Talking dog-man joins Checkout Team as racist media watchdog
“Hey, get out from under that table!”
“No.”
“Don’t make me come under there after you.”
“Leave me alone. I’m lying low.”
“What do you mean, ‘you’re lying low?’ This isn’t some flophouse for strays. It’s the virtual kitchen at Kyiv Unedited.”
“I know where I am, smarty pants. And I’m not putting a paw out from under this table.”
“Smith, give me a leash.”
“Get it yourself,” shouts Smith from the other room.
“Gosh darn it. Who let you in here, anyway?”
“The Half Guinea.”
“The Half Guinea? Now why in the hell would he do such a thing?”
“I’m the new guy for The Checkout section.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Can I get you a bowl of water or something?”
“No thanks. I wouldn’t mind some biscuits and tea, though.”
“Are you British?”
“No, American. I just like biscuits, as you might imagine, and you have to admit that it seems kind of natural to order tea with biscuits.”
“You’ve got a point. Hey, Smith. Are there any biscuits around here?”
“Get ‘em yourself,” replies a still indignant Smith.
“Damn that son of a bitch. So much for hospitality! I’m really sorry about this. Have you just arrived in Kyiv? Did you just get off a plane? You must be really tired, not to mention hungry, after such a long trip.”
“I’m all right. That cage on the plane was a bit cramped, and there was all the bullshit going through quarantine. But I’m here and have no complaints – none whatsoever.”
“Well, that’s the spirit. We could use a man, er, like you. So what will you be writing about?”
“I’m gonna cover the media scene. I’m a journalist by profession – just in between jobs at the moment… Actually, if you really wanna know the truth, I got fired from my last job. But no regrets there, pal. You see, I write it as I see it. And not everyone likes that. In fact, I’ve got a nose for news. They used to call me ‘The News Hound.’”
“I can believe that. So… er, what exactly did you write about?”
“Well, officially, I had the city beat. You know – what’s happening on the street. I could cover a lot more territory having four legs and all. And I really liked my work. My specialty, though, was crime – people getting mugged, murdered, raped or just beat up. It’s fucking amazing what people do to each other, really. And you have the nerve to look down on dogs!”
“Ok, now. Don’t get your tail in a tangle. We’re an equal opportunity employer around here…”
“Oh, please, Tonto, don’t start with that shit now.”
“What are you on about?”
“What am I on about? I’ll tell you what I’m on about. I’ve been in the news business since I was a pup, see? I cut my teeth pulling little red wagons full of folded up dailies, working mornings AND afternoons. Looking back at those days, it’s clear I was headed straight toward a retirement as a watchdog at one of those local paper stations. You know – the places where those brats on bikes gather to rubber band the news. I can just see myself now: an old mangy mongrel with a gold-plated collar lying under one of those dirty wooden benches…”
“You mean, like I just saw you doing under our table, hmm?”
“All right, I told you. I was lying low. Anyway, I finally got my break, when one of the kids I was working with got mugged. He was just collecting for the weekly subscription door to door, when a group of punks jumped him and cleaned out his pockets.”
“So, what did you do, grab one of them by the leg or just start barking to alert someone?”
“Neither one. Truth be told, I never liked that kid, anyway. So I just kind of acted scared, playing it cool, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Do you mean to tell me that you just sat back on your hind legs with your tongue hanging out, while your partner got robbed?”
“Partner? Give me a break. That brat never gave me a cut of the collection cash, although I was the one doing all the dirty work, pulling that wagon and all. What was I supposed to do – play faithful Fido, or worse yet, get my snout kicked in by those creeps who were robbing him?”
“So what did you do?”
“I played it smart, see? Instead of barking my head off like some half-witted hound, I let ‘em get away. But when the police showed up – some old lady watching it all from the other side of her drapes called them – I started kicking up a fuss, you know, jumping up and down and yapping my trap like a punk pooch in a film. When the cops began to take notice, I headed off on the trail, following the robbers’ scent, which was easy enough, but I made it look all dramatic like people expect a dog to do. Anyway, to make a long story short, I tracked ‘em down, and got my name in the paper the next day, which made me a shoe-in for a reporter job that had just opened up at the time.”
“Well, you’re one slick pup, I’ve got to admit… But if you’re so damned smart, why did you get canned?”
“For being a racist!”
The sound of an altercation in the next room becomes audible.
“Now listen, kid, all I asked you to do was hand me one of those big stirring spoons hanging on the wall over there. Now was that too much of an inconvenience for you?” says The Half Guinea in an uncharacteristically hostile tone.
“I just don’t like people telling me what to do, is all,” replies the still irritated Smith.
Milk Bone, July 8, 2013