Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And what the fock is up with Our Town going to the dogs, lo, these days? You can find Fido in bars, restaurants, shops, at your workplace, talking up a storm in major motion pictures. Cripes, they even get their own day at the ballpark to bark on the Brewers for crying out loud.
People do love them their dogs—me, not so much. But for those of you’s so crazy for the canine that one’s not enough, you got a couple, three in the domicile, here’s a little story you can read them at bedtime like a regular member of the family:
So there’s these three dogs cooling their paws in a kennel at the city pound. Great Dane asks 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 Great Dane asks Chihuahua what he’s in for and Chihuahua says, “I chewed up to hell and back every goddamn piece of footwear in the house I could find while my owners were downstairs having a retro ’50s sock hop with their loser guests.”
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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 Terrier says to 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,” Terrier says, barely able to get the sounds out.
“Did I ever. Bingo! Bango! Bongo!” Dane says. “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.”
Chihuahua and Terrier are silent. They stare at Great 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 Chihuahua asks Dane, “So, what’re you getting?”
“My nails trimmed. She’s picking me up in an hour.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
