The Adventures of Spike the Wonder Dog

by Bill Boggs

  “OK, let’s get to some questions about young Spike here. He’s a pit bull, correct?”

  “No,” Bud says, “way off. Actually, he’s an English Bull Terrier.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she says. “Now I notice he has a slight resemblance to a dinosaur; any reason for that? Ha, ha, ha. Seriously, explain to me, were they bred to look like prehistoric creatures as companions for small children during that dinosaur phase all kids go through?”

  “Ha. No, that’s a good idea,” Bud answers. “They were actually bred for dogfighting, and dominated it before it was banned in England.”

  “My God,” she says, “dogfighting?”

  “Of course, they’re great pets; they won’t start a fight, but they sure won’t run from one. It’s a really interesting breeding story. It took the breeders decades to get exactly what they wanted, which they say is a combination of strength, tenacity, agility, speed, fearlessness, and outstanding musical ability.”

  There goes my boy Bud, throwin’ in musical ability just to see if the Christiane Amanpour of dogs is paying attention, but of course, she’s not.

  “He looks dangerous,” she says.

  “No more than pot tourism in North Korea.”

  “Oh…but fighting, Bud. My word,” she says, “has he had a lot of fights? If there’s a police record, we really can’t put him on the cover, just list him in the monthly ‘Bad Dog, Bad Dog Report.’ Ha, ha, ha.”

  “No,” Bud says, “Spike’s never been in any scrape; he’s a lover, not a fighter. In fact, his girlfriend’s due in town tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful,” she says. “Maybe we could do a sidebar for our ‘Doggies Who Date’ column, if I can get back here to spend time and watch the lovebirds together. Ha, Ha.”

  That’s when I give her my meanest “You could hit me over the head with a two-by-four and I’ll still keep looking at you like this” look.

  “Now, Bud,” she says, “let’s get into some specifics.”

  She starts rattling off questions that would only be interesting to someone in solitary confinement at Attica who’s gotta choose between reading an issue of Big Apple Dog or studying the patterns on the one roll of toilet paper they get each week.

  Do I like wet or dry food? How many times a day do I get walked? Do I prefer a bath or a shower, ha, ha, ha, ha? Squeaky or nonsqueaky chew toys? Where do I get my nails done?

  Then she says to Bud, “How do you think you, as an owner, have influenced Spike?”

  Bud says he makes sure I can get lots of exercise, and how he thinks I like bein’ on TV and meeting fans on the street. He’s not close to the real answer: The guy’s given me something not all dogs got—confidence. Great confidence. “You could knock down a wall if you wanted to, Spike,” he tells me all the time. “You’re a great dog, strong as an ox.” “You can do anything you put that dog mind of yours to, Spike; you are The Wonder Dog.”

  I don’t know what a lot of other dogs get from their owners, but he’s made me feel invincible, and that’s a fine spirit to have in your head as you’re walkin’ down the street. Now that’s the dullest speech you’re ever gonna hear from me, but I had to say it ’cause he didn’t, and even if he did, I know you wouldn’t have bothered to read it in Big Apple Dog.

  “Let’s take him out for a walk. I’d like to see his on-street manners, ha, ha, ha. But oh wait. First, you’re in show business; maybe you know someone in Hollywood who could help my niece? She’s gone to L.A. to be an actress. Ha, ha, ha.”

  She shows Bud pictures of the girl, who’s wearing the mandatory uniform for amateur porn stars—extra-short, extra-tight ripped denim skirt, cutoff white tank top, tramp tat, and red stilettos.

  “Cute,” Bud says. “I don’t think I can help her, but tell her not to wear herself out auditioning.”

  We go over to Park Avenue, and I’m striding briskly up the block. She’s watching me greet other dogs with a friendly sniff and fast tail wags. When a fan calls my name, I use my Ronald Reagan nod—like the one he’d do when he’d pretend he couldn’t hear questions yelled at him.

  I spot a crushed Slurpee cup, pick it up, and give it to Bud.

  “Is that a trick?” she asks.

  “No, he doesn’t like stuff on the pavement, so he’ll give it to me to throw away,” Bud says. “He’s not used to litter, ’cause he never saw it on the sidewalks in High Point.”

  “That’s rather gallant of him. I never really thought about picking up cups or anything dropped on the sidewalk. Ha, ha, ha…. What else do you think’s been difficult for him in the transition to Manhattan from the rural life you were able to escape?” she asks.

  “Well,” Bud says, “if he doesn’t see them coming, there’s a problem with squads of phone zombie kids; last week a texting teenager tripped over him. The kid was lyin’ on the sidewalk. I asked if he was OK. He said, ‘Yeah,’ and kept just pecking away at his phone, even though he was just texting another kid in the group.”

  “Oh my,” Shelly says, slowly looking up from her phone.

  We’re havin’ a lovely stroll when I notice two Park Avenue women doing something I see all too frequently. I call these the “Oh my God women.”

  A lady walking by is surprised as she sees another lady she thinks she knows.

  “Eileen? Eileen? Oh my God!” she calls out, real loud. “Is that you?”

  “Sharon? Oh my God…Sharon?” Eileen yells back at her, as they walk toward each other.

  Then it happens.

  They go through this odd greeting ritual. You think it’s weird that sometimes dogs smell each other’s ass when they meet? What about this?

  First, Eileen and Sharon wave and yell more “Oh my Gods” as they approach each other. Once close, they momentarily stop shrieking “Oh my God” and rear back with mouths and eyes wide open. Their hands fly up by their heads, makin’ them look like two frozen people of Pompeii.

  Then over and over it’s: “Oh my God, Eileen!” “Oh my God, Sharon” “How are you?” “How are you?”

  This is followed by: “We have to get together!” “Oh my God, yes! We have to get together!” “Oh my God!” “Yes!” “Yes!”

  But they’re both already standing there together. This is where I get confused.

  “Yes, we’ll get together. I’ll call you,” Eileen says.

  “Yes, call; we’ll make plans. Oh my God, this was great,” Sharon says.

  But how come they didn’t make plans just then, when they were together?

  They walk off in different directions, each looking kinda happy they hadn’t wasted any more time Oh-my-God-ing with the other.

  This is the strange way that some humans got of saying hello and, I guess, planning to not really make plans.

  Who started this custom?

  Bud thinks he first saw it on Sex and the City. It’s sure not the way I’m going to greet Daisy.

  17

  Daisy

  Buffy and Daisy are supposed to be at our place at ten a.m., but it comes to this—I gotta lick Bud to wake him, ’cause he’d been out late. He’s tellin’ me he shouldn’ta gone to a club called Flash Factory.

  “Never let yourself get hooked on electronic dance music, Spike,” he’s groaning.

  “Don’t worry, Bud,” I’m thinkin’. “I’m having enough trouble fighting off a growing Marilyn Maye music addiction ’cause of the tender ballads I’m hearin’ through the wall.”

  Buffy comes in, but no Daisy. Buffy’s cousin Gail, the nuclear physicist from Rutgers, is walkin’ her in the park. So I gotta keep calm and carry on, and control my excitement. I’ll be cool when she gets here, not act like one of those overeager jerks on The Bachelor who get thrown off on the first show.

  “Wow,” Buffy says, “this is the apartment? I wanted to see Central Park. I thought the ad said you’d have a partial view of the park.”

  “Yeah, well,” Bud says, “if you risk your life a little bit by leaning way out the bathroom window—I can hold your feet if you want t
o try it—you can see a couple of branches of a tree, that’s if the wind’s blowing in the right direction.”

  “Very rustic, and look at Spike,” she says, massaging my head the way she did when I’d be lying next to her desk and licking the tasty body lotion off her ankles. “How about you! You’re bigger and even more handsome than ever.”

  Buffy turns to Bud, who’s standing and squinting at her in the bright morning light reflected in from the building across the street. That half hour of light coming in is what made it OK for them to advertise the place as sun-drenched, even though it’s mostly dark and gloomy the rest of the day.

  “And Bud, you…”

  “Yes?” he says, maybe expecting a compliment from Buffy, who used to greet him every morning at work with “Well hello, handsome!” But there’s this long, strange pause before she clears her throat like people do when they got bad news coming at you.

  “Well remember how Lombardo told us he thinks a person is never more interesting than when they’re being totally honest?” she says.

  “Why do I suddenly feel like you’re about to hit me over the head with a baseball bat being interesting?” Bud asks.

  “No, you know I love you, and maybe I’m just worried, but you’re looking older and kind of ravaged, or dissipated, or peaked. Are you OK?”

  “Don’t mince words, Buffy. Let me know what you think. You’re saying I look like Jim Morrison near the end?”

  “Not the morgue shot,” Buffy says, “but close.”

  “Well, I was out a little late, didn’t get the jog in this morning.”

  And I’m thinkin’, “No jog yesterday morning or the day before that either.”

  “But I’m OK,” he says. “We got this stupid cruise thing coming up tomorrow, so I’ll get some rest there.”

  “Hey, here’s something you’re really going to like,” Buffy says, as she spreads out a big feature story on me in the High Point Enterprise. It’s all about the gazing into the camera, and how Bud’s voice and my face and some soft piano music from Bud’s old friend Bernard are sending people on YouTube into a trance. The caption under my picture says, “The Wonder Dog Way to Relax.”

  “I know a lot of people who’re trying this,” Buffy says, “and they can’t believe that peering into Spike’s beady little eyes is actually helping them to meditate, but it is.”

  “Buff,” Bud says, “Andy, who’s helping me with this, says it’s going big. How about the power of our buddy Spike!”

  “You and The Wonder Dog,” she says.

  All I know is my staring into the camera thing was only great ’cause of those kava eye drops Bud plunked in me. So it’s just another inspiring case of drugs and the creative process—probably like maybe every episode of Bob’s Burgers.

  Bud and Buffy sit down to enjoy a few minutes of the remaining reflected sunlight. It’s good to see them together again. He’s unwrapping a gift from her, and while he’s doin’ it, she takes out a little speaker and plays, “It’s a Wonderful World,” the song Bud would use at the end of every Friday show under the credits.

  “This is terrific! Oh, I love this,” he says, looking at a big framed color photo of the going-away party we had on our lawn.

  All the channel eight people are there. Lombardo’s in his blue blazer with the gold buttons, and he’s raising a glass to Bud and me. Buff’s got one arm over Bud’s shoulder and is holding little Daisy with the other. There’s a Frisbee flyin’ in the air, which I’m chasin’, hopin’ to catch it to impress Daisy. It’s a real happy photo, except I remember jumpin’ for the Frisbee and the thing whackin’ me hard in the head. It’s OK, ’cause at the time, Daisy was lookin’ at a plate of nachos, plus, as you know, I didn’t feel a thing. My head’s like a two-pound stone with eyes.

  Underneath the photo, Buff’s neatly written in bright blue ink, “The value of things is not the time they exist but the intensity with which they occur.” Bud reads it and has one of his emotional reactions where he’s choked up with feelings and can’t talk. I cover for him by barking with delight, ’cause no matter how sentimental I get, I got no problem barking.

  “So how’s your chase for fame, fortune, and creative control coming along up here?” Buffy asks.

  “I don’t know about the first two, but the third, no progress.”

  “What about going to Skrill, the station manager, about creative differences with Erica? It’s the sort of conversation Lombardo would always want to have.”

  “Yeah, well, I was having a meeting about that with Skrill once. What happened was, you know that desk JFK had that you see in the pictures and little John John’s crawling around under it? Well, Skrill had a bigger version of that desk made but with a swinging panel in the front. Anyway, as I’m talking to him, I happen to glance down and see one of Erica’s red Van sneakers under the panel. She was most likely giving him a blowjob, ’cause his eyes started to cross while he was talking about my ratings, and they stayed that way for about thirty seconds. The ratings are good, but not that good.”

  “Oh my,” Buffy says.

  “That was kind of like the moment when I realized Erica had the upper hand, shall we say, on the creative control issue,” Bud says.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Buffy says, “Lombardo’s actually been complaining about control himself. He told me ABC’s pressuring him to make stupid daytime changes, and he said that the only way to run things the right way is to probably own the station.”

  The door swings open, and Buffy’s cousin Gail says, “Hey guys, here we are! The park is gorgeous today; you gotta get outside.”

  And there’s Daisy, all grown up!

  What can I say about being in love that hasn’t already been covered by literary greats like E. L. James and Shakespeare? I’m just another typical case of a guy swooning over a nonconsummated, long-distance, one-way relationship with a female he doesn’t really know. In fact, my friend Mr. Boggs once wrote a novel about that. I’d better read it to see how it turns out, ’cause I’m exploding with doubts as Daisy is slowly makin’ her way toward me.

  Will she remember me? Is there another dog? High Point is loaded with eligible dogs. Is all the extra exercising I’ve been doing to get my body ready for her going to pay off? Could she be gay? Benny was crazy about Liz, a fox terrier on our third floor who turned out to be nuts about Iris, a Bedlington terrier with a cool spiked haircut on the fifth floor.

  Maybe I’m possibly smelling too human? Bud uses a dab of Crest in his mouth before he goes out, so I bit into the tube and accidentally squirted toothpaste all over my face and neck, had to stick my head in the toilet to get it off this morning. Maybe I’m givin’ away a big dog secret here, but you got no idea how often your dog plunges his head in the toilet. It’s quite refreshing.

  All at once, we’re nose to nose. She sniffs me. I sniff her. I remember her smell. Does she remember mine? My heart’s pounding, but I’m telling you, I’m ultracool—just letting it flow, like I’m Idris Elba greeting a fan.

  “I’m back!” she says.

  At the exact moment that I’m realizin’ “Thank God everything’s OK,” I hear a long-short-long SOS signal on the door buzzer. This means Donna Hanover’s desperate to come in and get a bottle from the stash of her emergency booze that she asks Bud to hide from her.

  She comes charging in and, not noticing another large white dog and Gail and Buffy, she asks, “Bud, do you still have my limoncello? I must have it now.”

  After she takes two long drinks from the bottle and lets out an “ahhhh!” a couple of times, Bud introduces her to Buffy and Gail. Daisy impresses me by barking politely at Donna. I get a little sense that Buffy may be jealous of Donna—not for limoncello drinking at ten thirty in the morning, but just for barging in on Bud. There’s a bunch of small talk about TV work, and Donna explains she’s got a new job being a sideline reporter for the Yankees’ triple-A team.

  “I’m the left side of the field-line girl,” she says, “so all I need
to know about is third base, shortstop, left field, and plays at the plate, but it’s really hard to figure out that new no-collision rule with the catcher. The main thing is, I’m just hoping they don’t overload me and assign me balks, too.”

  She takes a small swig. “Ahhh…limoncello, anybody? Better cold, but so good anyway, whooo!”

  “Maybe you’ll just handle balks on right-handed pitchers,” Buffy tells her. “I played college ball, shortstop at UNC.”

  “Really? Wow, that’s impressive,” Donna says, taking another gulp while leaning on a chair for support and eyeing Buffy’s fingernails, maybe to check out possible softball-linked sexual identity clues.

  “Balks are mystical. Think of the balk as the foot fault of tennis transferred to the pitcher’s mound,” Buffy says, a little like the way she’d mock mansplaining dimwit anchorman Sam Holloway in High Point.

  “Brilliant, Buffy. Any advice on that home-plate rule?”

  “Think of the catcher building a fence he’s not supposed to build, and because of the fence, the cow can’t get back to the barn.”

  “Oh, wow! Now I get it. So what are you guys all doing? Want to go to Nello?” she asks. “They’ll make me Ketel One oatmeal as an eye-opener!”

  “Nello’s is closed now,” Bud says.

  “Yes, but the bartender’s there. I checked with binoculars before I came down. So let’s get going. Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!” she says, jumping up and down, clapping her hands over her head. “Come on, you guys, you guys, you guys, let’s go, go, go!”

  Bud tells her that they’d better not have a boozy breakfast, ’cause they got a dinner that night with Bud’s old boss Lombardo as part of the ABC upfront meetings, and Lombardo’s good friend the police commissioner is gonna be at the table, too.

  “No sense showing up drunk in front of the police,” Bud says.

  “Believe me,” Donna says, “I know what that’s like. OK, well, I’m headed over there, and if anything changes, you know where I’ll be today.”