ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gary Beck’s recent fiction has appeared in 3AM Magazine, Fullosia Press, EWG Presents, Nuvein Magazine, Vincent Brothers Review, The Journal, Short Stories Monthly, L’Intrigue Magazine, Babel Magazine and Bibliophilos. His poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. He is a writer/director of award-winning social issue video documentaries.

Winter had left a tarpaulin of sooty snow covering the city. Few of the local dog owners risked braving the elements at Tompkins Square Park. Had their dogs mastered indoor plumbing? But it was a blessing for me and my dog. Pard’s sexual impulses had alienated my fellow dog walkers in the park, so our absence from the regular dog walking sessions for the last few months had not been lamented. Now that harsh nature ruled the land, yuppies and their pampered pooches were in hibernation. The rigors of the Iditarod to the park were only to be dared by the dauntless. By the time the weather improved, Pard’s crass despoiliation of a Pomeranian would mostly be forgotten, except by the violated owner and the wuss who championed her. But they were probably skulking in the cave. The park was ours for the moment, at least that’s what our foot and paw prints, and the yellow stains of Pard’s urine on the blackened snowdrifts indicated. I found myself wondering: ‘Was yellow on a field of black the colors of the Viet Cong flag? The Pittsburg Penguins hockey team?’ I didn’t see any of the park’s homeless population. Did they freeze to death and get buried in the snow drifts? Was Pard urinating on their graves? I guess my frivolity was due to our unexpectedly pleasant romp in the park.

             Perhaps the cold weather had dampened Pard’s sexual ardor, although it hadn’t affected mine. I knew his urges would recur in the spring and I hadn’t forgotten my vow to help him. Our summer campaign for doggie sex had ended in exile to Elba. Was St. Helena in our future? But I refused to give up hope. I had tried various ways to get Pard…. Why couldn’t I find a comfortable phrase? Man’s crudity in describing the sexual act was distressing. Did you ever hear an intelligent woman say: “I got my ashes hauled.” Or, “I jumped his bones?” Though isn’t it ironic that so many women, in the excesses of freedom, had become as vulgar as men? It is an inherent human right to be as stupid as anyone else, but it’s preferable to ascend the intelligence scale, rather than stampede to a lower common denominator.

             I had exhausted my meager resources in the struggle to fulfill Pard’s sexual needs. I would never again call my ex-girlfriend, Anitra, the flighty painter, who was a fountain, a geyser, a cascade, a veritable Niagara of smug, gloating, useless advice. We were on our own again, lone wolves fending for ourselves in a hostile environment. I decided that we would never again lurk in sexual ambush, or beg, plead, cajole, pester, or offer bribes for sexual favors. I also determined not to indulge in fantasies. They hadn’t solved any problems and they only diverted me from my purpose. My thoughts kept coming back to not being able to find any information about doggie sex. It seemed ridiculous that in the information age there could be such a void, especially since the smut and porno activity on the world wide web was becoming pandemic. I was astonished that so many creeps, sickos and social detriti had grasped the significance of the Internet. Ah the blessings of democracy, for every freedom an abuse. Then, before I got carried away by ineffectual socio-political musings, an idea floated into mind. I could start a newsletter for dog owners and include a personals section that might help find a female for Pard.

             My first chore was to assure myself that this wasn’t a fantasy, therefore I needed a plan. I started by organizing my thoughts and reviewing the situation. The purpose of the newsletter would be to locate a dog owner who would make a female available for sex with Pard. The newsletter would obviously have to be respectable, or it would attract every weirdo, psycho, macho nut in the western hemisphere. A combination of creative writing and desktop publishing should produce an acceptable publication. It needn’t make money, though I could charge for personals, if someone would pay for them. The newsletter would have to exist long enough for Pard to meet the bitch of his dreams. If the newsletter was a monthly, three or four issues might do the trick. I could do that! The creative part seemed easy, even fun. Distribution required some thought, for in order for the newsletter to be effective, it would have to reach, then influence a receptive dog owner, who would then respond favorably to an ad. This would be a true challenge, since I really wasn’t much of an entrepreneur. Did Hearst say that when he first started peddling papers?

             I sketched out an outline of the newsletter and made notes for what I needed to make it functional. I could write and publish it at my apartment, but I needed a phone number and mailing address for inquiries. I knew I couldn’t use my home number, or I might have to deal with the legions of the demented, so I’d have to get a telephone service and a temporary postal box. What was I forgetting? Could it be this easy to do a newsletter? Maybe. After all, my need wasn’t as great as Tom Paine’s. I went back to the problem of distribution. I decided that I could leave copies at the Tompkins Square Park dog run in good weather and the coffee shops, bars and restaurants in the east village were good sites. This wasn’t a bad beginning. Then I got a flash of inspiration. I could mail copies to the cable talk shows with a promotional letter. They might think it an interesting or entertaining topic and give the newsletter coverage. There was no good reason not to go out of the neighborhood. My new motto could be: ‘Have horny pooch. Will travel.’

             The content of the first issue would include: a rewritten article about pampered pooches that I could borrow from a recent news story; humorous or zany letters to the editor that I would write; a how-to article; e.g. ‘How to sneak your dog past customs in Athens, Greece’; shoppers tips (wild game dog food and retro clothing selections); and personals, lots and lots of personals. I was obviously going to be busy for a while, but this project might be more constructive than my previous furtive solicitations for a sex partner for Pard. It was fun so far and the writing would be a blast. I could say anything. Well, almost anything. I couldn’t lose sight of my objective, a hot date for Pard. Then new concerns hit me. Did I have to prepare him in any way? Special grooming? A scented bath? A new collar? Doggie condoms? Should he bring flowers? Was there a well-defined protocol for these get togethers, or would I have to invent one? I made a note to go on the internet and find out how animal stud procedures were handled. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers.

             The immediate results of my decision to publish ‘The Doggie Tribune’ were encouraging. There was a new buoyancy in my step. My acting students at Gotham University’s School of the Arts once again got the attention that they were expensively paying for. Well, that mommy and daddy were paying for. My department chairman, ‘Ernest the emoter’ stopped hounding me about my poor attitude. He even hinted that he might let me direct a student production next semester, if I applied the requisite amount of lip to the designated orifice. My grin didn’t waver, though my thoughts were homicidal. The prospect of directing the thespian primates wasn’t alluring. I concealed my distaste, put on an obsessed expression and mumbled: “Thanks, Ernie. I’d like to direct a Jacobean tragedy. Something with blood, gore, sex, violence, incest and necrophilia. It should also be in rhymed verse. I’ll do some research and get back to you.” He gaped at me as if I was mad, loco, nuts, gaga, bonkers, off the wall. I smiled diabolically. “Think about it, Ernie.” Again using the slang name he hated. I jauntily waved goodbye and fled the factory confines of the university that were as oppressive to me as George III’s institutions were to the rowdy Sons of Liberty.

             Home life was also much improved. My current girlfriend had no complaints and was content with our casual relationship. She kept referring to the interesting women she met at a gay bar, but that didn’t bother me. Why should competition from a woman be any worse than from a man? Pard was more relaxed. With the subsidence of his sexual tensions, his constant howling when I was away ceased. This temporarily disarmed the landlord, who would  now have to seek another causus belli to remove me. So with tranquility at home and stability on the frontiers, I turned my energies to yellow journalism. I’d make Jonathan Swift proud of me. Well, he might at least smile or snicker if I was witty enough. I knew there were no Pulitzers in my future, no glamorous foreign assignments, no fame, no fortune, no respect from my peers. However, there was a real possibility that I might fulfill my faithful doggie’s needs.

             I efficiently laid out one sheet and folded it into a four page format, with a section for a bold masthead ‘The Doggie Tribune’, Vol. I. December, 1999. The first page would have an editorial titled: ‘Entertainment for your dog when you go to work’. I recommended playing music reflecting the owner’s taste, to divert the dog from feelings of loneliness. For the bottom of page one, I created an ad for space age dog boots that allowed the dog to handle the most demanding weather conditions. I included a short testimonial by the NASA animal trainer, who swore he’d send his dog to mars in these boots. Page two would have a how-to article: Training your dog at home by audio tape, while you’re away, at work, or at play. Customized tapes covered various training sequences. My favorite was ‘How to keep your dog off the bed’. I had to laugh, since Pard used the bed almost as much as I did and I could never break him of that habit.

             Page three would be devoted to reader’s letters. I quickly wrote several. One was from an attorney specializing in animal law. He advocated passing a constitutional amendment guaranteeing animal rights. Another was from a San Francisco politician who wanted to change city ordinances to include the term ‘pet guardian’, when referring to animal-people relationships. He asserted that this would undermine the idea that animals were human property. It would also reduce violence against animals by reminding humans that they were guardians, not owners. The first three pages took me less than an hour and I was ready for the real goal, the personals column. I used the sleaze column of ‘The Village Tonsil’ as my guide, and listed various categories: write to me/personals; females seeking males; males seeking females; multiples; anything goes. I tried to be reasonably sedate in the first issue, but got carried away with the ‘anything goes’ category. I wrote: ‘Male Golden Retriever seeks small, light coated female for golden showers.’ I cackled over that and giggled uncontrollably at: ‘Single female Doberman seeks paw lover with oral skills’.

             I had strayed far from serious composition by the time I finished multiples: ‘Lusty male Airedale seeks male Collies, or other medium sized purebred males, to form a pack to pursue bitches in heat. Papers required.’ I forced myself to get back to male seeks female. I tried three different approaches, each meant for Pard. I thought the most promising was: ‘Hirsute male seeks sensitive female for companionship and fun. No body piercing.’ Well, the great experiment was underway. Peter Zenger certainly started with less. I ran spellcheck, double checked for typos, instructed my obedient machine, pushed print and out came the first edition of ‘The Doggie Tribune’. I yelled “Stop the presses” and reviewed the result. It didn’t look bad at all. I made some notes for revision, slightly changed the layout, added some decorative elements: separation lines and sidebars, and verified that there was enough room for address, phone number and box numbers, once I got them. As a writer, I was not dissatisfied. As a publisher, I was happy. Soon I would be a delivery boy. I never had a paper route when I was a kid, so this might be an adventure.

             I was very busy for the next few days. I got a telephone service and opened a postal box. These vital production tools obtained, I finalized the newsletter by putting in address and phone number, and went to press. I printed until I ran out of paper, then I folded until my fingers got stiff. I had more than three hundred copies for the delivery boy, me. Now all that remained was to get the paper on the streets, sit back and await replies. I toured the east village, discreetly placing copies in ‘in’ spots. As I walked, I kept finding new locations: The Tompkins Square library, the Theater for the New City lobby, bulletin boards in laundromats and veterinarian offices, and some of the pretentious food shops on 1^st Avenue. By the end of the first day of newspaper delivery, I was pleased by my discovery of new sites, each one potentially able to bring a sex partner to Pard. What if he got a lot of responses? Would he be able to handle the demand? Should I put him in training? Start him on a special diet? Get pep pills? Well, I had a lot to think about.

             The reward for action is happiness, however fleeting. I went to school with a feeling of well being that wasn’t easily discouraged by the uninspired efforts of my acting students. I didn’t even mind that fewer and fewer female students flirted with me. Not that I ever responded, but as a practicing male it wasn’t unpleasant to look at the class and see flirtatious eyes and alluring thighs. The decline of student-teacher enticement was probably due to the latest Gotham U. trend, female students mating with other female students. I agree that it’s safer, saner and subtler, but what a joke on mommy and daddy, who were spending upwards of 50 gs per annum, for their beloved daughter to find the pleasures of the flesh in the arms of another woman. It would take a few more years until parents became aware of the true nature of the roommate. But it wasn’t my concern. If young men were more functional and reassuring, there would probably be fewer mass female defections from the traditional male/female roles. If a woman was more capable than a man, why shouldn’t she get the girl?

             Despite diverse competition, my new girlfriend was still happy with me. Judy Ching was a Chinese-American, whose family immigrated when comrade Mao and his merry men concluded the long march into Peking, in 1947. Judy was the third generation fortified by ample American protein. She was tall, muscular, athletic, yet feminine. We met in an internet café. After careful screening to verify that I wasn’t a serial killer, or an oriental slaver with a customer in mind, we saw each other often. Judy was a computer programmer and worked as a webmaster for a company that distributed sexual paraphernalia. Despite her professional and amateur interest in sex, Judy wasn’t sympathetic to my efforts to find a sex partner for Pard. However, she compensated for this by not minding that I thought of her as mysterious and exotic, although she was a virtual throwback to small town Americana values, having been nurtured by a doting family. She even was amused by my sense of humor, which usually alienated everyone. This became clear to me after the first time we made love. She tenderly asked: “How was it?” and wasn’t the least bit offended when I enthusiastically replied: “Ding Hao, baby.”

             So the only serpent in our Shangri La was what she called my obsession with Pard’s sexual needs. Judy loved Pard. He had always been friendly to my girl friends, but he liked her from the start and won her over with his best look of total adoration. She fell under his spell, fed him dog treats, brushed him, which I generally neglected, and thought it was cute that he ate all our leftovers. She even took him for walks and coped well with the hazards of dog walking in the city. But she refused to endorse my activities on behalf of Pard’s need. She thought it was tacky. “You just have to be patient. It will work out.” “Yeah. Right. Tell that to Pard when his scrotum’s aching.” “There’s no need to be crude,” she said frostily. This issue was a source of growing friction between us, until the wonderful day of her conversion.

             Judy had trained Pard to do tricks like fetch, meditate – she actually got him to sit on his haunches, front paws crossed, eyes closed, and mumblegrowlpurr or something. I laughed every time I saw him in that ridiculous pose. She stalwartly defended him, asserting that he was seeking enlightenment, which would insure his rebirth on a higher plane. “I didn’t know you were a Buddhist?” “I’m not. We’re some kind of Episcopalians, though I could never figure out exactly what that meant. I just love the idea of transmigration of souls.” I wisely – for once – refrained from a smart-ass remark and as if there was justice in the universe, I was rewarded for my discretion. Judy had taught Pard to walk on his hind legs. One evening she decided to teach him to dance. I made the standard macho objections, but was overruled and sent to the sidelines, mumbling ineffectually: “Next you’ll make him wear a tutu.”

             Then it happened. They were practicing the fox trot and he was doing so well that she hugged him. He hugged back and suddenly he was humping her leg. Out of its sheath popped his red, shiny thing, rubbing against her. She tried to push him down, but he growled fiercely, scaring her and clasped her tightly, scratching her with his claws. I responded instantly to her cries for help and removed the vile malefactor, who hadn’t had time to ejaculate, but managed to leak some fluid on her leg. I took her to the bathroom, gently wiped his emission, tenderly laved her wounds with peroxide and emanated the utmost sympathy for her traumatic experience. After all, attempted rape is unsettling. I continued to suppress all wisecracks, though temptation wriggled and jiggled inside me. “I don’t understand. He never did anything like that before,” she said. I burst out laughing until I saw her indignant look. “Sorry.” “What’s so funny?” she asked ominously. “I remembered that line from a joke.” “Tell me.” I felt the sands shifting ‘neath my feet. “Another time, when you’re more relaxed.” She was implacable. “Tell me.”

             “A man took his dog to a bar and ordered a beer. The bartender asked jokingly: “What’ll the pooch have?” The dog said: “I’ll have a beer.” The bartender was surprised and turned to the man. “You’re a ventriloquist, right?” “No, this is a genuine talking dog.” The bartender got excited. “There’s a newsstand around the corner and the owner and I have been playing tricks on each other for years. Give your dog this dollar and have him go to the newsstand and buy a paper.” The man agreed and sent the dog off. Time went by, the dog didn’t come back, the man got worried and went to look for him. The newsstand owner thought he was crazy when he asked him if he saw his talking dog, so he scoured the neighborhood, calling: “Here, Arnold. Here, Arnold.” He saw movement in an alley, looked closer and saw Arnold mounted on a nondescript female, doggying away. He yelled: “Arnold you never did anything like that before.” Arnold looked around and said: “I never had any money before.”

             Judy glared, the thousand cuts that her ancestors favored flashed from her eyes, then she dissolved into laughter. Perhaps the serenity of our garden of earthly delights was saved. “You are just like your dog.” Uh, oh. Were we being indicted for horniness? “Actually, I came first, so he would be like me.” She leaped up, grabbed me by the ears and kissed me. Just as I was introducing some tongue to the act, she pulled away. “Don’t quibble. I understand now what you’ve been trying to tell me.” Was this the triumph of the theory that a big, stiff one speaks louder than words? But far be it for me to question this fortuitous turnabout. Judy had finally realized that I wasn’t a perverse monster, pandering to an artificially concocted need. Now all that remained was to enlist her considerable intellect in my campaign for doggie sex for Pard.

             Judy came through like the Chi-coms storming into Korea. She took photos of Pard in various poses. Then she took another series of photos with Pard wearing bikini underwear, a leather vest and shades, vinyl hot pants and a large codpiece. The results were either suggestive, or downright pornographic. She showed the photos to her employer, the distributor of sexual paraphernalia and he went wild for the concept of a sex symbol dog. He immediately offered Pard a modeling contract, which I had to approve as his legal guardian. Of course I played cool and agreed to let my lawyer review the terms, but inside I was happily rapping, because I knew celebrities got plenty of …. Well, you know what I mean. I still hadn’t found a couth phrase to describe the acquisition of sexual favors. For a glorious moment I succumbed to fantasy and pictured Pard besieged by bevies of beautiful bitches, wagging to serve him. Then I remembered my anti-fantasy vow and compelled myself back to what had become promising reality. Besides, the unexpected money didn’t hurt either. It wouldn’t allow me to retire in luxury, but it would keep Pard in dog biscuits for a long, long time.

             So all was well for a fleeting moment, but I should have realized that this was not meant to be, since I was neither virtuous enough, nor wise enough to attain happiness. Then, as if destiny prepared my downfall, every recent success began to unravel. Judy’s boss, the distributor of sexual paraphernalia, decided that a dog wasn’t the appropriate representative of a line of products for humans and he withdrew the contract offer. Judy got more and more involved with a woman she met in a chat room, and saw less and less of me. She also stopped her efforts in the search for a sex partner for Pard, further adding to our frustration. The newsletter that I thought was so clever, generated no response. Zero, zip, zilch, nada, nil, naught. It’s not that the endeavor was a wasteful expenditure of resources, as if I had other options, but I will admit that expectations had possessed me. Pard moped without Judy and howled piteously during the day, provoking the landlord to threaten another round of legal action.

             Then school became a trouble spot. I was short tempered with my acting students and they sulked or whined, but of course didn’t rebel, since I had the power of the grade. Nothing was more important to them than achieving the highest possible grade. The student herd had been completely taken in by the system and had renounced independent thought, dropped all resistance to unsettling ideas, and placed learning in a subsidiary role to getting along. Unless the school caught me on a morals charge, or in a drug bust, the students had to take my crap. If I fell from my not too lofty perch, the herd would turn on me in an instant and trample me under their hooves. And as if I wasn’t burdened enough, ‘Ernest the emoter’ approved my directing a student production. Not an obscure Jacobean monster that would stupefy Cromwell himself, but a nice musical, or a sedate Neil Simon comedy. “Yeah. Right.”

 
             So the promise of a mere few weeks ago that happiness was at hand, or right around the corner, was just another deception. However, I was stronger than I used to be and refused to wallow in misery. Well, at least most of the time. I disciplined myself not to take my frustration out on my students, no matter how much they were entitled to suffer for their art. I urged ‘Ernest the emoter’ to let me do an O’Neill or Inge play, something American, but with substance. He was dubious, but reluctantly agreed to consider my revolutionary selection. Judy was just about lost to me. I couldn’t help wondering if my crude jokes – she hated the one about the coolie’s daughter – and my teasing her for not having bound feet contributed to her departure. The one good thing that came out of the newsletter was that I followed my own advice and left the radio on the classical station at home and Pard stopped howling. This would at least postpone the inevitable conflict with the landlord. Now, if I could only find a solution to Pard’s sexual needs before the passions of spring drove him mad, it might not be the best of all possible worlds, but it would at least be temporarily acceptable.