by Bill Boggs
The Smiths return with two pounds of delicious bologna and a small rawhide chew toy. Figurin’ their limited income based on the condition of their trailer, their missing teeth, and the pile of unopened medical bills on the counter, that was a mighty generous purchase.
Doctor Oz is now on TV. He’s asking, “Are we ready for the countdown to my high colonic?” Mrs. Smith says, “I can never figure what that guy’s talking about,” so she switches to The Price Is Right to yell price guesses at Drew Carey.
I rest all day, bulking up on bologna for the journey. I’m feeling sad leaving the Smiths, who think I’m their new pet. They’re calling me a “Christmas miracle” and naming me Frosty. But that night, after they brush me for a half hour, say goodnight, and go to sleep, their Frosty crawls through the door port.
Nothing’s going to stop me from getting home. It’s a simple escape—all I have to do is dig under the chain-link fence to get out of the yard. After fifteen minutes of very hard digging, my paws hit the underground concrete the fence is stuck in. No way outta the yard.
The next morning I’m planning to bolt out the door the first time someone opens it. That’ll be painful for the Smiths to witness, but a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. I’m watching Mr. Smith gumming away on Fruit Loops while Mrs. Smith is fiddling with the gift iPhone her sister just sent her, for FaceTime calls together.
A pounding on the door shakes the little trailer.
“Anybody home? Animal Control, open up now!”
I’m under the table fast. Mr. Smith peeks out the door, and the guy who had the stick and wire pushes in. Behind him is Doris Gordon, who should be home force-feedin’ the mayor, not out hunting for me.
“Can you give us any information about the whereabouts of a large white English Bull Terrier with a black patch on his eye, who goes by the name of Spike The Wonder Dog?” Doris Gordon asks, like she’s auditioning for CSI: Stray Dogs.
“No, you better go to the next trailer,” Mr. Smith says. “They always know what’s goin’ on around here.”
“There he is under the table!” the wire guy yells. “I’ll get him.”
“Leave him alone; that’s our dog Frosty,” Mrs. Smith says.
Furniture and stuff is flying in all directions as he’s chasing me. Doris Gordon’s yelling, “Dart him! Gus, dart now!”
As Gus fumbles for his dart pistol, Mrs. Smith throws a bottle of stool softener that hits him in the face. Pills scatter all over the floor. They’re gleaming and kinda’ tasty looking, but not a snack I see aiding me in this moment of crisis.
A dart stings as it sinks into my shoulder. I charge straight at the front door, hoping to use “Head of Stone” to ram it open, and figure Bud’ll pay for the damage, but it’s metal and I bounce off. Gus is whacking me over the head with the stick, and I break the rules and bite him on the calf. He falls over screaming. Doris Gordon grabs the stick and is kicking me and tryin’ to get that wire around my neck. I’m snarling and snapping at her foot.
She’s yelling, “We’ll euthanize you. You just bit Gus; you’re trying to bite me. You’re dead, Spike, dead, and then I’ll sell that asshole Bud a puppy from our puppy mill.”
I got a lightheaded “Oh my, I’ve been darted again” feeling. I’m dizzy as the wire slides around my neck.
Mr. Smith is pleading, “Please let us have this dog. He didn’t mean to hurt you. We love him; we’ll pay a fine.” Mr. Smith reaches under the sink for a small jar of dollar bills they got saved.
Doris Gordon spits out, “Look at you people; evolution passed you by. You live in a shithole. You don’t need a dog—you’re already in a kennel. If my husband were the mayor around here, we’d wipe this filthy trailer park off the face of the earth and build condos and make money, just like we did with that dump Mobile Manor in High Point.”
I’m being dragged toward the door, but wiry old Mr. Smith won’t let go of the animal control guy’s arm. “I’m not used to feeling like a lucky man,” he says, “but this is our lucky dog. Please, please, just leave him here!” Doris Gordon shoves him, and Mr. Smith topples backwards.
“You’ll do a lethal injection on Spike, Gus, then cut off his balls for the usual exchange. Let’s get to the clinic,” Doris Gordon says.
My tongue’s goin’ dry, head pounding as I’m snapping at them. They harness me in the back of an SUV. My dreams of a long life, fatherhood, and seein’ Bud settle down are all disappearing as things are gettin’ foggy and weird. Just before I pass out, I imagine I hear Bud yelling, “Spike, Spike, Spike…. Are you here?”
Bud actually wasn’t too far away when I was captured. Buffy dropped him at the Level Cross Mobile Residence Retirement Gardens to follow the lead from the license plate. He was going trailer to trailer and spotted two old people sitting on their front steps crying. When he learned what happened, he told the Smiths he wanted to borrow their car, but all they had was a golf cart to go to the store.
Mr. Smith called Mac Leahy, who lives in the next row of trailers. In a couple of minutes Mac pulled up in a 1956 Plymouth Fury. “How fast you willin’ to go?” he asked Bud.
Bud told him, “As fast as it takes to get to the High Point Animal Control clinic before them.”
“That’ll be fast,” Mac said. “Get in.”
In the Animal Planet re-creation show that they did about what happened to me and the exposé on Doris Gordon’s neutering crusade and the kickbacks she was getting from North Carolina puppy mills for each neutered dog, Mac “Buzz” Leahy’s Fury plays a starring role. It’s gleaming white with gold lightning bolts on the sides; the engine’s rigged with three four-barrel carburetors.
“Not a cop in North Carolina can catch me,” “Buzz” says. They hit speeds up to 140 miles an hour and by the time they got to the clinic they had four police chasing them. On the way, Bud called WGHP to get a cameraman to meet him. When Doris drove up in the SUV, tape was rolling.
Doris Gordon wasn’t happy to hand me over to Bud.
She wasn’t happy when Bud told her he’d be showing the iPhone video Mrs. Smith shot of her and Gus beating me with the stick, and insulting the Smiths, whose dead son, Donald, is North Carolina’s most famous Medal of Honor winner. She wasn’t happy that Bud told the High Point Enterprise to investigate what she said about making money from closing Mobile Manor.
“You and Mayor Gordon are going down,” Bud said.
Then he walked into the clinic to get a dog for the Smiths. He gave a donation and got them a year-old stray pug that was headed for the needle.
I woke up on Bud’s lap in the Smiths’ little trailer, watching ’em play with Frosty Two, their new dog. They sure were happy with the thousand dollars from Bud they spread out on the table. The WGHP news was on with the story of my rescue and my stay with the Smiths, who were already kinda famous in North Carolina as the parents of a war hero.
As the news goes to commercial, the phone rings. It’s Zebe calling from jail.
“I want you and your husband as Mary and Joseph in my Christmas show next year,” he tells Mrs. Smith.
“We’ll do it for ten cartons of Camels,” she rasps.
9
The Phone Call
I’m lyin’ on the floor of Bud’s office happy to be alive, but worried that I’ll never eat bologna again. I love it. I could live on it, even if it turns my face slightly pink. Problem is, Bud never buys the stuff. Unless I’m magically able to bark “May I please have a pound of bologna, thank you” to the deli guy—no more bologna.
Bud’s producing extra shows to get time off for Christmas to head home to see his mother in Philadelphia, so it was twice as busy in the office when Buffy’s big surprise arrived.
She’d been tellin’ Bud for months that she was gonna get a female English Bull Terrier and name her Daisy. The Budster secretly waved his magic wand and arranged for my breeder, Mrs. Erdrick, to ship a twelve-week-old puppy to WGHP as Buffy’s Christmas gift.
When little Daisy walks outta that
crate, a room full of people are lookin’ at her like a baby dinosaur just broke outta its egg. Buffy lets out a shrieking sound and is kissin’ Bud full on the mouth like she wants him as much as the dog. I lose control and wet the rug.
Lombardo, thinking maybe the screaming might be an impromptu orgy in the workplace, comes to check and says, “You people are nuts about these dogs. What we need around here is a health and science reporter, not another dog getting shot up like a dartboard…. Bud, come down. I had a phone call; I need to talk to you.”
I never saw a more beautiful creature in my life. All thoughts of the bologna famine are gone. I’m hit by a lightning bolt of love at first sight, like the first time Bruce Jenner got dressed as a woman and looked in the mirror. I’m playin’ with this little white angel by showin’ her some basic bull terrier head fakes. She’s lovin’ me. I pin her on her back and let her lick my nose. Buffy’s laughing watching us. I’m happy in a new way…in love.
Bud comes back. Our world changes. He tells us Lombardo OKed a deal for Bud to go to New York City and take over as host of a ninety-minute afternoon talk show.
I’m thinkin’, “Hell no, I won’t go.”
Buffy’s got a happy look and a sad one at the same time.
Bud’s gleaming with joy.
I’m not feelin’ the licks on my nose anymore, or enjoying her little needle teeth biting my face. I’m sayin’ goodbye to this beautiful puppy. I’m seein’ my orange doghouse on the side of the road in the trash, and feelin’ like I’m being shipped to active duty in Yemen.
A couple of days later, Lombardo has everybody into his office for a farewell drink for Bud. There’s champagne and a big white cake that says, “If you can make it there…”
Lombardo’s askin’ Bud if he’s really so sure about taking the job.
“We got some syndication, great ratings; that dog thing is workin’ well. No telling how far we might be able to push Southern Exposure if you stay. Oprah started the same way.”
But Bud’s firm on what he sees as the big time in New York.
Lombardo says, “Well, Bud, whatever it is you’re searchin’ for up there, I hope you find it.”
He drops a giant rawhide bone on the floor for me and tells me to take care of Bud. Then shakes Bud’s hand real hard and tells him he’s done a great job. As we’re leavin’ he says, “You gotta be careful that New York doesn’t suck you up and spit you out,” as if Bud hasn’t experienced that before….
Hold it…. You know what? Forget it—I’m not makin’ any “Ha, ha, paw in your ribs” jokes tellin’ this part of the story. I got no funny memories of getting ripped away from a perfect life and my first-ever love interest, except for that crush on Cher, which I gradually realized was never gonna work out.
This change is suckin’ the energy out of me! I give myself a failing score as a pet. I’m purposely ignoring Bud, drinkin’ extra water so I can do more anger pissing. I’m overeating, not exercising. I’m wasting time watching TV infomercials featuring over-the-hill celebrities posing as investment authorities to convince homeowners to risk their only asset—and maybe explore the colorful possibilities of bankruptcy and living on the street—by getting a reverse mortgage.
I’m so upset as we’re driving away from our perfect life in Thomasville that I throw up in the car. Bud stops at Clem’s gas station to clean it up. I jump out the window and run back to the house. Bud finds me shaking and hiding behind my orange doghouse. This is when it finally dawns on him that maybe I’m not so thrilled about leaving.
“It’s gonna be good, Spike,” he says. “We’re gonna have a great time. We’ve always had a great time; we’ll have big fun.” He picks up all sixty pounds of me and is hugging me and gently stroking my head.
“Why? Why?” I’m asking myself. That’s when I hear Billy’s voice reminding me of my duty, and I snap back into focus, figurin’ that as long as I’m serving my master, everything will be OK.
“We got two days. Let’s go home to Philadelphia for Christmas and see my mother. You haven’t been there since you were eight weeks old, and you can play with Pip,” Bud says.
I get back in the car. Bud turns on the radio. I’m on the front seat, slowly realizing that maybe I’m cynical, but Christmas music doesn’t make me happy. I’m hearing too much of Frank singing about having a so-called merry little Christmas, and how through the years we’re all gonna be together, if the fates allow us, and maybe in the meantime we’ll just muddle through life somehow. I can’t help thinkin’ the song’s a complete load of holiday bullshit.
I didn’t know it then, but I was gonna need all the cynicism a dog could summon where I was headed.
Bud’s mother lives alone in northeast Philadelphia in the place the family had since he was really little. I walk in; she gives me a look like “What’s this prehistoric thing doing in my house?” I think I scare her with my massive physical presence, ’cause I only weighed fourteen pounds the last time she saw me, and now I’m takin’ up half her little living room.
Immediately running out to defend her is her dog, Pip, who she’s got dressed in a ridiculous reindeer outfit. He’s barking furiously—thankfully drowning out agonizing Christmas music. He’s flashing fangs, so I just roll over, signaling all’s OK with me and I’m not planning to take a chunk outta Bud’s mother’s leg.
Bud lights a fire in the little brick fireplace. He puts down a couple of gifts for his mom. There’s one “from Spike,” which makes it look like I went shopping at the mall to buy her a sweater set.
Pip and me stretch out under the old dining room table to get to know each other. Pip’s a black and tan wire-haired dachshund.
As I help him rip off the green felt antlers, he starts to explain himself. “I’m a hunter,” he tells me, with a deranged twinkle in his eye. “I’ve bagged the big three—your rats, your mice, your badgers, but I give chipmunks a pass. Can’t do it; they’re too cute.”
I nod in agreement, even though three annoying chipmunks are singing about Christmas on the radio.
Pip’s eight now and starting to have little pains in his back, so he’s worrying he’s slowin’ down and running out of time.
“We’re all running out of time,” I’m thinkin’. But Pip looks like he’s still in great shape; he’s joggin’ five days a week with the kid next door. He’s mainly just hoping Bud has time for their annual Christmas squirrel hunt in the morning before we rush off to New York.
“The one thing I never got as a hunter: I never caught a squirrel,” Pip’s complaining. “My whole life I’ve been chasing them, and I never caught one.
I’ll be buried out back, and my little tombstone will be like a tweet: “Pip, good dog. Never caught a squirrel. Sad.”
I’m thinkin’ a fine fellow like Pip shouldn’t be so obsessed with hunting. Find a better outlet. Mine’s hurling tires around the backyard—then I remember, no backyard anymore.
Bud’s home is warm and cozy, a far cry from his love grotto in Thomasville. It’s decorated with Christmas ornaments from over the years; there’s even a Pip ball hangin’ on the tree. His mother sits in a little rocking chair and settles into petting me. She’s nice, with a wise way about her that older people have, as long as they’re not worried about bladder leakage in their underwear.
That night we open gifts. I get a blue and red sweater with a big “W’ on it; Pip gets a yellow rubber raincoat. The last thing Bud opens is a gift that got delivered to WGHP. It’s a blow-up, life-size female doll from Mindy Mounds. While he’s stammering away with a long story, tryin’ to explain the thing to his mother, I go up to bed, figurin’ maybe the doll’s my new roommate.
Early the next morning, Bud’s yelling, “Squirrel hunt!”
Pip’s leapin’ with joy at the prospect of chasin’ squirrels around a frozen golf course. Me, I admire squirrels, have great respect for them, the way they leap from a roof to a branch, make high-speed climbs up trees, and walk upside down on phone lines. I think if there’d been a s
quirrel up there with Philippe Petit when he walked on the wire between the Twin Towers, the lowly squirrel would get the respect it deserves.
Bud and Pip can have their tradition. I’m happy staying and watching his mother cook, hoping for food droppings, but Bud hauls me along. As soon as we get there, Pip leaps out the car and charges three squirrels that are innocently gathering nuts. Even though they got legs like an eighth of an inch long, they make it back to a tree real easy. Pip turns around, embarrassed.
He’s runnin’ this way, runnin’ that way, and not even getting close to a nip at a tail. He’s got no technique, no plan. I’m watchin’ and feelin’ more and more sorry for him, so, against my no-hunting principle but out of loyalty to my species, I slip into Wonder Dog gear to help him.
Unless you’ve ever been attacked by a scurry of squirrels, you can’t know the horror I’m about to face.
There’s eight or so scattered in a big open space in front of their headquarters—a giant oak tree about twenty yards away. I eyeball Pip to let him know I’m in on the game and to hold back till I get in position. I circle around behind the tree and crawl down in a freezing-cold sand trap and signal Pip to go. He’s madly runnin’ at the squirrels. They start for the tree. I leap out of the trap to force them back at Pip. Except the squirrels don’t turn around, or go up the tree, or run sideways. They head for me, with a reserve squad dropping out of the tree like airborne Rangers.
Pip’s got no concern for my safety—he keeps chasing them, driving rabid rodents straight at me.
A different kind of dog—like Lombardo’s macho Doberman, or a dim-witted coonhound—would’ve stood his ground and made internet headlines about being ripped to shreds by a pack of angry squirrels on Christmas morning. Not me. I turn and start running for my life. I’m galloping straight down the middle of the course, flyin’ along like the kind of golf ball Phil Mickelson wishes he could still hit.
