by Bill Boggs
Here’s Lombardo greeting me: “Well, Spike, you finally stopped pissing on my tires in the parking lot, so I figured I’d return the favor and stick around to help find you.”
And Buffy, too! She’s holding Daisy up, and Daisy’s licking my nose. This is heaven. I’m actually feeling licks on my nose. Somebody’s got to tell Joel Osteen about this place or at least Jerry Falwell Jr. Let them know they have a brand new, highly profitable afterlife concept to sell—“Living Death,” ’cause nobody here with me in heaven is dead yet.
I’m telling you, when you die—if you get the kind of deal I was offered—expect to be surrounded by people who are still alive. You get to love them even though you’re dead! Maybe that’s what heaven actually is? You just live on in the hearts of people who are living, but in my case, I’m actually with the living people, too.
I’m slowly warming up. I just licked Bud’s face, and my tongue felt that he hadn’t shaved today. I smell his smell. This gives me reason to maybe question where I am and what’s going on. Life after death could actually be a massive VR experience without a headset.
Am I dead? Am I alive? Is this nirvana? I thought nirvana was really just an empty restaurant on Fifty-Sixth Street with an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. This is a better deal, and Bud’s feeding me nicely warmed, good old American beef, not red-dyed tandoori chicken.
Is my brain still frozen? Am I gonna be like Andy Kaufman trying to fool people about bein’ dead? ’Cause I think I see Andy standing over in the corner watching me. Oh yeah, Andy’s there. Am I in some alternate universe where I’m gonna be living now? Is this the bardo that the Tibetan monk on Bud’s show was talking about? Where am I going?
Four Hours Later
I’m curled by the radiator in the apartment, and Daisy’s lyin’ next me helpin’ to warm me up. Bits of ice are still frozen to my skin. The wounds on my body and face were bad. But they’re mending extra fast, ’cause Bud got some pills from a trainer for a local football team. I heard him say it’s a blend of andro, HGH, DMSO, steroids, and musk oil specially designed to heal serious injuries during halftime.
Whatever it’s doing, one gash on my side is closing so fast, it looks like time-lapse photography. Or am I just imagining I’m watching it heal?
Dazed and confused now. Don’t know if what’s going on here is real. Is my dead body back in the freezer? Is what’s happening now the long white tunnel thing going into extra innings?
I’m just takin’ it all in, listenin’ carefully for clues that might hint if I’m dead or alive, ’cause I feel like half of each.
Bud tells Buffy he had something called an epiphany on the ship ’cause of what he heard from a guy on board givin’ a lecture.
“If Lombardo will take me, I wanta go back to High Point and our show,” he says.
When I hear this, as frozen solid as I’m still feeling, I get a hot flash of happiness. Daisy looks at me as only a girlfriend could look at a guy if she suddenly knew there weren’t going to be seven hundred miles separating their doghouses anymore.
“What happened? Why do you want to come back?” Buffy asks.
“Pure and simple thing about truth from a speaker on the ship, and I wrote it down, so I’ll read it. He says, ‘I’m trying to guide people to the truth of who they really are, and once they recognize that truth and accept the fact that they want to live a life based in that truth, the truth will set them free.’”
Bud looks at me. He looks at Buffy and then at the picture she gave us of our house in Thomasville. His eyes mist and he says, “Truth is, the ‘who I really am’ is that happy guy up there in the picture standing on his lawn, not the guy living here crawling all over New York at night because I don’t like the work I’m doing during the day.”
“The going up?” Buffy suggests.
“The going up?” Bud asks.
“Your song, the Kristofferson song you love,” she tells him.
“Got it,” Bud says. “Found out in my case up here, not worth the comin’ down.
I want to go back to High Point and try to host the most successful daytime show of the decade. Or you know what? Maybe not. But at least I’m going to enjoy life and work again.”
Right now my ears are still numb, and I got no feeling yet in the paws, but I’m trying to remember all the words of that Kristofferson song, “The Pilgrim.” Bud played it all the time down South, but stopped listening to it here after Erica the producer wouldn’t let Kristofferson on the show ’cause management said he was too old. It’s the song Billy analyzed, but I don’t remember, ’cause I’m still not thinkin’ straight; it’s like I’m in this happy dream.
His phone rings, and Bud answers and listens and then screams as loud as I’ve ever heard him yell, “What? No way, Andy, Spike did that? No! Impossible. Impossible!” Bud hardly ever screams outside of the bedroom, but he was doin’ it just then.
And that’s how he learned that Andy had somehow attached a dollar fee for everybody around the world who logged on to my “Stare” meditation video on our YouTube channel. That’s how Bud learned he had enough money to throw in with Lombardo to buy WGHP and go back to High Point as an owner in total control.
That’s how I learned that ten million people around the world settle into a low-blood-pressure state of relaxation every day because of me. I’m responsible for low productivity in the labor force. I’ve become the over-the-counter tranquilizer of dogs.
Five Days Later
I gotta share a bit of a troubling personal development. According to everything I heard and saw on TV, I’m supposed to be alive ’cause Bud jumped off a ship and then got the red-collar code, and they tracked me down and arrested dozens of people for dogfighting. The case is still bein’ investigated, and there’re clues that some big-deal financial guys might be bankrolling a worldwide dogfighting operation.
The good news is, Money Piles is goin’ to be standing trial, except he won’t be standing too well, ’cause they had to amputate his leg. Wherever I am now, if I run into Monstro, I’ll let him know. See, that’s my problem; I’m not really sure where I am.
I got a complete physical examination. My wounds are mostly healed, and I lost a little bit of an ear ’cause of frostbite—adds a touch of character to my profile.
The vet gives me an A-plus checkup, except she finds rectal damage from that thing they shoved up me, so I gotta issue yet another friendly caution for everybody out there planning on plunging away at anal sex tonight. Talk to your vet first.
After the exam, I’m convinced I’m alive, and the long white tunnel thing was a hoax. Who wouldn’t figure you got rescued and you’re actually still in the real world, right? But here’s the trouble—I think I see Andy Kaufman peering in the vet’s window, and he’s holding Igor’s dog Pledge. OK, so maybe you’re saying that a bit of Spike’s brain still needs defrosting. Maybe.
But it gets worse. I don’t know if when I wake up, I’m actually starting to dream, or if when I fall asleep, I’m actually waking up? I can’t tell the difference between dreaming and what’s supposed to be life, ’cause every night I got exactly the same dream: I’m in the freezer; it’s as real as could be. There’s the frozen barf spot on Judy Garland’s knee, the bottles of vodka, the brave Scottie. Am I still alive in the freezer waitin’ to die, and all this is a dream? Is my whole story gonna end like “Who shot J. R.?” Or am I dead and this is what I get—like it’s God’s way of rewarding me for finally getting housebroken? Did Bud really rescue me, or am I still in the freezer making it all up? It’s way more complicated than dying by fading to black, like I always thought I would.
For all the advanced twenty-first-century crap they got for dogs—like, and I’m not kidding, a dog collar that shouts obscenities when dogs bark, so, you’re yappin’ away, happily greeting your owner as he opens the door, while the collar’s screamin’, “you ugly shithead”—even with modern marvels like that—nobody’s providing me with what I need, which is intense canine dream therapy.
Anyway, “the bottom line,” as Lombardo says, is that I’m savoring each precious moment of what’s supposed to be the life part, and staying up later and later trying to avoid going to sleep and the returning-to-the-freezer part.
22
A Month Later:
The Orange Doghouse
Bud stored my beloved orange doghouse with all the other stuff we had in Thomasville that we didn’t need ’cause of the turnkey apartment in New York. I’m in the house now, lying on fresh cedar chips here in a big back yard, behind our great new house. I’m a little outta breath, ’cause I was just tossin’ truck tires around.
Things are mighty perfect in life, and when they’re good like this, you gotta experience the intensity of it. I know dogs who’re way more likely to be complainin’ about how bad things are than ever letting you know about the good times—should be the opposite. I’m gaining this new spiritual outlook on life, ’cause Bud’s playing a lot of personal-empowerment babbling on DVDs from that speaker on the boat.
The guy says, “You are very powerful provided you know how powerful you are.” I coulda told him that. That’s the whole deal with me and my breed. OK, so I’m bragging, but I’m flyin’ sky high. Let me tell you why, and I’ll wrap up my story for you.
First off, Buffy’s been over at our new place almost every night. I don’t know if she and Bud are in the erotic zone yet, but judging by the look in their eyes, I’m thinkin’ this could be the start of something big. She and Daisy are inside. I came out to get some fresh North Carolina air and tire-toss for a couple of minutes to burn a few calories, ’cause I ate nineteen Christmas cookies before Bud’s mother started to yell at me ’cause I was wolfing them down while standing on the table.
Pip’s here! Bud flew his mother and Pip down for Christmas. They came in some private airline that Bud bought timeshares in. Do you think Pip’s got any idea he’s flying first class ’cause Yogi Bob saw me relax Gilbert Gottfried and then told Bud I had a unique gift? No! Pip would’ve come down here locked in the trunk of a ’63 Pinto. He just wants to go huntin’ with me tomorrow. He’s left squirrels for badgers, and he bets we got some out there in the woods behind us.
Only negative I’m facing in my life is that Daisy doesn’t like Pip. Thinks he’s “a bloodthirsty, self-involved little dachshund with a Napoleonic complex.” Pip’s got no idea about this. He thinks Daisy’s goin’ badger hunting with us tomorrow, but she can hardly wait for him to get out of the house. Ever have a problem like this—you get a girlfriend, and she doesn’t like your pal?
Happy to relate that I got a lot of media coverage on the dogfight thing. It was about the fights and all they put me through and the police rescue. Today I wanted more press. I was wishin’ The New York Times would do that feature-story thing on me about “How I Spend My Sunday.” Usually people just make up a fictional bagel-filled, dreamlike version of what their Sunday routine is but never actually admit what they normally do, which is get high and watch TV in their pajamas all day.
Anyway, today I would’ve told them that my Sunday was really simple—after we had our bagels, I spent the whole day standin’ next to my doghouse goin’ at it big time, pounding away with Daisy. “Action in the afternoon!” Oh yeah, we did the deed multiple times. Everybody knows I’d been a virgin for way too long. That ended today.
And you know what else ended? The mix-up about if I was just dreamin’ life while still in the freezer. The first time I felt the pleasure of a year’s worth of lust for Daisy shooting outta my body, I knew there was no way it could be my imagination. I’m feeling more alive than ever! And if we get lucky and have a litter, I’m naming one of them Monstro, outta respect for a great combatant, who took five slugs and died with his boots on. There was a lotta dog in that dog.
Unfortunately, with all this happiness, a bad thought keeps entering my mind. If we have pups, Pip’s gonna wanta play with them, and Daisy’s not gonna like that.
Yeah, I got minor relationship tension already. Bachelor days were way more simple, except, of course, now I’m getting laid.
Had stress last night over her givin’ me a hard time about drinking a Bloody Bullshot during the Budster’s cocktail hour. At least I’m not scarfin’ down croissants in the morning like she is. Do I say a thing about it—even though that junk can really expand the waistline? No, ’cause look, I’m getting laid.
Another issue: She’s got this strange thing she does, wrinklin’ her nose when she sniffs. Bad habit and she looks weird. It embarrasses me in front of Pip. But when I try to tell her to try to sniff with a relaxed nose, she gets pissed and runs outside. Won’t let me near her for ten minutes.
Oh, and speaking of outside—she wants to get rid of my orange doghouse.
“Not big enough,” she says. She wants a green and white junior one-bedroom doghouse. What the hell is a junior one-bedroom doghouse? Where do I get one? Pressure. And she’s demanding to change the cedar chips on the floor to hay. It’s a doghouse, Daisy, not a manger. You wake up on hay smellin’ like Mr. Ed. She’s also spouting off about replacing my pictures of Cher and Lassie with shots of winners from Dancing with the Stars. No way! They say relationships are a lot of work. I already got a job on TV. But then I remember—I’m getting laid, so maybe this is part of the proposition, like the price you gotta pay to have sex.
Maybe I need a male dog support group?
But you know what? I can’t worry about this stuff now. It’s makin’ me lose my bliss. Gotta take a breath and Yogi-Bob my head a little.
Breathe…relax…breathe…be here now…. Breathe…relax…be here now…and…
Now…
Now is a beautiful, starry, crisp December night in North Carolina. Bud has a big Christmas tree glowing in the living room. His mom brought some of the old decorations from when he was a little boy. There’s a fire in the fireplace. It smells like the best of winter. Christmas music is floating out of the windows.
A year ago we were drivin’ away from Thomasville headed to New York. Bud had Christmas music on the radio, and Frank was singin’ about how through the years we’re all gonna be together if somehow the fates will allow it. I had my head on the car seat thinkin’, “What is this crap? This song’s complete holiday bullshit!”
I was real, real wrong about that.
I hear Frank singin’ that same song and those same words now, and you know what happened?
The fates got it right.
THAT’S IT.
Thanks for reading.
Oh, P.S. If this gets optioned and made into a movie, please don’t include the scene of me taking that big dump on the street with all the people in line for The Tonight Show watching. By then, Daisy and me might have pups and it’d be embarrassing for them to see old Dad like that.
Think I’m too sensitive? If fifty people cheered you on while you took a dump on Sixth Avenue, you’d feel the same way.
Who knows where time and tide will take us? But I gotta figure, I’ll be back when I got more adventures to tell Mr. Boggs. Shouldn’t be a problem getting the connection again, ’cause Bud got a handy six-pack of shrooms by givin’ the nurse at NBC tickets to see Taylor Swift at Radio City Music Hall.
Let’s pause there….
SPIKE
You will be remembered by the tracks you leave.
Special thanks to:
Jane Rothchild
Trevor Boggs
Barry Dougherty
Derek Pell
Jeff Leibowitz
John Hedlund
Bernard Weinstock
Zach Simmons
Stacy Slotnick, Esq.
About the Author
Bill Boggs is an Emmy Award-winning TV talk show host and producer, author, and professional speaker. His Off-Broadway play, Talk Show Confidential, and his first novel, At First Sight, were optioned together for a screenplay inspired by his life.
He began his career as a comedy writer/producer, and The Adventures of Spike the Wonder Dog refle
cts his strong observational comedy chops. He has written essays for The New York Times Sunday Magazine, travel articles for The Times, and a well-received self-help book, Got What it Takes? for HarperCollins, based on his interviews with highly successful people.
A true industry insider, Bill has interviewed many of the most notable personalities of our time—cultural icons, comedy and music legends, presidents, writers, athletes, celebrity chefs, and a movie star or two.
His TV credits include the long-running “Midday Live” on Fox, and programs on Showtime, The Travel Channel, NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS, and ESPN. Bill spent a decade hosting and producing “Bill Boggs Corner Table” on Food Network. He has displayed unique versatility—as a game show host for CBS, a news anchor for WNBC-TV, and as host and co-executive producer of the syndicated series, “Comedy Tonight.” Bill was also the executive producer for the ground-breaking Morton Downey Jr. Show.
BILLBOGGSTV on YouTube features hundreds of Bill’s notable interviews from different shows over the years. He is an officer of the Friars Club in New York, a graduate of The University of Pennsylvania, with a B.A. and M.A. He is an inductee into the Northeast Philadelphia Hall of Fame. In 2000, he was selected a Father of the Year. He lives on the tranquil island of Manhattan, in East Hampton, and Palm Beach with long-suffering girlfriend, “Lady Jane.”
