by Bill Boggs
“How is Rudy Giuliani?” the cop asks. “He was good to the cops, a great mayor.”
“I’m not the Donna Hanover who was married to the mayor.”
“You’re right,” he says. “You’re the one who just got fired by CBS Sports; that’s a shame. I know football, and I thought you really had a handle on the game, except for that time you called the field goal a punt. So what are you doing now?”
Donna shrieks and charges upstairs out of the station. It’s freezing, and even though he’s wearing a blue knit sweater, Benny’s so cold he’s vibrating. We’re walking around heaps of sad-looking Christmas trees—a couple of days ago they were glowing in somebody’s living room, and now people are pissed off ’cause they’re blockin’ the sidewalk.
We end up in some Irish bar, where Donna gets greeted like she’s Lady Gaga getting out of a helicopter in Provincetown. Benny and me are on the floor under her bar stool eating the whole peanuts that Donna’s droppin’ to us, while she’s downing pints of Guinness with whiskey shots.
Benny’s goin’ on about the arthritis in his left leg and how he knows he’s losing his sense of smell ’cause the Lauren perfume Donna splashes on every morning’s not stinging his eyes anymore. He also lets me know that life for dogs in the city isn’t as good as dogs pretend it is to their owners. Mostly, he’s upset ’cause it’s been ninety-three days since he had grass under his paws.
On the way home, Donna’s drunk and singing—makin’ some Van Morrison song, that never had a melody in the first place, sound even worse. She’s staggerin’ along, barely stopping to let little Benny take the several leaks he needs to take each block.
Next day’s not good—I’m in the trailer alone. Donna’s off somewhere. Bud doesn’t make it back to walk me, so I gotta use the kitchen floor again. Only redeeming value is that Bud puts down the New York Daily News for me to use, and you can figure whose orange face I’m dumping on most days.
Barking and playing the wall-banging game’s my only relief. I get the person pounding the wall again, except this time I keep barking after they scream, hoping they’ll keep pounding, but instead I hear big band music being played real loud.
The worst is the CNN news. They got a great rating ploy.
It’s a guest who’s a “danger imagination engineer.” He’s calmly listing threats he’s dreamed up that could theoretically happen in Manhattan on New Year’s Eve.
I’m watching animation of paralyzing electric shock waves, gas attacks out of windows, poison water spraying from sewers while people are running in horror from exploding confetti and dodging death rays shot at them from drones. He’s warning that missiles could theoretically be launched from rooftops in Jersey strip malls, and he’s talking about how a certain sound blast could deafen half the population of Manhattan.
For extra fun, the guy shows what would happen if the ball they drop at midnight was actually one of Kim Jong-un’s small nuclear bombs. My heart’s pounding. If I had the pistol, I’d tranquilizer-dart myself and pass out till New Year’s Eve’s over.
To try to calm down, I switch to MSNBC, where Hardball host Chris Matthews is vibrating with optimism for the year ahead because recently discovered DNA may lead to the cloning of Tip O’Neill.
Bud’s at home next morning for New Year’s Eve day. He’s not noticing I’m trembling with fear at the prospect of our annihilation that night.
The chief of police is now on TV sayin’ thousands of cops will be protecting us. He’s got a chart of all the different security spots the people will have to go through to be able to stand in seven-degree weather for five hours to see a ball drop. To keep everybody tuned in, the producers make sure the next guest is the comforting “threat expert.” He’s spent the last twenty-four hours dreaming up even more scary ways that the city could be turned into heaps of smoldering rubble that survivors will be hurrying around on their way to work after the holidays.
Based on the warnings, Bud’s plan for the night is dangerous. He wants to walk over to Fifty-Ninth and Seventh to watch the crowds and “experience my first New Year’s in New York.” In the unlikely event we survive, the reporter Richard Johnson’s having a party at some fancy restaurant.
Bud spends almost ten minutes tugging and twisting, trying to pull my Christmas sweater on me ’cause I’m squirming around, tryin’ to leap out the window and end it all.
We’re passing the checkpoints, and they’re waving us through ’cause he’s using my “Homeland Security” badge. One threat the guy didn’t imagine: “exploding dog with fake ID.”
Way down at the end of the street we can see the ball that’s gonna drop so a million people can sing and scream and kiss and then stampede to Ruby Tuesday’s for the only available bathroom.
Of all the places to stand and watch, Bud’s got us by two Arab women wearing those little tents with eye slits that look like gun turrets. But I’m gettin’ good whiffs of these two, and even in the frigid air I can smell a couple sets of warm testicles under all that burlap. I give three short barks, the same short barks I’d give for a man when Bud had me blindfolded on TV playing my famous Man, Woman, Child, or Dwarf? identification game on the old show.
After about ten sets of “It’s a man” barks, Bud finally gets my message and goes to a cop sayin’ that he’s pretty sure his Homeland Security dog thinks the two Muslim women in the crowd are men. The cops question them. I’m figurin’ I’ve pretty much saved Western civilization, until we find out they’re just two guys who put burqas over the doorman uniforms they wear at the Fifth Avenue building where they work. We’re safe! They’re just Muslim drag queens. I guess if you’re a Muslim cross-dresser, you don’t have a lot of wardrobe options.
Bud tells the cops they should have been suspicious when the women weren’t carrying designer handbags. He gets a picture of me with them to send to Buffy and Danny to show that the Man, Woman, Child or Dwarf? game was a hit on New Year’s Eve.
Richard Johnson’s party upstairs at Le Cirque restaurant is roaring when we get there. Men in tuxedos and beautiful women who make the girls in High Point dressed up for a big Saturday night at Pierre’s look like haggard cashiers at Costco.
There’s even Cloudy, a small white dog with Richard Belzer. I get the cold shoulder from her. Cloudy’s actin’ like she’s the big star ’cause she’s with Belzer. She’s got no idea she’s dissing The Wonder Dog from North Carolina. Same with Bud—in High Point at a party, people would be flockin’ around him like he’s handing out wads of cash. Here, he’s getting about as much attention as a flight attendant showing how the oxygen mask works.
A little kid in a tuxedo and wearin’ a black superhero cape comes walking by, and Bud says, “Hi, who are you, pal?”
“I’m Carlos Danger Jr.,” he says. “Protecting the world from evil.”
He’s petting me while his dad’s telling Bud that the kid calls himself Carlos Danger Jr. ’cause he heard the name Carlos Danger on TV and thought it was an action hero.
“My son’s named himself after one of the sleaziest politicians in history,” the guy tells Bud.
“Our civil servants continue to set such fine examples,” Bud says, “but try to steer him more toward Batman, before he finds out he’s actually pretending to be Anthony Weiner.”
They’re laughin’ together when Richard Johnson comes over and welcomes Bud and me to New York. This is when I hear what Bud’s been keepin’ secret from me. He’s tells Richard that the producer doesn’t want me on the show.
“Well, that’s stupid; your dog’s probably had more YouTube hits just from that drone thing than their show’s had in two years,” Richard says.
Bud, as usual, is confident and determined. He tells Richard that one way or the other, “Spike is gonna be on my show.”
“Let me know if I can help. They’re gluttons for publicity over there,” Richard Johnson says.
Bud tells Richard about what just happened with me bein’ able to identify the Muslim cross-dressers in th
e park.
“Send over the picture. That’s hysterical; maybe I can use it. I’m gonna circulate and be host. If you want to meet anybody, let me know.”
Bud’s movin’ around a little, striking up some conversations, but everybody seems to be lookin’ over his shoulder trying to spot somebody they think is more important.
“They got ‘cocktail party eyes,’” Bud tells me.
Back at the apartment, Bud calls his mother like he always does on New Year’s Eve.
“Have a happy, healthy year, Mother, and I hope you’ll come up to New York and see the show.”
“We’ll see, Bud, but I want you to stay well, be a good boy, and be yourself. Remember, whatever got you this far is going to work for you.”
“Thanks,” Bud says. “You know, I miss Dad more than usual tonight. We always had such a great time on New Year’s. I remember when I was a boy walking down the street at midnight, and he was ringing that loud bell.”
“He had great faith in you, Bud. Be true to that. Happy New Year, and tell Spike I said hello,” his mother says.
On TV, they’re screaming real loud and counting down for the ball to drop.
“We’re gonna have a great year, Spike, a great year,” Bud says, scratching my head and digging his fingers into my neck.
I’m hopin’ he’s right, but I’m not lookin’ much into the New Year. I’m just missing little Daisy and thinkin’ about my orange doghouse sittin’ there empty in the yard. I’m worried it’s gonna end up somewhere like a piece of trash.
I gotta fight off this negative thinking, so I remember the nine little meatballs I just ate at the party and drift off to sleep tryin’ to recall that Latin thing Billy told me.
11
The Show
“Well, Spike,” Bud says, “let’s see how these New Yorkers react to a little livestock grazing around their office today. You’re going in, and going in on a crazy day. First guest is a guy on with a device to convert sound waves from uncontrollable snoring into a renewable source of home energy. He just got investors from Shark Tank.”
I’m glad to get out of the trailer. Donna Hanover’s disappeared. Bud’s hoping maybe she’s in rehab, and I’m havin’ boring days alone. My only activity’s improvising some kind of workout to keep me the big bruiser I am, ’cause in New York I’m seein’ a lot of people who’re in way better shape than their dogs. Maybe the mayor oughta announce that walkin’ your dog down the block a couple of times a day is not building muscle tone.
I’m hearin’ some dogs are being fat-shamed by friends of their owners, so they’re sent to Doggie Weight Control, where they get the stimulating experience of walking on a treadmill all day while staring at a wall. My new fitness routine isn’t as good as bouncing around the yard pretending to be Muhammad Ali, but at least I’m makin’ an effort.
I got a version of a spinning class where I stand in the middle of the living room whirling around in a circle for ten minutes. First time I do it, I get kinda dizzy and crash into the end table by the TV and bust its legs, and the crystal vase on top smashes me in the head, but I’m only dazed.
Step aerobics is simple. All I do is jump on and off the sofa a hundred times for leg strength and cardio. This might be a little tough on the leather, ’cause it’s scratching up real fast from my nails. Sofa’s also developing a big worn spot on the side from where I’m pushing it around with my head.
I’m also working on slow-movement walking. I started doin’ it to cheer myself up from the plight of living in a peewee space in New York with my only company bein’ a crazy wall-bangin’ neighbor.
I got the slow-walking idea from watchin’ people in TV commercials who seem to be at the height of human happiness when they’re in slow motion. They could be curing a spastic colon or contemplating the prospects of life-threatening spinal surgery—whatever it is, if they’re doing it in slo-mo, they’re beamin’ wide-eyed and grinning with moronic joy.
And check this out—even food looks happier being piled on a plate in slow motion. I’m still waitin’ for the desired cheery effect to kick in. I tried slow walking on the street but had to stop ’cause Bud thought I was havin’ a stroke.
On the way to the station that chilly morning, I’m seein’ more homeless people. They’re shaking little cups of coins while everybody’s rushing by, pretending not to see them. I get a sadness I never felt before. Back in High Point, everybody just seemed okay.
There’s another thing that’s been makin’ me glum. It’s a store on Madison Avenue with a window full of beautiful clothes for little kids. Every time I look in that window, I’m thinkin’ about the lucky boys and girls who’re gonna wear all that expensive stuff, but then I get these pictures flashin’ in my head of the scared little faces of refugee kids wearin’ rags. How do you figure it? Lucky kids? Unlucky kids? Lottery of birth, I guess.
I’m sighing sadly, and I never sighed before. Thinking all this, by the time we get to channel five I’m ready for a dog psychiatrist, which is another stupid thing available for dogs in New York—that and other crap, like the Happy Paws Canine Nail Salon. Save your money, folks. Your dog would rather be home chewin’ on a table leg than getting his nails filed to an unusable stub by some Korean woman wearing a mask.
When I walk through that door at channel five, I gotta be seen like the star I am, so I go into my command-posture mode to look as tough and macho as possible. I march into the lobby like a four-star general, but the first thing I hear is the voice of Cher. Cher! She’s coming toward me with a classic “show it and hide it” walk.
“OK, Cher, here we go!”
I flip on my back, waggin’ my tail, being as submissive as possible. I’m gazing straight up at her, hoping I can lure her to the floor to roll around with me. But no! She just points and says, “What the hell is that?” Then it’s out the door and into a limo.
“Spike, get up. Here comes Mort, one of the associate producers,” Bud says.
I’m upset that I missed the chance to lick Cher’s thigh, and Mort’s now lookin’ at me sayin’, “What? Is your dog OK?”
“I think he may have fainted briefly,” Bud says.
You never get a second chance to make a first impression. And to make it worse, when I first saw her, I wet the lobby rug.
The office is big with a lot of little enclosed pens. I smell tension—the people here aren’t boiling over with glee.
Mort’s really quiet and repressed. He looks like the kind of kid who’s likely to masturbate to the point of injury. He’s the youngest of ’em all, and he got the job ’cause his mother knew the host guy who just quit.
There’s a loud, burly, bald guy named Goldfarb. He’s wearing a half-open Hawaiian shirt showing tufts of fuzzy gray chest hair. He’s got his baggy pants pulled up over his stomach like he’s a banker in a ’30s movie. I figure he’s the person voted Most Likely to Wear Black Socks on the Beach by his high school class.
Susan is smart, well-dressed, and really pretty, a Candice Bergen type who might end up foolin’ around with Bud, except for the minor fact that she’s already foolin’ around with the married news director. Susan’s afraid of the executive producer, Erica, who talks to everybody with a big smile on her face but a dead look in her eyes.
“Wag with your eyes,” brother Billy told me, “not your tail.”
The nicest of the bunch is a young producer named Andy, from Chicago. He’s a happy kid. He treats Bud as a guy to look up to and maybe learn from. He’s also one of my fans, and he’s seen everything on our YouTube channel. He’s the only one all day who spends time with me. He even gives me a little piece of his salad-bar tilapia, which unfortunately tastes like the oil slick where they probably raised it.
I don’t feel good for Bud. He’s not castin’ out that free-and-easy personality like at WGHP, when he was in charge. He’s only been in the place for thirty minutes, and he’s tellin’ Erica she’s being too rigid against his ideas.
We’re all in her office. She’s
got greasy bags of food from a Red Robin restaurant on the desk. Unfortunately it looks like Red Robin’s bottomless-fries policy has gone straight to her bottom.
“Bud, you have to understand, we’re producing you!” she tells him.
“That’s interesting,” Bud says. “So far only my parents were able to do that.”
“We’re not using the dog,” she says, lookin’ at me like I’m a mound of dirty laundry. “I’m producing a talk show, not the World Dog Awards.”
Just then a good thing happens. Lillian, one of the interns, pops up with, “I thought you oughta see this.”
She hands the New York Post to Erica. The picture of me and Bud and the cross-dressing Muslims is in Richard Johnson’s column. It announces that I’m Spike The Wonder Dog, who’ll be part of the Noonday with Bud show debuting soon. The headline is “Barked Outta Burqas.”
Erica looks wide-eyed at Bud. “Wow! How’d you do this? Johnson’s never mentioned the show in his column, ever.”
Bud says, “Things happen with Spike. Did you Google his YouTube hits from Vegas, or with Fallon, or any of his other stuff?”
Erica doesn’t say anything. Then Andy pops in: “I did. He set a one-hour record on YouTube for the month with his drone thing in Vegas. On Bud’s old show, the dog had a higher TVQ rating than a Scott Pelly robot, at the rival station, in spite of the robot’s popularity because of its bursts of profanity from behind the anchor desk during the High Point morning traffic report.
“This isn’t High Point,” Erica says.
“Yeah,” Bud says, “but it is still daytime TV, and hard as it may be for you to believe, Erica, people actually like dogs up here in New York just like they do in North Carolina. This is my plan for Spike.”
He’s tellin’ them he wants to go out on the street a couple of times a week in the middle of the show and do a segment called “Spike at Noon.” He’s listing all kinds of ideas, cross-promotion stuff. He says there might be a possibility of a dog-food-sponsor tie-in. Andy and Susan are nodding, loving his concept, and Andy says he’ll work on promoting me on the web. Goldfarb’s playin’ politics by waitin’ to see what Erica’s gonna say. She’s got a threatened expression, and her hand’s clawing deep in the bottomless-fries bag.
