowski. They can’t have kids, so to satisfy their urge to raise something other than plants, they go the dog owner route. They could’ve taken the path of petless peace and harmony. That way, they’d have no responsibility except to make each other happy and travel a lot. Instead, they’re homebound with a dog. It’s naive couples like this that keep the global market for canine companionship strong. Thank you.
Bud told them about the “green problem,” and they didn’t care. They’re just dyin’ for their “little girl” to be mated with a TV star dog, and they’re also clamoring to meet Bud from Noonday with Bud.
We walk into the place, and before Bud takes off his coat, they’re clickin’ photos of him and me and posting the shots on Instagram. What’s really freakin’ me is that they got a live feed arranged on this video stream called Periscope. They want to show the breeding to millions of people. For the sake of my reputation and in the interest of public decency, Bud makes them turn it off.
They invited a lot of other “dog parents” in to watch. They’re sitting in folding chairs in a circle—Edie and me will be in the middle as the featured attraction. I realize I’m at a breeding party. If this is what it’s gonna be like having sex, let me die a virgin.
They open a door, and Edie comes chargin’ out—good-lookin’ female: nice muscle tone, small waist, one black ear on a pretty head. Wow! She’s givin’ off a scent, and a couple of licks and I’m feelin’ a little tingle down south, suddenly thinkin’, “Hey there, paly, you just might be getting in the mood.”
The dog parents are sipping white wine and eating popcorn like they’re in premium seats at the Secaucus multiplex eager for the dog porn to start.
“Oh, boy, here we go!” someone says, chugging a glass of buttery-smelling chardonnay.
But it’s not so fast, ’cause after about thirty seconds of stimulating nose-to-nose licking, Edie backs up and is staring at me. I figure she’s thinkin’, “What the fuck? You’re bright green; you think I want a litter of lime-colored puppies?”
But since I got more of the tingles, I nuzzle up to her and lick her soft black ear. She nuzzles me back but lets me know, “It’s not gonna happen, my new green friend.” She thinks the color’s kinda kinky, but she’s madly in love with Angus, the schnauzer next door—she likes a dog with whiskers.
For
two days, Angus has been outside freezing his paws off, tryin’ to get to her by clawin’ at the sealed dog port in the downstairs rec room. Edie is strong, but not strong enough to pry the inside handle open. She lets me know she thinks I got the jaw power to do it, so Angus can get in.
I don’t know if I can pry the damn thing open, and this scent of hers is like nature’s way of telling me I don’t need the same medicine as the guy in the commercial who’s hang gliding and gets a sudden urge for sex. So I got a more immediate challenge—being mad with desire and accepting sexual refusal. Take it from what the old Wonder Dog learned that night, guys, you need to know how to be a gentleman and slam on the brakes.
“On with the show; get moving,” someone yells. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
“You have consent, Spike. Please advance,” Mr. Rundowski says reassuringly.
While a fervid lust to see dogs going at it is sweeping through our audience, Edie has a plan. She’ll do a shy-dog routine, and I’ll signal Bud like we need a little time alone.
“Oh,” Mrs. Rundowski observes. “I think our little girl’s embarrassed. She’s shy.”
“Not like you the first time,” her husband says, which gets the kind of roaring laugh that men’s friends make when one of them cracks a feeble sex joke about his wife.
I’ve stopped the stimulation down below by picturing the E.D. commercial, and imagining the horny guy in the glider falling into the ocean and being circled by sharks.
We trot downstairs to a wood-paneled room with large posters of Elvis and Jimi Hendrix on the walls. There’s a sign sayin’, “Keep Calm and Carry On,” which is helpful ’cause I’m racing against time tryin’ to pop the latch on the dog port. Outside, in ten-degree weather, the force of nature and love has Angus scratchin’ and whining to get in.
When the port flies open, Edie looks at me like I just dropped a bridge over a moat and her knight in shining armor is charging into the castle. Unfortunately, the knight bites me in gratitude. It’s the first time any dog ever attacked me. I feel a bolt of anger and want to grab Angus by the throat and shove him back out the door. But out of consideration for his bride, I know it’s no time for confrontation. I let it pass.
Angus and Edie are circling each other, getting set for a little intimacy, as Bud calls it. I tiptoe off to the ping-pong room to study a shelf of Hummels over a soundtrack of dog yelps and groans.
Edie’s glassy-eyed when she comes to get me. Angus is gone. She’s closed the port. To signal Bud, I start barking with joy, and then lie on my back looking like all I need is a cigarette. Edie’s in the corner all cute and happy and shy, as everyone rushes downstairs, growling pissed-off obscenities because they missed the action.
As we’re leavin’ the house, Angus is barking a friendly bark at me from his front yard, and Bud says, “Nice dog. German schnauzer, right?”
In the car, I’m doing my strong silent act, while Bud’s quizzing me. “Wow, she bit your neck, but what went on down there, Spike? I heard noises, but it didn’t sound like you. Plus you got that ‘I pulled one over on you’ look, like when you’d hide my shoes in the clothes dryer.”
Eight weeks later, the Rundowskis call Bud mad as hell, claimin’ the green paint musta damaged my sperm, ’cause all of Edie’s puppies were born with whiskers.
Bud gives me his “You did pull something” wink and says, “You really are Spike The Wonder Dog,”
I’m actually glad it didn’t happen. Distance and time are probably slowly tearing us apart, but I’m still dreamin’ hopelessly of saving myself for Daisy.
14
Disco Fever
I’m mostly seein’ life like a black and white movie with a soundtrack of nonstop blasting horns. Hey, New York, you wanna make money? Give out tickets every time some driver’s layin’ all over his horn ’cause the car in front’s not movin’ a fraction of a second faster after the light changes.
Sad people are pushin’ shopping carts piled with everything they own. If the wind’s blowin’ in my direction, I catch their scent from two blocks away—crummy bodies, dirty hair, pants stinkin’ of urine, stale food stuffed in their pockets. Every once in a while I get lucky and run into one who’s sprayed himself with Aramis samples he probably fished out of the trash at Bloomingdale’s.
Bud gives them money. In High Point, it was the topless. Here’s it’s the homeless. Best I can do is carry bread or a roll for the bum on the corner, who unfortunately is not an Aramis man.
Then you got the crazy men on the street. You can spot ’em ’cause they wear the same heavy coat and scarf on real hot days or real cold days—must be something about being nuts that gives your body the same ventilation system as a reptile.
They devote their daylight hours to walkin’ around hollering about God or money or some woman who dumped them—can’t figure why any woman would want to dump a guy whose career is screaming in public.
The crazy men are yelling just a little louder than some Chinese people, who scream into their phones like their voice has gotta be loud enough to carry through a little wire under the ocean to the person who’s yelling back at them in Beijing.
Are the best years of my life behind me, even though I’m just goin’ on three? And don’t start calculating my age in that stupid dog years crap. Humans invented dog years to feel better ’cause their cute little puppy’s gonna be dead before the kids are in college. Last time I checked, one equals one, unless Sesame Street got it wrong the day I watched.
The saddest is watching Bud in the morning. Too many nights he’s out like some gladiator in glitter land. He’s got disco fever for parties and downtown clubs. He’s doin’ all this crap to be happy? Can’t figure how it’s worth the moanin’ he’s doing most mornings in the shower. He’s partying, but like I heard in some song, “every form of refuge has its price.”
Once he’s out all night. About sunrise, he comes staggering through the door. “Late night, Spike,” he says, like I couldn’t figure that out.
On the show that day, he’s doin’ a good job but he’s lookin’ tired—like his old Sunday-morning face back home. Maybe he wouldn’t have stayed out all night if he’d remembered that on the “Spike at Noon” segment we got a chef from Eat It Live, the latest trendy restaurant—’cause it only serves live food.
There’s stuff squirming around on the table. They got live shrimp crawling with ants. There’s a plate of cedar plank partially roasted termites, a cut-up octopus that can’t figure out it’s dead, and a big, sad fish whose body is fried but his head is still on, and he’s gasping for air like a goldfish that jumped outta his bowl.
The fish is staring at me with the kind of intimacy that only a half-fried fish and a dog can have. He’s beggin’ me to stop the torture and bite off his head.
Bud’s burping bad, likely from some meal he had at four in the morning.
The Norwegian chef’s beaming like he’s got a display of the most wholesome treats any average American would leave for Santa on Christmas Eve. He’s offerin’ Bud an ant-covered shrimp, but Bud’s got his hands jammed in his pockets. He gives me his “Help me out, little pal” look.
The chef tries to get me to eat a squirming octopus leg, and we have a moment of decent TV together, ’cause I just give him the stare. I keep my mouth shut and lock eyes with him as the piece of octopus he’s holdin’ keeps flipping back and forth, flicking grease on his chef jacket. He has to do something with it, so he puts the thing in his mouth and starts proclaiming how good it tastes, while the leg’s pounding up against the side of his cheek trying to escape.
Bud throws up. I run away barking, so Mort the outside producer walks on camera and starts sampling everything like he’s gobbling desserts by Daniel Boulud. I hide under a parked car till they clear the stuff.
That night Bud has a “health night,” which is the best for me, ’cause he’s able to get up in time for us to take a morning run together in the park.
The air’s fresh and nice, the grass feels good, bu
t I got questions about the big-city stuff I see. I’m lookin’ at the buildings on Central Park South and seein’ cranes and construction and the giant Time Warner Center, and I can’t stop wondering what happens with all the millions of dumps the humans take every day.
Dog dumps are easy to spot—people walking along carrying a Gristedes bag of groceries in one hand and a swinging baggie of “dog dirt” in the other. You think somebody’d invent a baggie you can’t see through. But where the human dumps are going is a big mystery to me, so I try to block the question outta my head, and I’m hoping you can do the same now that I planted it in yours.
Bud is saying yes to every invitation. He’s the emcee at events in fancy hotels, goin’ to red carpet premieres, doing charity auctions, and speaking at black-tie fundraisers, like The Rita Hayworth Gala for Alzheimer’s, where he “just has to get up and say a few words.” So Bud, who can be partly truth and partly fiction when he needs to, gives a rousing speech about the tragic and pathetic end of his war hero uncle’s life because of Alzheimer’s.
People have tears runnin’ down their faces. They’re writing big checks and waving them in the air. I gotta admire Bud, ’cause he made up the whole thing. His war hero uncle actually died only because he couldn’t slow down eating and choked on six buffalo chicken wings—which is something I always gotta be careful of not doin’ while speed-chewin’ wings.
One day, we rush from the show to a big fundraiser lunch for the ASPCA. I’m proud to be going. As soon as we get there, Bud runs off to circulate, meet some stars, and say hello to Chuck Scarborough, the WNBC guy who’s the host. He parks me with a bunch of dogs that are hoping to be adopted. I get my attitude whacked—yeah, I’m lonely, but at least I got an owner. I’m not desperately showing my cutest possible face to everybody, beggin’ to be taken home, like these orphans.
It’s good to be with normal dogs—and not those pampered weirdos at Mel’s Organic Grooming Spa and Canine Meditation Center. I’m enjoyin’ myself, but after hanging out with them for fifteen minutes, a woman slips a leash on my collar and is walkin’ me over to her table, ’cause she’s paid to adopt me. Oh yeah, gave a huge contribution. Claims she owns me.