I Wanna Be Your Dog

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve had a fairly productive morning here on Isolation Row. I’ve decided to officially forego taking the future Mediterranean cruise with some kind of AM radio host that was advertised a while back. Instead, I’ve chosen to sail aboard the USS Pornhub—plenty of sights to see, I don’t even need to leave my dinky apartment and it brings you back the same day. Perhaps you may want to take this affordable pleasure cruise as well, so bone voyage, what the fock.

And I finished filling out my goddamn tax form (actually, more of a tax reply), which every year consists of a short note I mail in, and it goes something like this:

Dear Sir or Madam,

Hey, I already paid. The federal tax on cigarettes alone I cough up yearly to you’s ought to be enough to buck-up a bridge or fill a focking pothole somewheres, ain’a?

But thanks for your interest.

Sincerely,

Art Kumbalek, United States

Anyways, as I gaze out the window of said “dinky apartment,” I can only describe the scene as the Dog Days—or diēs caniculārēs as they would say in the ancient country of Latin before it sank to the bottom of the sea. I never knew there were so many canines in my part of Downtown ’cause that’s all I see—people walking their Rex and Rover.

I’ve read a couple, three articles about how these so-called “pets” are loving these days of the quarantined master—daytime human companionship as opposed to the occasional focking bug that crawls under the couch. Which reminds me of a little story I’d like to share to help you’s fill up your socially distanced time until you got to go walk the goddamn dog again:

So there’s these three dogs cooling their paws in a kennel at the city pound. Great Dane asks the terrier, “So, what’re you in for?” Terrier says, “Fock, crapped all over the house, and I mean ALL OVER the house. There wasn’t a room, stretch of carpeting or piece of upholstered furniture I missed. Hey, what do they expect? Leave me home all day alone inside, plus the leftover chop suey they fed me the night before had gone bad? Give me a focking break.”

Great Dane asks, “They sentence you yet?” Terrier says, “Yeah, they’re putting me to sleep in the morning.” Dane says, “Yeah, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it.”

Then the Great Dane asks the Chihuahua what he’s in for and the Chihuahua says, “I chewed up to hell and back every goddamn piece of footwear in the house I could find while my owners are downstairs having a retro ’50s sock hop with their loser guests.”

Great Dane says, “No shit.” Chihuahua says, “That’s right. No shit, just a lot of chewed up shoes.” Great Dane asks, “What’re you getting?” Chihuahua says, “They’re putting me to sleep in the morning.” Dane says, “Yeah, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it.”

So then the terrier says to the Great Dane, “Hey buddy, you didn’t tell us what you’re in here for, yet.” The Dane says, “Well, there I was, up in the master bedroom, minding my own business, not bothering anybody, just working over one of those pissant rubber Garfield squeakies, you know? Boy, that’s a load of laughs, ain’a? Christ. So in walks my owner’s wife and the next thing I know, she’s taking off all her clothes right there in front of me, I kid you not. Then she turns on this exercise music—‘ching, ching, chinga-chinga’—and she’s jumping up and down all over the place, bending over, bending backward, squatting down, squatting up and she’s getting all sweaty like.”

Chihuahua says, “Ay, Chihuahua.” Terrier swallows hard and asks what happened next.

“Well sir, this goes on for like a half-hour. All the time she’s looking over at me, eyes all wild like a rabbit’s just before you get it cornered in the garage, saying, ‘Good boy, you’re such a good boy, I love you,’ over and over. And I’m just lying there, eyeing her up and down, chewing on my Garfield squeakie, harder and harder ’til it’s ready to burst wide open.

“Then she squats down right in front of me on her knees and starts stroking my ears, my back, all the time with the ‘good boy this’ and ‘good boy that,’ ‘roll over, that’s right.’ She gets up, sashays over to the bathroom, turns around to give me one last look, and goes inside. I want to follow her real bad. I could use a good, stiff drink out of the toilet right about now, I kid you not. I hear the sound of the shower, her, standing under the nozzle, all alone getting all clean and soft. The shower stops and I picture her patting that purple bath towel all over her pink skin, up, down, all around, finding places a dog can only dream about.

“And then, I thought I heard her call my name. Now maybe it was a tree branch against the bedroom window, maybe the postman ringing the front bell not once, but twice—I really got to chew that knob a new one, one of these days—or maybe it was fate, but I swear I heard her call my name, and I did the only thing any dog would do under the circumstances.”

“You come when you’re called,” the terrier says, barely able to get the sounds out.

“Did I ever. Bingo! Bango! Bongo!” says the Dane. “Next thing I know, she’s reclined on the bed smoking a cigarette and I’m sitting here in the joint, shooting the shit with you guys.”

The Chihuahua and terrier are silent. They stare at the Dane with a look a dog would put on only when in the presence of a Cujo, a Lassie, a Rin-Tin-focking-Tin. Finally the Chihuahua asks the Dane, “So, what’re you getting?”

“I’m getting my nails clipped and she’s picking me up in an hour.”

Ba-ding! Laissez les bon temps rouler someday, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.