by Bill Boggs
He skims over the history of my breed—bred for dogfighting in England in the 1860s, exceptionally loyal to our owners, love people, bred down so we won’t start a fight, but sure won’t run from one either. All true. I’m smiling broadly, winking the eye with the black patch. But he forgets two important notes. I think it’s ’cause he’s slightly stoned. Not bragging, but English Bull Terriers are the supreme athletes of the canine world. Sorry, Dobermans. True. We’re stronger than any dog as fast as us, and faster than any dog as strong as us. Think Jim Brown, Muhammad Ali, and a sumo wrestler in one hard-as-a-rock package that just wants to sit on your lap, watch TV, and sleep in your bed.
But how, I ask you, could Buddy boy forget this?
In World War II, my great-great-grandfather Brick went with Charlie, his Cockney owner, as part of Operation Tonga, June 6, 1944. He was in a glider platoon with the British Sixth Airborne division that landed after midnight near Caen, France. You could say that what Great-Great-Grandfather Brick did that night was the finest hour in the history of our breed. Well, maybe up to Spuds MacKenzie or that nervous-lookin’ Target dog. Spuds made a ton of cashola sellin’ beer. You be the judge.
Three German soldiers with three German shepherds charging ahead of them came out of the dark straight at Charlie in a small trench. The way it’s told is that Brick leaped out of the trench—“sprinted like a white comet,” Charlie said. He sprang five feet through the air and took down the lead shepherd in a heartbeat—crushed his throat. Charlie was firing at Krauts, who were running and shooting. The two shepherds went for Brick just as Charlie finally took down a Kraut, but the others were closing in.
“I fixed my bayonet while Brick tangled with both shepherds,” Charlie would say, “and it sounded mean.”
Charlie fires, nails the second Kraut, but now as he’s tryin’ to reload, the last Kraut gets to the trench and aims his rifle straight down at Charlie. He pulls the trigger and Charlie hears “click, click.” The German’s going for his pistol, which is stuck in the holster, when Brick, “blood-covered as an amputation,” Charlie said, leaps at his back and knocks him into the trench, where Charlie finished him off “quite cleanly.”
Three dead soldiers and three dead dogs lay on the field as Brick bled to death in Charlie’s arms. He’s buried in that trench. Even though he was dead, they gave him something called the Dickin Medal, Britain’s highest award for what they say is valor by a military animal.
Spuds or Brick? You make the call.
The High Point, North Carolina, morning talk show was a great gig for Bud. His first show. Produced it himself. Called the shots and put me on almost every day.
I started sitting next to a lot of weird guests, all clamoring to be on TV, like the engineer who was introducing a new generation of “artificial stupidity” robots, designed to raise human self-esteem ’cause the robots got no idea where they’re going or what they’re doing. Or the head of the World Bedbug Foundation, “dedicated to helping America understand a most misunderstood insect.”
One show had the inventor of “The Pants Enhancer,” which he called a codpiece for the modern male. “Men,” he asks, “feeling marginalized? Need to reassert yourself? Want to meet more women and be the talk of every party? The Pants Enhancer’s your answer.”
As part of the segment, Bud does the talk show demo shtick of putting one on under his jeans. Gales of laughter from the women in the audience pointing at what looks like two tennis balls and a Philadelphia cheesesteak in Bud’s suddenly massive crotch wasn’t exactly the kind of sexy promo Mr. Pants Enhancer had in mind.
Evangelists get high ratings in North Carolina, and we had one on almost every week. Franklin Graham commanded Bud not to smoke, drink, have sex, watch cable TV, read The New York Times, turn gay, or laugh too much. Then he puts his hands on my head and prays for me. Ridiculous, right? Praying for a dog? But you know, the hands got smoldering hot. I raced to the men’s room and plunged my head in a toilet afterward. Maybe there’s something there?
The so-called Wonder Dog isn’t really doing very much, but it’s all working—yawning, barking, jumping around, licking guests. My two specialties are sleeping—hot lights, comfortable chair, slow-talking guests with Southern accents; it’s a miracle Bud stays awake—and food tasting after cooking demos.
Everything tastes great to me. I’m a dog, not Martha Stewart, so I hafta perform. I can’t just scarf up whatever they put in the Wonder Bowl. For example, spaghetti squash with sautéed vegetables, pine nuts, and marinara sauce with Parmesan. Love it; could down a bowl in under five seconds. But no, I gotta be discerning: a careful sniff, a hesitant small taste. A look skyward, another larger taste, a wrinkled brow during a slow, thoughtful chew. A big affirmative nod—then I inhale it in record time.
This six-step tasting routine came directly from watching Al Roker sample food on Today. When Bud made it to New York and I met Al, I rubbed my body against his leg and sat on his foot to thank him. Good man, short legs, big feet, nice shoes.
It’s embarrassing to recount it, but my private parts were causing trouble. A couple times, I rolled over in my chair to sleep on my back, making it kinda easy to spot two white, fur-covered balls. That’s when everybody in North Carolina realized that you don’t see a lot of balls on dogs these days.
Bud gets hauled into his boss Lombardo’s office, and Lombardo tells him that Animal Control, as a so-called public service, is offering to have me “reproductively reorganized,” which is the stupid term that the crazy woman who runs the place uses instead of “neutered.”
She wants to do the surgery live on the show and give a two-for-one deal—which technically is a four-for-one—to people with unneutered male dogs. Then she’s sayin’ she’ll fit me with Neuticles—testicle implants for neutered dogs. Like a Pants Enhancer, but balls. Revolting.
Luckily, I know Bud doesn’t want to reproductively reorganize me ’cause of what happened with Brenda when I was a puppy.
Brenda’s his hot girlfriend. Oils her legs, law student at Guilford College—not vet school like the other one, or she’d be shoving me full of needles for practice. Brenda and me are mostly OK, but she’s on top of Bud all the time—actually she is on top of him all the time; it’s her favorite position—because I’m taking leaks all over the house. I’m missing the Wee-Wee pads by a mile and claiming the edges of the couch as prime spots to hit.
“What are we going to do about this puppy, Bud?”
“Huh?”
“You got to get Spike fixed,” she says.
My ears fly up.
“He’s not broken,” Bud says.
“He’s urinating all over the house. Get him fixed; he’ll be easier to train.”
If you’re gonna be a lawyer, Brenda, you gotta come up with better than that.
“Nobody has unneutered dogs these days,” she says.
Generalization. Proceed, Bud.
“There’s no way he’s getting neutered,” Bud says. “He’s from the best bloodlines, and I’m gonna breed him.”
Yes!
Now an argument explodes. Brenda’s trying to prosecute me with crap like I’m gonna die sooner and get cancer of the balls, blah, blah, blah. She won’t let up, and she’s pissing Bud off, ’cause my pissing’s pissing her off.
Finally Bud says in a different, extra-loud voice than the one he uses on TV, “Love me, love my dog’s balls, Brenda!”
Brenda takes her framed autographed photo of Marcia Clark, her luxury sex toy catalogs, her Agent Provocateur thong collection, and moves out.
Case closed at home.
But at work, Lombardo’s the boss and he seems real sensitive to the concerns of the Animal Control woman, ’cause she’s married to Mayor Gordon, the crooked slob who’s supposed to be running the city of High Point. At WGHP-TV, Lombardo gets what he wants. So he, too, may be out for my balls. Basically, I got no problem with Lombardo; we like each other’s strength. He’s a big, handsome Sicilian and tough. He makes Pacino’s Mi
chael Corleone look like a pizza delivery boy.
But at the time of Ballsgate, Bud’s in hot water with Lombardo. What happened is, Bud and old Kris Kristofferson are out back swappin’ a big doobie after the show when Lombardo himself appears to partake of a Chesterfield, and he’s enraged ’cause they’re breakin’ the law smoking weed on station property. Kris gets them both outta trouble by singing “Me and Bobby McGee” to Lombardo’s wife over the phone. But Bud’s still on the shit list.
So, there’s this meeting. Lombardo, Bud, me, and the Animal Control woman, Doris Gordon, who’s saying it’s a community service to cut off my balls as a good example to pet owners everywhere. Lombardo’s nodding like they’re not his balls we’re talking about, when in bursts Brenda, acting like she’s Elizabeth Warren in a push-up bra.
She’s presenting a legal case for me to keep my balls. Seems that Bud bribed her with a dinner at Pierre’s if she’d put together an argument that my balls were Bud’s property or something…not sure. So we win but later learn that Lombardo was jerking our chain. He tells us he “just had the meeting ’cause that dingbat Doris Gordon is the mayor’s wife.”
High Point was simple and fun with Bud at the controls. Nowhere near as much of the shit that would get thrown at us when we went to NYC. I always thought we shoulda just stayed in High Point. Plus, I had a yard. Bud set it up for me to practice things like jumping over stacks of bricks, bouncing around in a circle like Muhammad Ali, throwing truck tires gaily in the air, or using my jaws to hang by a big rope knot for endless hours. Try doing any of that in a one-bedroom apartment at Sixty-Third and Madison.
When I was around age one, Bud had a birthday party for me on the show. This actually leads to us getting on The Tonight Show for a dog-trick segment.
The guests are station employees’ pets—as if I know them or actually care. There’s a big bulldog, friendly but dumb as a chew toy. A just-washed mixed breed, who’s an OK dog except for bad breath. A bored cat, two blue parakeets, and an English springer spaniel who keeps barking frantically at the birds and has to be dragged out of the studio.
The first special guest is Lassie with Russ, his trainer. This is big for me. I’m a huge fan of Lassie’s work—always impressed that Lassie wore a mange costume to costar as the ratty Sam the Dog with John Wayne in Hondo. Oh, and newsflash—Lassie is the first real transgender showbiz star. Yeah, long before your Bruce Jenners, you had Pal, a male collie playing female Lassie. This Lassie is like the eighth generation bred from Pal, and I think maybe they’ve gradually become more and more naturally effeminate.
So Lassie minces over to me. I gotta say my heart is beating fast—it’s Lassie! But I also gotta remember Lassie is actually Barry. And Lassie-Barry plants this long lick on me starting under my chin, then going over my nose and halfway up my head. People are goin’ nuts. Things are spinnin’ around. The camerawoman says to Bud, “Spike’s verklempt.” The next thing I know, I’ve rolled over on my back and I’m wagging the tail, so of course they cut to commercial—’cause, again, my balls are showin’.
Next up is some dog trainer guy named Cesar who wrote a book claimin’ you could train your dog in fifteen minutes. Wanna get on TV? All you gotta do is write a book sayin’ you can do something complicated, like adding a front porch with solar panels to your house, in only fifteen minutes. It takes Bud longer than fifteen minutes to clean up after me.
Cesar’s got some juicy chunks of fillet in his pocket, and he’s telling everybody he’s gonna train me to offer my paw like I’m shakin’ hands. I figure, he gets the paw when the pocket’s empty, and after fourteen chunks of raw meat I give it to him. Had so much beef I started passing gas, which woke up the bulldog and somehow offended Lassie.
On the commercial break, Bud says, “Wait’ll you see this, Spike.” So I’m expecting Cher. But no. Who lumbers out but Pluto on a big leash with Mickey Mouse from the Coliseum’s Disney World on Ice. I’m underwhelmed, but I bark like I’m trapped in a hot car, ’cause I’m startin’ to learn the phony side of the business.
Mickey’s waving his hand like he’s the Pope. But Mickey’s done for me. He’s totally lost it. Original Mickey had an edge, would get pissed off on occasion, maybe even punch somebody out. Modern Mickey just smiles all the time like every TV weatherman. Pluto’s cool. Been a good friend to Mickey, so he’s OK. But I’m hopin’ Donald Duck’s gonna waddle out, ’cause he’s my favorite, hasn’t lost it, and basically, I like ducks. But no Donald.
Pluto’s clumpin’ toward me, and I jump off my chair and lick his face, which smells like a wet cardboard box. The guy inside says, “Hi, Spike. I’m Pluto. Happy birthday.” I look in his eyehole, and sweat’s pourin’ off his head and dripping outta Pluto’s nose. “It’s way too fuckin’ hot in here,” he says.
Music comes on. It’s Donna Summer’s “Bad Girl.” They probably played it for Lassie. All of us are dancing around to end the show. Lassie starts bumping his ass against me harder and harder. Not a hump but a major twerk. I growl. He stops cold and runs over to Russ. Bud and Cesar are lookin’ stupid dancing alone. Mickey’s doing his mechanical Pope-like wave, just as the guy in the Pluto suit throws up straight outta Pluto’s left eye. Lassie’s covered with barf as the credits start to roll.
That night I’m sound asleep in my doghouse in the yard and I’m yanked out, and we’re headed to the ice show at the Coliseum. Bud and me have to be there for some kind of cross promotion with the station. My mood is not the best, ’cause I figured I was in for the night.
We get there at intermission. When the lights go down, this big stupid formal voice booms, “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly direct your attention…” We head out on the ice. I’m stickin’ close to Bud in case he falls, ’cause he can’t skate and looks about as flexible as Frankenstein doing Pilates.
A spotlight hits them as they glide out waving—Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Pluto, Daisy, and Donald. I see him, and something snaps. I don’t know; I love Donald Duck I guess, and plus my paws are freezin’—killin’ me. So I take off chasin’ Donald. I’m slippin’ and slidin’ and Bud’s yelling “stop,” and the crowd is going nuts. Totally, totally nuts. You’d think I’m Bryce Harper rounding the bases after a grand slam.
I’m gainin’ on Donald, and unless he’s got eyes in the back of the costume, he has no idea he’s being chased by a fifty-pound dog. The crowd starts chanting, “Spike…Spike….”
I’m running beside Donald, and I bang up against him to say hi. I don’t mean to, but I knock Donald sideways. He’s about to fall, so I jump high to catch him by his big yellow beak, but as I come down I got the whole Donald head in my jaws. The little woman in the Donald suit is skating after me to get the head. I’m havin’ fun. Glad I woke up. The paws are warm, so why not take a victory lap on the ice with Donald’s head?
Bud’s crew has the thing on tape, and three days later we’re off to do a “pet stunt of the week,” on Jimmy Fallon’s Tonight Show in New York. But first we have to do a goodwill visit to the Donald costume woman in the hospital, ’cause her neck’s in traction.
2
New York: The First Time
So we fly to New York. You don’t like flying? Try it as a dog. I’m crammed in a crate. You need more legroom? I can’t even turn my head. Bud begged, but he couldn’t get me a seat ’cause they said I’m too big.
After I get unloaded, we’re in a cab. I’ve never been in a back seat before, and this is like a cage. I usually ride up front with my head in Bud’s lap thinkin’ about all the other heads that’ve been down there. The cab driver smells like a falafel stand, and he’s honking like a war’s over while calling three other drivers “asshole” at the same time.
Out the window I see people running around like it’s their last day on earth, and they got faces that look like they’re enduring a rectal worm check. Several guys are walking holding hands. Not something you spot much on the streets of High Point, except maybe during the furniture market week. I know plenty of gay dogs—the
y’re a lotta’ fun, keep their houses neat. You gotta figure they don’t like breeding too much, but they end up bein’ very good parents with their puppies.
At The Tonight Show there’s a table full of food. So I jump up and pull off a tray of chopped liver molded to look like Jimmy Fallon’s head. Bud’s not happy, but Diana Lewis, the producer who booked us, is hysterical ’cause Jimmy’s nose landed on her shoe. She’s cute and is patient with Bud.
“Will I get to meet Jimmy?” Bud asks.
“Jimmy usually doesn’t see all the guests before the taping.”
“Does he know about me and my show down South?”
“I gave him your stuff and…if he reads it…” she says.
“Well, I just thought if he could mention, you know, Southern Exposure, the show, it would help us out.”
Bud’s chatting up Diana Lewis. I’m eating Jimmy’s head off the rug when in walks Willie Nelson. Bud’s glad to see him, ’cause Willie’s been on our show. I bump up against him and Willie scratches my head and sits on the couch. He’s a little bit creaky, so I’m not sure he’ll be able to get up too easily.
But he hops outta his seat to say hi to Ike Piles, a boxer on to promote his pay-per-view fight. “Call me Money Piles, Willie. I Ike ‘I Got Money’ Piles,” he says, while launchin’ a bro hug on Willie that bends him in half. Then he spots me.
“Who dat? Who dat? Look at him! He bad! Look at him!” he yells at the three big guys and four women who came in with him. He’s fingering the new black collar with tiny spikes that Bud got me for the show. He’s panting heavily just looking at me.
“Money Piles buy this bitch! He tough. He fighter like Ike ‘I Got Money’ Piles be! Money Piles buy him. Who I pay?”
One of the big guys hands him a pile of cash the size of a catcher’s mitt, and he starts rippin’ off hundred-dollar bills when Bud tells ’em I’m not for sale.
