She looked at me with her serious eyes and said as how she wasn’t sure if she could handle it, but that she thought little Princess deserved to have her there.
“Daddy,” she said, “Princess isn’t all that fond of you, but she loves me. It might break me up inside to see her put down, but that’s something I will have to live with because I have to be strong for her. She’s been a good dog to me.”
I remembered back, then, to how the two years between twelve and fourteen seem like a lifetime’s worth of growing up, even though later on you see it wasn’t. Time is slower when you’re younger, and I think that is a physics-based fact. If it’s not, then someone smart oughta do some studying on it.
So, I told Em she could come along, and when we were sitting in those god-awful uncomfortable chairs at the vet, Em and Princess shivered equally hard. When the vet tech came out and called for us, my big little girl shot me a look of pure terror. I squeezed her shoulders and told her she could wait in the waiting room or even out in the truck if she wanted–there was no shame in it–but she swallered and squared up her shoulders. She came in with me, carrying her contrary little Princess.
The truth is, I left before her. I stayed until it was over and seen that Emily was okay, and I went and leaned against the wall outside the door. It was almost, in a weird way, like when Emily was just a little ’un and had asked me not to help her with her bath; she said she could do it all on her ownself.
She was growing up all the time, you see, stage by stage. If you are lucky, that’s what your children do.
But she wasn’t growing up all that fast because she cried uncontrollably once we got out to the truck.
There are hard lessons in life, and I would swear by everything I know that a lot of those lessons will come from the little souls that share your house and life with you. You learn to get on and get over, tolerate and love despite differences, and you learn to appreciate for the pure sake of it, whether what you are appreciating is appreciating you back or not.
This last one I’m going to tell you about came well near the end of my tenure with the station. I don’t think I worked even three more days after I spoke to this fella and was already in a little hot water for not timing my show just right to squeeze in enough commercials. But he had such an interesting story that I skipped all the commercials and let him run long; even the next DJ just sat with her mouth hangin’ open, mesmerized at the voice coming from the speakers. Couldn’t help but be, you know.
Here his story is. Let’s see what you think.
The Star
“Help me! Oh, help me! Won’t someone come save a lady in distress?” Major Angela Bennett cried out and struggled with the silvery bonds at her wrists. They were supposed to be some form of alien super-strong metal, but they folded over on themselves and squinched like painted rubber. Behind her, a spacecraft that resembled a VW bus outfitted with extraneous pipes and tubes and painted silver flashed multicolored lights.
I and twelve other ‘aliens’ formed a ring around her, menacing her with ray guns that looked like broom handles with various appliance hoses attached and wound over with silvery tape.
“Help me! Oh, please! Someone help me!” Her words were punctuated with convincing moans, and as she struggled, the already drooping neckline of her strategically ripped space suit drifted lower, showing the enticing curve of one quivering breast. “Help! Help me!”
We aliens raised our ray guns and hummed in unison, creating an aural tension. Major Bennet threw her head back, elongating the curve of her beautiful, white throat, and screamed!
There was a crash behind us and a startled cry of dismay as something tipped to the ground. The spaceship’s lights went out. The major was spotlit in a single beam, looking for all the world as though a spaceship, a real one, had actually descended with the intent of taking her aboard. She screamed again, this one somehow more convincing in its startled honesty.
A dog–a German shepherd–bounded past us, knocking two of the aliens to their knees, and put himself between us and Major Bennet. He lowered his head, hackles raised along his back, and growled with menace at the ring of threatening aliens.
The woman squinted into the darkness, bringing up a hand to shield her eyes from the powerful beam above her. Her ‘metal bonds’–unconvincing before–looked even worse split apart and showing their cardboard truth.
“Mickey? Is there a dog in this script? I don’t remember a dog, Mickey,” she said. Her accent was thick New York in all its nasal glory. “I thought Tony was savin’ me. Listen, Mickey, I ain’t kissin’ no dog!”
There was another crash behind us. “God-DAMMIT! Who let a DOG on MY SET?”
My stomach knotted. I knelt and called as quietly as I could: “Shep! C’mere, boy! It’s me, Shep. It’s Ray!” Shep licked his chops and sat, his big head tilted in confusion. He was unwilling to leave the distressed damsel and puzzled by my voice coming from a papier-mâché alien head.
I’d had him tied outside the set while I worked; he must have decided he’d waited long enough. The other aliens, realizing what had happened, melted away from me as though my bad luck might be catching. They were taking their heads off, and their faces bespoke a sympathetic horror as though they knew they were about to see my demise. “Shep!” I called again, desperate. “Come!”
A long shadow fell over me. The other aliens’ eyes lifted from mine to stare in dismay over my head. I turned to look, my neck creaking.
Mickey Tremaine stood behind me, his heavy eyes half-lidded, his bullhorn at his side throttled in one white-knuckled hand. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was deceptively soft.
“I’m a-a-alien n-n-number n-n-nine, sir,” I said and straightened. I pulled my head off and held it sheepishly at my side. Shep chose that moment to come sit next to me.
Mickey Tremaine’s hand shot out so fast, I thought he was about to deck me. Instead he said, “Nice to meet you, my boy. My name’s Mickey…Mickey Tremaine.”
“N-n-nice to m-m-meet you, sir,” I said and shook his hand. My hand was bloodless, nearly floating.
“Do you know who I am, Alien Number Nine?” he asked, and my stomach took a quick trip to the area right around my knees. I couldn’t answer. Of course I knew who he was; we all knew who he was. He was the director; he was God.
“Since you seem a little lost for words, I’ll tell you who I am, Alien Number Nine…I’m the director of this little pitcher. Do you know what a director is, Alien Number Nine?”
“Y-y-yes sir, sir, Mister Tremaine; I sure d-d-do know,” I said. It seemed that once I’d found my voice, I couldn’t unfind it. My words tumbled out of me like bumbling clowns from an impossibly small car. “You’re M-m-mister Tremaine! You’re the d-d-director!” Too late, I realized I’d merely more or less repeated everything that had just been said, like an idiotic parrot. My face lit red with heat. I swallowed. “Sir,” I finished lamely. My fingers found Shep’s ear, and I gripped it for comfort. I needed some–I was about to lose the only paying gig I’d been able to land since Shep and I got to Hollywood.
The director loomed closer, his eyes darkening and his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Listen to me, you idiot, I’m going to ruin you in this town and–”
“Mickey!” A man’s voice, deep and confiding but jovial, too. Tony Allen, the star of the picture. He was tall and robust, handsome in a clean-cut, outdoorsy kind of way. Square jawed and heroic, like any good leading man. He went on, “That was great, Mickey! Stellar bit of filmmaking, old man,” Tony said. He tipped me a quick wink and then turned his high-beam smile back onto the director. “And smart, too! What with the way everyone’s going crazy for dog pictures these days! And to spring it on Daisy like that, to get a real reaction! Genius!”
Daisy Marks, who was playing Major Angela Bennet, sashayed up just as Tony finished his speech. “Hello, Tony,” she said and pouted at him. “I thought you were going to save me…not some stinky old mutt!”
“Major,” Tony said
and swept Daisy into his arms, swinging her around until she dangled in his embrace like a helpless rag. He looked into her eyes with smoldering intensity, besotted by love. “I’ll always be there to save you.” He planted a long, heartfelt kiss on her sticky red lips, and around us, the extras laughed and clapped.
Mickey’s lips twisted into a sour smile, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought it meant trouble…but for Mickey, sour was the upside to his temperament. “Aww, you kids,” he said. He clapped Tony on the back. Then he turned to his harried and ghost-white assistant. “Carl! Call costume and tell them to fix Daisy’s suit…we ain’t makin’ a dirty pitcher! And get that good-for-nothing electrician over here to fix that god-dammed spaceship!” He stared around with restless discontent. Then he yelled, nearly barking, “Aliens! Get your heads back on! Who told you it was a break? This ain’t no break! You’ll all get docked if you ain’t set up in thirty seconds. Tina! Get me the–”
“Mickey!” Tony called after the departing despot. Mickey turned, squinting over his own ample shoulder. Tony said, “What about the dog, Mickey? Is he in?”
Mickey’s eyes found mine. The sour frown/smile came back, sinking into his face like a lead weight into soft dough. “Sure, sure, Tony…whatever you say, pal. Long as Number Nine here can get him to hit his god-dammed doggie MARK!” He stomped off, grumbling for Tina. Tony shot me a wide-open smile of glad friendship before putting his arm around Daisy’s shoulders to squire her to her trailer and a meeting with the seamstress’ needle.
And that was how my good dog Shep got his start in show business.
* * *
Tony Allen was not a big star, yet, but he was the biggest star on the set of Alien Invasion From Planet Z and more well-known than even Mickey Tremaine. That’s why Mickey gave in to Tony that day and why I wasn’t kicked to the curb and blackballed at every studio up and down Hollywood Boulevard.
Shep appeared just two more times in Alien Invasion, small parts where he walked next to Tony (Major Ricky Aster) as he and Daisy contemplated the alien’s weak spots. Of course, I couldn’t be both Alien Number Nine and the wrangler (as animal trainers are called), so I gave up my papier-mâché head and assumed the mantle of my new career (although, I didn’t know at the time that this was going to be my new career…I thought I was just getting along to go along and appeasing that director son of a gun along with making friends with one of Hollywood’s hottest young prospects.)
Shep was three years old the year he and I came to Hollywood from Indiana. I had dreams of being an actor–not one like Tony, I’d never be a leading man–but I thought maybe I could get in a few war pictures and then possibly land something on television. I was only twenty-one, but I had that rough look that worked for war and westerns. And I knew how to ride; I thought that might help.
Shep was my best friend. My ma had given him to me when I graduated high school, and I’d never had a purebred dog before. He was beautiful even at eight weeks old. His ears were big, black triangles that flopped stiffly to one side and then the other. His face was tan on his forehead but black around his eyes and long but blunted nose. He had a perfect saddle and a tail that started out black and shaped like a rat’s but soon grew into a tan brush that mostly swung back in forth in happy arcs. When he reached six months, he sloped from his shoulders on down to his hips, and even standing still, he looked like a rocket taking off. Then his flopped-over ears stood on up, and he went from looking like a pup to looking like the strong working dog he had become.
A German shepherd is a striking dog with their big chest, thick fur, and black saddle and mask. They just look like they are built for battle, or work, or protecting anything from an entire farm on down to a single child. They are smart, loyal, and fun-loving, but you’ll never find a dog that snaps quicker from rolling goofily in leaves to standing at attention, focused as a bullet and just as serious.
It wasn’t hard to get Shep to walk next to Tony in the two scenes where he needed to do so; Shep liked Tony. They’d gotten along from the word go. All Tony had to do was slip a piece of cold ham in his jacket pocket with Shep watching–after that, Shep minded him as close and careful as any human could have done, hanging on Tony’s every word as though he needed to know the plan just as much as the military men that eventually defeated the aliens from Planet Z.
He was, in the parlance, a natural.
Tony and I were having dinner one night, not long after Alien Invasion had wrapped, when he brought up the idea of trying to get Shep into High Rides the Hangman, a new picture that Tony was due to start shooting in three months.
Shep had been a success in his role in Alien Invasion, but I didn’t kid myself about why. I hadn’t trained him in any particular fashion…nothing beyond sit and stay and come. He didn’t even know how to heel, and it was Tony who thought up the ham idea.
It had only worked because it was a small role. If Shep were going to get other jobs–as Tony was certain he’d be able to do–then Shep and I would have to get some other tricks under his collar.
I glanced across at Tony, still a little dazed that he and I were even having dinner together. Not that it was anything fancy; we sat at a picnic table in a parking lot next to the ocean, plates of cheeseburgers and fries in front of us. The food was mediocre, but the view was spectacular, and the company, well, the company was making me starstruck. Nobody really recognized him yet–that would all change after his latest picture came out–but there was still something about him. That star charisma, I guess. Women couldn’t seem to help cutting their eyes to him, and one woman even walked straight into the side of the little hamburger shack, she was so spellbound. And how did Tony mesmerize them? Just by being, it seemed to me. His very existence cast a far-ranging spell, even though all he was doing was eating French fries and talking to me about a dog.
“You have to teach him to hit his mark,” Tony said. “That will be the main thing.” Shep watched us carefully, sitting at the edge of the table so he could keep us both in his sight. He watched each bite of food, each swipe of French fry through ketchup. He had been mesmerized, too, although the hijacker of his attention was a little more prosaic.
“Okay,” I said, but I was doubtful. I’d never trained an animal to do anything very specific. I wasn’t sure how to even start.
But Tony seemed to catch it all from my one, forlorn word. He grinned at me. “Listen, you’ve got everything you need right here to start training: a smart dog, a good friend, and motivation.”
I warmed at his words, especially ‘good friend,’ but was confused on the last part. “Motivation?” I asked. “How do you figure?”
“Witness,” he said and raised a French fry to the level of his eyes and turned to face Shep. Shep snapped to attention, his deep brown eyes watching Tony closely.
“Shep,” Tony said, and his voice was filled with restrained terror. Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes as he swallowed gamely. “You gotta get the Sarge and bring ’im back here, boy. I’m gonna die if you don’t…I can’t…I can’t move my legs.”
I sat with my mouth hanging open, my cheeseburger sagging unremembered in my hands, mesmerized myself by Tony’s sudden and complete transformation into a wounded soldier at the battlefront, trapped and losing hope, depending on one last chance: a dog, a war dog, who would bring his plight to the attention of his sergeant…if Shep failed, it would be the end of Tony.
The sun was setting over the pacific, and it bathed Shep and Tony in red, as though they were lit by not-too-distant fighting. I could practically hear the mortar shells bursting, the screams of men dying, the growl of tanks prowling the landscape like prehistoric war monsters.
“I…I love you, boy,” Tony said, a soldier who knew he might be sending his bosom companion to doggy heaven. Shep stared with longing at Tony (or at the French fry in Tony’s hand), his eyes filled with brave and shining determination: he would do anything for Tony (or the French fry), anything!
“Go on, boy!” T
ony said, his voice catching. He flung his arm as though directing his war dog in the right direction and, at the same time, threw the French fry across the parking lot to land next to the shack. Shep’s response was instant, electric. He bounded across the lot to disappear behind the shack (running out of frame).
Tony collapsed over himself, the exhaustion and pain too much to bear. Now began the waiting game. Either his good dog would get through…or he wouldn’t. But at least…he could hope.
A group of girls at the picnic table next to us clapped, and one of them whistled. Tony jumped up, smiling, and took a deep, dramatic bow. He came up laughing. Everyone laughed with him, and we all just about fell out of our seats when Shep chose that moment to reappear, barking majestically, his chest thrust out as though telling the troops behind him: Here he is, boys! We’ve found him just in time!
Tony threw Shep another French fry, and he snatched it easily out of the air. The girls clapped again. Tony knelt next to Shep and put his arm around him. “Time to take your bow, boy,” Tony said. At his words, a shiver of dread washed over me. He grasped Shep’s front paw and pulled it forward while simultaneously dropping another bit of French fry to the ground near Shep’s paw but back, closer to his body. Shep’s head bowed over his outstretched leg as he reached for the bit of food; his black ears tipped forward and down like a doffed fedora, casting his eyes into deep, unreadable shadow.
The girls watching sighed in awe, and the burst of applause this time made Shep jump up and bark. A small crowd had gathered in the twilight to watch Shep and Tony’s antics. Everyone clapped, enchanted by an otherwise mundane evening made special.
More Good Dogs: More Stories About Good Dogs and the People Who Love Them Page 12
