The Adventures of Spike the Wonder Dog

by Bill Boggs

  Yogi Bob’s on a raised platform. He’s wearin’ a white robe. He’s got a long, flowing hairstyle like Jesus has in the Dolly Parton with Jesus black velvet painting in the Smiths’ trailer. Sitting next to Yogi Bob is a guy I think I remember seein’ at Joy Behar’s party.

  “Just a few notes on some other things before we get started,” Yogi Bob says. “From now on, a helmet is required in my Hyperventilating for Inner Peace workshop, and—hee, hee—small commercial message—ha, ha—if you’d like some body work done, please consider my wife, Tammy. In addition to being a laughter therapist and a professional cuddler, she’s also a certified equine masseuse. If she can relax a Times Square police horse, she’s going to relax you.

  “Now, I don’t profess to have magical powers,” Yogi Bob says, “although some of you may think so when our session today is over.”

  The class is so eager to please, they laugh like he’s doing a Colbert monologue, not just makin’ a dumb remark.

  Bud gives me side eye that says, “Cut the crap, swami, and calm me down.”

  “I’ve asked the very funny Gilbert Gottfried to sit here with me, hoping that his close proximity to the emanation of the energy from private aura will finally help him,” Yogi Bob says. “This is his third class, and he’s having a most difficult time advancing to a meditative state. Mister Gottfried is a comedian who rants and raves onstage but can’t return to relaxation after a performance. Correct, Mister Gottfried?”

  “Yes, oh holy one. I’m desperate to calm down, but when I sit here trying to meditate, I can’t stop thinkin’ of jokes and ways to insult you. Like, does your ass get embarrassed because of all the shit coming out of your mouth?”

  The class is howling but notice that Yogi Bob’s upset and slam on the brakes.

  “Now, Gilbert…” Yogi Bob starts to say.

  “Can I tell you something about this guy, classmates?” Gilbert continues. “Yogi Bob’s name is Todd Balderston, and he makes a living selling aquarium pumps to pet stores in New Jersey.”

  “Yes, but I’m also The Yogi Baba Shanana, a Walgreens-trained master of meditation mindfulness,” Yogi Bob says, “and I can help anyone achieve a deep meditative state—even you, Gilbert. Let us begin. Today we will practice open-eye meditation with the key being visual fixation, so find an object in front of you and follow my lead.”

  I got no interest in this; I can’t focus on anything but the copulation clinic I’m gonna be inviting Daisy to, so I figure I’ll just gaze straight ahead in my typical super-relaxed state of natural bliss. I notice that Gilbert Gottfried’s little brown eyes are zoomed in on me, so, ’cause I got absolutely nothing better to do, I stare back at him.

  Over and over, Yogi Bob is sayin’, “Breathe deeply, relax, breathe deeply, relax…. Follow your breath to the path of your vision, breathe deeply, relax, breathe deeply, relax…. The path of your vision is a blue light taking you to the next depth of awareness, breathe deeply…”

  I’m thinkin’ if this is all he learned at the drugstore, he should’ve saved his money and been a stock boy, but I gotta admit, I’m actually having a good time staring at Gilbert Gottfried. I’m using my canine power to concentrate on him. Ever see a spaniel standing like a statue in the park pointing to a bird like nothing else exists in the world? That’s canine focus, and Gilbert Gottfried must be absorbin’ some of mine, ’cause he’s gradually looking like a different person. His mouth is smiling and hangin’ open; his body is going limp; his eyes are sparkling.

  But Yogi Bob’s crap isn’t working on Bud. His fingers are tapping on his leg, which is what he does when some song is going through his head. From the taps, it sounds like either Dylan’s “Nashville Skyline Rag,” the theme song on our old show, or “Oh, What a Night!” ’cause he saw the musical Jersey Boys last week.

  After about thirty minutes, Yogi Bob says, “All right, close your eyes, imagine you’re in an elevator going from the basement to the tenth floor, and when we get to the tenth floor, the door will open and you’ll walk out in a relaxed state of refreshed mindfulness eager to book several private sessions with me.” And he starts counting: “One, two, three, four…”

  “Sure, Yogi Bob,” I’m thinking, “but one question. What about when other people get on the elevator with you? Like delivery guys with smelly bags of Korean food. Maybe next stop, there are three drunk teenagers laughing and shrieking at each other, like they’re all by themselves on a beach and not around your tranced-up elevator people.”

  “Here we are, ten,” Yogi Bob says. “Everyone, let’s share. Gilbert, any success this time?”

  “My God, amazing, I haven’t been this relaxed since after the first time I got laid. I was staring at the dog’s eyes; he took me so deep, it was like going to the center of the earth on steroids, which makes no sense,” Gilbert says, “but that’s what it was like.”

  “Well, I’m actually not surprised,” Yogi Bob says, “because I felt the pure force of his power, too. I was studying him, and he seems to have the kind of riveting gaze that could help many people. Bud, would you consider allowing me to take him on here as an adjunct professor of meditation as, shall we call him, say, Swami Spike?”

  Bud laughs and starts scratchin’ my head with his nails, which feels as good to me as I bet getting a seventy-five-dollar cranial massage feels to you. I’m just hopin’ to hell Bud doesn’t agree and make me go to workshops to stare at nervous people every Saturday.

  “That’s interesting,” Bud says, “but if you and Gilbert are right, I think I’ve got another idea for a good way to use him.”

  “Very well,” Yogi Bob says, “but as long as we’re with you, your feedback please. Bud, did you achieve the benefits of a meditative state?”

  “No,” Bud says, “but you know, that first act of Jersey Boys is terrific.”

  “Not sure where you’re going with that, Bud,” Yogi Bob says, “but good luck with Spike; his eyes can be a window of refuge to help many people. In fact, upon further reflection, I believe he may be the reincarnation of the seventeenth Himalayan monk, Baba Do Ram Ram Baba, who was able to create unconsciousness in his followers with a single glance.”

  “Probably,” Bud says.

  I’ve heard enough of Yogi Bob to figure his last incarnation was as someone wandering around unsupervised in a mental hospital. I wanna get out of this class and go across the hall to the Calling All Carnivores Meat-Eating Clinic. Try staring at Gilbert Gottfried for a half hour without blinking. Raw meat should be part of the deal.

  So Bud calls Andy about putting a meditation video on our YouTube channel. He wants to record me staring straight at the camera for a long while. Andy will use keywords for meditation and mindfulness to get people to find the channel and stare back at me and relax. This is a way more lofty use of my talent than the video of me painted green running around scaring children in the park.

  Bud’s paying Andy to post all kinds of Wonder Dog videos. Andy says the channel’s getting thousands of viewers a day. He claims I’m achieving vast popularity in foreign lands. He says I’m so popular in France that I’m now “the Jerry Lewis of dogs” over there. There’s even a big fan club that’s formed in Ukraine. Maybe if Bud gets some time off, I can go on a goodwill tour of the region, and take an afternoon and show Putin’s dog who’s boss.

  Back at our place, Bud’s all business—the camera’s set up about a foot away from my face. He tries something new on me, Doggie Bright Eye Drops. He got ’em from the canine Reiki guru at the festival.

  The guy guarantees that the drops’ll make my eyes sparkle and my body super relaxed while I’m lookin’ at the camera. Hopefully, they’ll be better for me than the guy’s Reiki fingers were poking all over the terrified Wheaten terrier he had muzzled and strapped to his Reiki table.

  Bud tells me to stare straight at the lens. We start rolling and I’m doing my job when I hear Bud sayin’, “Breathe deeply, relax, breathe deeply, relax…. The path of your vision is a blue light…” I turn
away, lookin’ at him like, “Are you fuckin’ nuts, too?”

  “All right, Spike, let’s start again. I know it’s weird hearing me talk like Yogi Bob, but this will be fun, and maybe you’re gonna help some people.”

  We roll. The drops kick in, and they get me right in the zone. I’m starin’ at the camera like it’s two pounds of fresh bologna piled on a Lassie souvenir plate being held by Cher wearin’ hot pants and a tight T-shirt sayin’, “These Wonder Dogs Bark.”

  Bud’s giving me his reassuring “Good dog, I love you” strokes up and down my back. They always remind me how much I love him, too, ’cause even in this real unhappy phase we’re both in right now, the guy’s still like James Bond to me. The poodle at Clem’s gas station thought Bud had something called savoir faire, and just the other night watchin’ the French channel with subtitles, I got what it means. Everybody’s always amazed at the stuff Bud’s capable of pullin’ off when he wants to—like the time back home when he raised a pile of money for a three-year-old orphan.

  I got a lot of downtime staring at the camera, so here’s what happened.

  There’s a car crash near our house in Thomasville. A little boy gets pulled out of the wreck by Pledge, the family dog—a big black female mixed breed. Both parents got killed, and Pledge is hurt bad and dying. But she’s using her last energy snarling and snapping to guard the crying little boy lying next to her.

  Bud and I pull up as they’re carrying off the parents. He jumps out of the car. It’s a horrible scene. The cops are aiming to shoot Pledge. Bud acts fast. He gets them to hold up by asking if they really want to kill the dog that saved the little boy from a fiery wreck, and then have the kid remembering for the rest of his life how his pet got shot by the police right after his parents were burned to death in a car crash.

  “Roger, OK, confirming a possibly accurate citizen communication, duly noted,” the officer says loudly and slowly, like he’s reading a manual. “Gunfire at dog could induce possible juvenile stress, sensitivity required, plus, men, more important, be viligent, I mean vigilant—all of the citizens watching are recording video of us right now. So stand down, and gentlemen—as noted in the new appendix to your in-public conduct training—at all times, big, wide smiles; big, wide, happy smiles for the cameras.”

  He turns to the crowd and announces through a bullhorn, “The canine perpetrator is injured and possibly has anger issues. Dog might turn on the juvenile. If said dog starts to attack said juvenile, we’ll be justified to use full force available.”

  Judging by the assault rifles, teargas canisters, and the three Glock G20 pistols pointed at Pledge, I figure that for the cops, it’s gonna be like Operation Desert Storm takin’ down an unarmed black dog.

  “Let’s see what we can do to help,” Bud says. He then invents a crazy story for the police captain. He tells him that I work for Kibbles ’n Bits as a board-certified dog-to-dog therapist. He suggests maybe I can reduce tension by having a roadside session with Pledge.

  “You’re taking a risk here, young man,” the officer says. “Can’t guarantee the therapist won’t be victim of collateral damage by friendly fire.”

  “Go in, Spike,” Bud says. So I walk slowly to Pledge and the boy.

  As if the other cops next to him can’t see what’s happening, the captain says, “Continue smiling but stand down, men; a large, white, board-certified dog-to-dog therapist approaching accident scene.”

  Pledge welcomes me, and I slide right next to her. The little boy is wailing away, sobbing big tears, so I start flickin’ my tail in front of his face, and after a couple of minutes he’s calmed down and is swatting away at the tail.

  Pledge is only alive for a little while. She lived a good life and had two litters of puppies. She was a pet for a family of crop pickers who lived in a tiny rented house on a big farm near Asheville. Just before she let out a couple of long, deep breaths and closed her eyes, she let me know she’d always wondered, what happens when you die? Is there really that dog heaven people are always talking about? Or do you get to be back with your owners in the big human heaven? Or is there nothing? “Now,” she tells me, “I’m goin’ to find out.”

  The next day the boy’s only relative shows up. He’s a sturdy-looking guy named Jack, a twenty-two-year-old from Orlando, Florida, who’s tryin’ to be a house painter. He’s only got about $140 in the bank but says he’s committed to raise the little boy, who’s got the unfortunate name of Igor.

  Bud goes into action and creates The Igor Fund. He’s driving all over the Piedmont Triad begging for money from big tobacco and furniture companies. He’s singing at charity shows at country clubs, arranging sports auctions with stuff from the Panthers, Hornets, and Hurricanes.

  Lombardo lets us do a live TV fundraiser called The Igor-a-Thon, with local TV personalities and athletes dressed as characters in horror movies.

  The big star is Danny the Dwarf as Chuckie, holding a giant knife and scarin’ people into donating by threatening to climb through their bedroom window at night and stab ’em if they don’t. Lombardo comes on as Norman Bates, and a couple of weirdos livin’ with their old mothers call in big pledges. If we’d known about that gainer-feeder eating thing then, the mayor could’ve been The Blob.

  We haul in almost two hundred thousand dollars. Bud goes to Lombardo seekin’ advice on what to do with the money, ’cause Bud’s idea of managing money is earn, spend, pick up the check, send a hundred a week home for mother to enjoy. Lombardo puts some money in tax-free bonds, then makes another one of his smart moves by buyin’ them a wad of Google stock on a big market plunge.

  The last time Bud gets news, Jack’s working as a fundraiser for Mothers Against Drunk Driving and is married to a restaurant manager at Epcot. They got a couple of million in the bank, and Igor’s in private school saying he wants to own a farm someday.

  Anyway, that’s one story about the Budster. There’s a lot—like the one featuring two dancers who came to the house on Friday night and spent the weekend. But that’s his tale to tell.

  Seein’ my reflection in the camera lens, I’m rememberin’ at The Igor-a-Thon, where I was the great white shark from Jaws; Jack gave me the bright red collar Pledge was wearing the day of the accident. Bud slid it on me this morning, ’cause he knows I appreciate a regular change of neckwear.

  Finally, Bud says, “OK, Spike, that’s it. Good dog. Want some more Doggy Bright Eye Drops? They sure make your eyes sparkle.”

  Of course they do. Read the label, Bud—they’re made in Fiji, with kava, poppy oil, and coca leaf juice. Your whole body goes numb; the eyes are bright ’cause you got no feelin’ below the neck. How do you think I’m able to stand dead still for forty-five minutes lookin’ at a camera tryin’ to put people in a trance—’cause of the flax in my Alpo?

  The FDA doesn’t check dog stuff, so nobody’s figured out why sometimes ten minutes after the eye drops go in, their jolly pet topples over on his back in the middle of a crowded sidewalk to blissfully watch clouds roll by.

  I gratefully hold up my head for Bud to hit me with another round.

  The next day, I’m countin’ the hours till Monday, when Buffy and Daisy get here. All I got to do is get photographed for the cover of Big Apple Dog, which is proclaimin’ itself to be the new People magazine for celebrities’ dogs. It’s sad the print industry is goin’ down, ’cause a publication like this is long overdue.

  The magazine woman comes to our place wearin’ a bright red dress and new black Jimmy Choo shoes. She must’ve sprayed on a pint of Angel perfume, ’cause she’s smelled up the entire apartment, the hallway, the elevator, and everything she touched on the way.

  A big fuss is made over me, but I can tell she does that to all the dogs. Her name’s Shelly, and three years ago she left Great Neck on Long Island, to move to the city to be a journalist. She’s actin’ like she thinks she made it to the pinnacle of the fourth estate by doin’ penetrating interviews about dogs and owners.

  “I conside
r myself the Christiane Amanpour of dogs,” she announces. I notice that her face doesn’t move when she talks.

  I think that’s ’cause no face naturally ends up lookin’ like it’s got a pound of heavy-duty wood filler in it. Shelly looks like a lot of the women and men I see on Madison Avenue every day—no wrinkles, big cheekbone lumps, puffed-out lips, and ultrawide-open eyes with the “Nancy Pelosi staring into a TV camera” expression.

  She takes photos of me leapin’ almost six feet in the air to hang onto the rope Bud attached to the ceiling. When it’s time for the interview, she’s suddenly got the somber tone of Chuck Todd sitting down with a frail and ailing Bob Dole, who could be dead by the time you read this, but you get the idea.

  “You both came here from High Point, ha, ha, ha—OK for the dog, I guess, but Bud, really, how could you stand living there? What do you do after the furniture mart closes? Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

  She’s one of those people who, for whatever strange reason, laugh all the time at their own nonfunny statements. Why, humans? Why?

  The always polite Bud is gently explaining that New York and High Point are totally different, wonderful places, and he enjoyed success and enormous satisfaction at WGHP-TV.

  “The show down there was quite popular, and we had a lot of fun,” Bud tells her.

  “Yes, ha ha, that’s sweet, Bud,” she says, “but it was only North Carolina after all, and what could any of that fun, satisfaction, or popularity really mean if you had to be living down there and not New York? Ha, ha, ha.”

  I’m thinkin’, “Bud, maybe let her know you had a big house with a huge swimming pool and if there was a pool here in this storage-space-sized ripoff one-bedroom apartment, I would be tryin’ to drag her over and throw her in.”