by Bill Boggs
“Crikey, this could make a stuffed bird laugh,” the Pelly robot says.
The intern throws two towels over the robot’s head, and play resumes.
My plan is to go for everything. First guy up, long fly to center. I chase it, but the center fielder’s got it. Then this big, beefy sportscaster of theirs smashes a single to right. Lombardo gives up another single to their sales manager but easily strikes out Rudy the one-armed weatherman. Bolster’s next and Lombardo’s throwin’ fire. He runs a full count and Bolster swings and dribbles one down the third-base line. Me and Bud get tripped up goin’ for it, and Bolster’s on first. Bases loaded with the winning run at second.
What happens next is gonna play forever in my little brain. At the plate is Bolster’s secretary, Penny. She was a pro golfer who put on a lot of weight, got a crew cut, inked tattoos of butterflies all over her arms, and moved to a log cabin in Asheboro with a woman who looks like Sandra Bullock. She can slug the ball.
Lombardo’s got a 3–1 count, pitchin’ around the menacing-looking Penny. Everybody’s real tense. He’s gettin’ set to heave but stops. He turns around and looks at me for what seems like a long time. What I’m reading in Lombardo’s dark eyes is strange—like he’s sending something at me, filling me up with some force. He’s makin’ me feel like I can do anything, like I’m Ozzie Smith with a mouth for a glove.
He turns, there’s the pitch, and Penny laces it up the middle. The ball hits second base and goes straight up in the air. I’m lookin’ at it like I’ve looked at that little pink ball in the yard a thousand times. Bolster’s runnin’ toward second. Up I go. High. Five feet. I got it. I start dropping down, straight down. Bolster’s slidin’ headfirst into the bag, but I land on his head; Bud grabs the ball outta my jaws and tags the bag. We win.
Our whole team’s screamin’ happily, while I’m sitting on Bolster’s face, releasing a bit of a gas from all that peanut butter.
“Give me a blowjob!” the Pelly robot yells.
My favorite times with Bud aren’t when we’re workin’ on TV. It’s Friday, when it’s always just us at home. That’s when I really feel most like a pet.
We start with a trip to Otto’s butcher shop. A perk of my stardom is that Otto lets me in the store. He’s got my photo in the window. Bud signed it, “Love your meat, thanks, Spike The Wonder Dog.” Otto tells Bud, “Some people think Spike actually autographed it,” which makes me want to continue my exploration into the unlimited powers of the human brain.
Friday nights we always watch the classic fights on ESPN. I study the moves of the greats and practice them in our yard. I come to realize boxing is one fighter imposing his will on another. I like Roberto “Hands of Stone” Duran, ’cause if I were fightin’ I’d be “Head of Stone.”
When it gets late on Friday, Bud sometimes sits in a bath talkin’ to some babe on the phone. He’s hot and heavy now with this tall nurse. He spotted her at a bar readin’ Raw Living magazine. When he saw broccoli on the cover, he realized it wasn’t the kind of raw living he had in mind, but chatted her up anyway.
We get in the big bed and listen to music. Whoever he’s datin’, he asks them, “What kind of music you like?” And whatever it is—except for that one time with Michael Bublé—he listens to it. He met a girl on a coast trip who was into show tunes, and he was probably the only straight guy in West Hollywood drivin’ around blasting the original soundtrack of Hello, Dolly out the window.
Saturday mornings, we jog and then work on new tricks for me. Sometimes we play hide and seek, and Bud acts like he’s “The Mentalist” searchin’ for me in the woods out back. He finds me most times. Not all owners could do that, but Bud and me use one of those special human–animal connections. The kind they report on every couple of weeks on the nightly news when they’ve got nothing else to cover.
Later in the day, when the babe arrives for their “action in the afternoon,” I’m in the yard sitting in my orange doghouse waiting to hear the moaning through the window, so I can start visualizin’ the meat in Otto’s shop. That’s about as close as I’m comin’ these days to an erotic experience.
One Saturday things got messed up, ’cause we had to go to Lombardo’s house at lunchtime. “Come to my place at noon and bring that dog. I’ve got something to tell him.”
Lombardo opens the door, and even though it’s Saturday he’s dressed same way as at the office—shiny black loafers, crisp white shirt, a sharp pants crease—he makes Anderson Cooper look like a guy who sleeps under a bench. Bud could take a lesson here, ’cause Lombardo’s house is the most sparkling, neat, and clean place I’ve ever been, even more than the operating room where I got the distemper shot and bit the vet.
“Wife and kids and Doc are out,” Lombardo says. “Let’s go to the den.” We trot downstairs, and even though someone’s emptied a canister of Febreze in the air, I’m sniffin’ evidence of a cat. There’s the lingering scent of Rachael Ray chicken and brown rice cat food. You gotta figure the culinary career is really skyrocketing when a chef’s serving cat food.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lombardo asks. I see this look in Bud’s eye like he’d really like to belt back a few, but he says, “Ah, just ginger ale.”
“How about that dog?”
He forgets that ginger ale gives me sneezing fits, and says, “Give him a ginger ale, too.”
“I’m having chocolate and grappa,” Lombardo says. “Want some?”
Bud once chugged a glass of grappa and ran to the men’s room clutching his throat, so he says, “No, thanks.”
He spots a big photo of Lombardo and Frank Sinatra. Bud’s starin’ at it like Frank’s about to start singin’ right to him.
“Wow,” he says. “You knew Frank?”
“Great-grandparents had a house near the Sinatras in Hoboken.”
I’m hopin’ that Lombardo’s not gonna ask Bud what kind of music he’s listenin’ to now, ’cause the current babe’s into Tame Impala, some Australian psychedelic rock group, and I don’t see Lombardo goin’ to San Francisco with anything resembling a flower in his crisply parted hair.
“Love Sinatra,” Bud says.
Lombardo goes to this giant black thing by the wall and says, “I’ll play one for you.” And blastin’ out of speakers from every direction comes Sinatra snarling “That’s life….” It’s like we’re sitting in an audio showroom. The music gives Lombardo that mysterious look in his eye like at the softball game.
Song’s over; Lombardo says, “That’s my theme song. You get knocked down, you pick yourself up and fight back.” Bud and Lombardo are lookin’ at that Sinatra picture like they’re about to drop to their knees and pray to Frank for masculine guidance, when Lombardo says, “OK, so do you think that dog can carry a Pizza Pouch?”
“You mean that thing where you can walk around with a piece of pizza around your neck?”
“Yeah,” Lombardo says. “As if this country isn’t fucking fat enough, now you can have hot pizza inches from your mouth at all times—even while you’re sleeping. You can get up in the middle of the night and have a nice warm slice of pizza while you take a piss. Their ad agency wants a regional commercial explaining why it’s apparently now mandatory to have pizza with you at all times. And they called about you and that dog running across a field wearing Pizza Pouches in the commercial.”
“This is really stupid, Boss.”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“How soon can we shoot?” Bud asks.
I’m happy ’cause one of my favorite pastimes is spending an afternoon eating cheese that somehow defied gravity to stick to the lid of a cardboard pizza box.
Lombardo walks us to the door and tells Bud to wait outside ’cause he’s got a special message for me. I’m figurin’ it’s gonna be a kind of “Keep up the good work, Spike” for what I contribute on the show.
He gives me that Lombardo look, like his eyes are sending a bolt straight through me, hitting the doormat I’m standing on and bouncing up and j
abbing me in the ass.
All he says is, “You’re pissing on my car’s tires in the parking lot.”
A week later we’re at the field for the Pizza Pouch commercial. Personally, I don’t think anyone who’s got a Pizza Pouch hangin’ on their neck’s gonna have a desire to run across a golden, sun-drenched wheatfield, unless maybe they’re sprinting for their life bein’ chased by hungry people who just went off the keto diet and need real food.
Louis, the director, is parading around like he’s the Martin Scorsese of commercials for dim-witted products. He’s got lenses jammed in his safari jacket even though it looks like they’re shooting the whole thing with an iPhone.
“Let’s try a run across with no pouches, and just look happy and relaxed,” he tells us. Afterward, it’s, “Oh my, much more happy needed. The dog’s tongue should be hanging way out, and you, Bud, what are you thinking about out there? What’s your motivation?”
“That I’m making five thousand dollars and I like pizza,” Bud says.
“Well obviously, not enough, Bud. Perhaps I could suggest some direction. As you run, imagine you’ve been granted eternal youth and you’ll never, never, never have a care in the world, and you are just rich, rich, rich, and happy, happy, happy.”
Bud says, “Oh, I know the look you want, like the couple in the bank commercial who come out of the bank with new credit cards and their eyes are sparkling with joy about all the stuff they can buy, and they’re not even worried how in three months they’ll be twenty thousand dollars in debt and their house is being repossessed?”
“Exactly,” Louis says.
We get fitted with the Pizza Pouches. Louis is gazin’ at them like they’re nude photos of Kate Upton.
“This is our new transparent pouch where you can see the slice bubbling against the ultranonstick filament. What do you think?”
“I can understand why you’re dedicating your life to this,” Bud says. “I really can.”
I get the “pant” command from Bud, and my tongue’s hangin’ out as they slide in the hot pizza. I try to lick it, as intense pizza vapors go straight up my nose.
“OK one, two, three…happy run, happy run!” Louis says.
As I’m runnin’, the pouch is swingin’ up close to my mouth. Even more pizza smell is tempting me, so I try to grab the pouch. I’m runnin’ and snapping for the pouch, runnin’ and snappin’. When I catch it, I chew all the way through, swallowing a tasty combo of pizza and toxic nonstick filament. Sun’s pounding down on me on a beautiful day. I’m eating double-cheese-with-bacon pizza lying on my back in the middle of the field. Life is good.
If you ever see the Pizza Pouch spot that we did that day, and Bud says it’s on YouTube, look careful at my pouch as I’m runnin’, ’cause after four more delicious attempts with smoldering pizza around my neck, Bud finally said the only way I could do it was with an empty pouch.
5
The Visit
Bud’s in his office workin’ on an investigative report for the six o’clock news that Lombardo’s makin’ him do.
“I want to see you reporting and making some headlines,” Lombardo told him, “so go out, investigate, and bring in something.”
Bud’s idea is to expose what is “really going on at Edna’s Foot and Rub on Guilford Pike.” Half the guys in town call it The Geyser, for what they’re sayin’ is the “release that gives you peace” in the Happy Ending Room. Bud’s plan is to have a tiny camera he’s callin’ the “groin cam” strapped to himself so the video will show the “therapist at work.”
I got no idea what he’s talking about.
The research reveals that Edna’s Foot and Rub is part of a nationally franchised massage parlor operation that offers franchise buyers higher returns than Subway, Dunkin, or McDonald’s and “a lot more fun for you with your employees in the back room.”
Bud’s planning to go to Edna’s disguised in a Fareed Zakaria Halloween costume he ordered online, but for some ABC legal reason, Lombardo won’t let any station employee do the undercover work. So Bud needs to find a “civilian.”
This Edna’s thing is way too complicated. A simple investigative report uncovering hidden additives in organic dog food’s a way better idea. There’s gotta be some reason it makes my dumps look like bright green candy bars.
Buffy comes racin’ into his office. She gives Bud a message that some woman in Pennsylvania called sayin’ she’s the owner of my brother Billy. Bud checks it out and tells me the people are driving through High Point on Saturday and coming to our place with Billy. I’m feelin’ high ’cause like I said, I never figured I’d see any of my litter again, and Billy was my favorite. He was our leader who kept order in the pen and made sure there was no nipple confusion when Mom was feedin’ us.
Me and Billy’d work together when people came in to buy us. You can tell real fast if you want someone to be your owner. It’s just somethin’ you have as a puppy that protects you from evil forces. Like the day the buyers we called “The Blob Family” came squeezin’ through the door. Suddenly we got these giant ten-year-old twins, who look like they’re pumped full of air, staring down at all five of us in the pen and pokin’ us hard with porky fingers. I’m stretched out on my side, and Billy’s lyin’ on top of me. We both got glazed-over eyes, trying to appear as deranged and developmentally challenged as possible. The kid’s mother picks up Billy, who’s smart enough to hang his head down with his tongue flapping outta the side of his mouth like he just got a lethal injection.
“Is this one OK?” the lady says, and our breeder, Mrs. Erdrick, says, “Oh, Billy just must be tired.” So the twins are poking him and pulling his ears, but old Billy’s so smart. He keeps that tongue out, doesn’t move, and drools half-chewed puppy chow on the kid’s hand and shirt. We’re safe.
On the day of the visit, Billy comes chargin’ through the door in front of his owners, and we’re nose to nose and our tails are flyin’ back and forth. Everybody’s lookin’ at us going, “Ahh…ahh…ahh…. It’s so cute. Ah…ah…ah, oh…ah…oh…. Look at them…. It’s like they know each other. Ahh, ahh…ahh…ahh…oh…oh…ahh.” So we stop waggin’ to get them to shut the hell up.
Billy goes sniffing around my living room, while I let his owners pet me. Kinda nice people.
The dad, Calvin, is small; smallest man I’ve seen ’cept for busboys in Mexican restaurants. Turns out he’s a jockey, and Billy says he’s tough as nails and always gives Billy part of his dinner ’cause he’s gotta stay skinny. The mom, Bee, is real tall and teaches Latin and history at a community college. She just got suspended from her job for using the phrase “chinks in the armor” to describe flaws in German defenses at Normandy. Students staged a two-day protest saying she’d offended Asians, which actually pissed off the Asians ’cause they didn’t want to miss classes.
They got two kids—boy twelve and girl ten. Billy nods that the kids are cool, so I start lickin’ them as they’re petting and studying me.
“Spike looks just like Billy!” the girl screams in amazement.
“Mom, Dad, he looks like Billy, except for a different face spot!” the boy yells.
Kids, I love you. Billy’s your dog, so you’re like family to me. But what were you expecting? Maybe that Billy’s brother was gonna look like an English sheepdog?
All we want to do is get out in the yard, but both of us have to stand there listenin’ to how our owners got us, what the drive here was like, how bad the food was on the road, the five-day weather forecast. Pure human small-talk crap. Not like the stimulating discourse I know I’ll be havin’ out back with Billy, ’cause Billy’s a deep thinker.
I’m givin’ Bud my “Let me outta here now, ’cause I gotta take a dump” look, which involves crossing my eyes and hopping up and down. But he’s distracted ’cause the mom’s asking him for advice.
The little girl’s gonna audition for a school production of Annie, and because Bud’s on TV, Mom figures he’ll know exactly what to tell the kid to d
o to get the part.
When she starts singing about how the sun is gonna be out tomorrow, I feel like crashin’ my head through the screen door. Billy’s givin’ me this look like, “I hear this eighteen times a day,” and considering how loud she’s blasting, he’s probably experiencing early-onset hearing loss.
After two of the longest minutes of my life, it’s finally over, and the father, who’s acting like the kid is a horse that just won the Kentucky Derby, asks, “Hey, Bud, how about that? We think she’s quickly developing into a dramatic soprano. But honestly, what do you think?”
“Honestly? Well first,” Bud says, “in terms of performance, don’t wave your arms like you’re a school crossing guard.”
“Good point,” the mother agrees. “Honey, only throw your hands straight up in the air each time you sing the word ‘tomorrow.’ OK?”
“Anything else, Bud?”
“Ah, she’s belting it like those contestants on The Voice who never heard a soft note they wanna hit, so I’d say when she starts, maybe tell her to leave someplace to go.”
“What does that mean, Mommy?” the girl asks.
“I think he means not to sing as loud as humanly possible from the first word.”
Finally, Billy and I head out to the yard, and as I’m followin’ him I notice he’s missing some crucial equipment. I feel bad and gotta make him aware I’m sorry. He tells me he didn’t know it was gonna happen. Just thought he was headin’ to the vet for routine puppy shots, and next thing he wakes up with a plastic cone around his neck and “phantom balls syndrome.”
What’s it like, I want to know, as we hear the girl singing that now her end is near. Billy says ’cause of being neutered he’ll never be able to jump as high as me, but maybe it’s made him even more cerebral. He’s so cool that he seems more embarrassed by a ten-year-old girl blaring “My Way” like it’s the National Anthem for fifth graders than about the loss of his manhood.
His life’s good, happy, and has lots of music—whole family sings a lot, and in spite of the fact that the kids are not the next Bruno Mars and Cardi B, or even Siegfried and Brunhilde, he loves them. He goes runnin’ mornings at the track next to Calvin on a horse. He’s got an orderly schedule, watches a lot of the National Geographic channel, where he saw part of a Vegas show with trained elephants, so now he’s against the exploitation of animals as entertainment. Main thing is, he feels he’s deserving of what he says is the highest accolade an English Bull Terrier can get—professional pet. And I’m feelin’ a little envious.
