OKAY, SO TODAY… is a journal in which I share an important event from my day, with some exaggeration, embellishment, flights of fancy, and fibs. Because, as the old saying goes “Truth is stranger than fiction… but it’s not as funny.”
OKAY, SO TODAY I AM REALLY MAD AT MY DOG. As of 1:37 PM, that dog is no longer this man’s best friend. In fact, I am this close to unfriending him on Facebook. I’ve been told that’s the best way to discipline a dog.
Okay, so I can only remember being this mad at him once before. It was when I’d just gotten out of the shower and I was sitting on the bed about to get dressed when suddenly he came up and, without provocation or warning, unapologetically jammed his nose into my crotch. Just buried his doggy snout where the left leg meets the right leg, personal boundaries be damned. When I looked down, all I could see was pasty thighs and puppy dog eyes. And just when I was about to say, “What is it, boy? Is something wrong?”, he just started licking. And licking. And licking. And he didn’t stop licking for at least half an hour. Even though I sternly told him to stop. Twice.
Okay, so… TMI? Good to know.
Okay, so why am I so mad at my dog this time? Well, I know it’s a cliché, but like all good “mad at my pet” stories, this one begins over 50 years ago with a sniper on a rooftop
Okay, so it just so happens that my childhood coincided with the golden age of psychos. The heyday of the homicidally bent. An era that began in the early 60’s when a pudgy, heavily armed nutjob climbed to the top of a tower at the University of Texas and went all super sniper on the students below, killing a few and giving countless others a great excuse for not having finished their homework. And even though this was at least a decade before PONG was invented, local moms and clergyfolk still somehow managed to blame GRAND THEFT AUTO for inspiring this shooter.
Okay, so I pick this incident as the beginning of the dynasty of the deranged because I was so young and naïve when it happened that, even though I lived almost 200 miles from the Tower, I still hid under my bed until I was assured he’d been rendered inactive. And though my older brother scoffed at my “duck and cover” response, I did miraculously survive the ordeal. And this near-death experience had a profound impact on my maturation to adulthood.
Okay, so the schizo chic era probably reached its peak with Charles Manson, who is widely recognized as the first rock and roll serial killer. Charlie introduced such innovations to the world of the warped as rock lyric quoting, messianic delusions, and groupies. Charles Manson was the Michael Jordan of whackos. In fact, today Manson’s rookie card goes for about a zillion dollars… American. Hey, thanks for throwing mine out when you were cleaning my room way back when, Mom.
Okay, so probably the insanoid who influenced me the most was a guy named David Berkowitz. If Manson was the Michael Jordan of serial killers, then David Berkowitz was the Sandy Koufax. Berkowitz was probably better known as the “Son of Sam” killer, a name he gave himself, making him the first of the modern-day whack pack to use a stage name. Of course, if your real name was David Clementine Berkowitz (which his wasn’t) and you wanted to be taken seriously as an angel of death, you might choose a nom de plume, too.
Okay, so at this point you may be wondering when the dog who had so engendered my ire re-enters the story… Soon. Have patience.
Okay, so I guess I was what some might call an “odd child.” And by “some”, I mean my parents, my siblings, my teachers, my classmates, my pastor, and the occasional random stranger I would pass on the street. Coincidentally, it was during the height of the Son of Sam thing that my mother dragged me out from under my bed (hey, it saved my life the last time) and took me to a child psychiatrist to try to find the root cause of my general oddity.
Okay, so after about an hour of inkblots, stupid hypotheticals, and tedious free word association, I was diagnosed as “bi-polar.” It was actually there in the shrink’s office that I first heard the word, “bi-polar.” At first, I thought he was saying that I was a large white arctic bear who liked both boy bears and girl bears, but he quickly set me straight. No pun intended… this time.
Okay, so “bi-polar” just means that brainially speaking, I was wired “differently” from “normal” people, and as a result was probably not fit to live amongst the rest of socio-normal society. Really? He thought I was unfit to live amongst “normal” people? He’s the one who kept showing this nine-year-old inkblots shaped like hideous demons devouring screaming, naked people… with chopsticks.
Okay, so the next time I heard the word “bi-polar” was the day the cops caught the “Son of Sam” (who, it turned out, was actually the “Son of Ira and Justine” – the big liar) when a reporter said that a police psychiatrist had determined that this notorious killer was bi-polar. He also mentioned that both the Texas Tower shooter and Charlie Manson had also been clinically bi-polar.
Okay, so my first thought was, “Yo, my bi-polar brothas. Represent!” My second thought was, “Wow, I guess this really narrows my career options.”
Okay, so the upside to this happy coincidence of my diagnosis and the news about my fellow headcases in the headlines was that my parents were suddenly reluctant to do anything that might upset me. They were actually a little afraid of their nine-year-old son. Of course, the doctors never tell you about that when you’re diagnosed. They only mention the negative things.
Okay, so, sensing my discomfort at being a part of this fraternity of the fractured, my parents decided they needed to act fast. They figured that maybe since I’d never had a pet, this might be a good time to buy me one. And that was when they surprised me with a new puppy!
Okay, so this is where the dog re-enters the story. Spoiler alert: it’s the puppy.
Okay, so my first concern was choosing a good name for my new dog. I’d heard that the official formula for determining ones porn star name was to take the name of your first pet plus the name of the street you grew up on. This meant that picking a name for my dog carried even more significance than usual. Because I thought it would be a good idea to have a great porn star name ready, just in case the psycho killer thing didn’t pan out and I had to seek other employment.
Okay, so, being only nine at the time, the raunchiest name I could think of was “Dingus.” I know it’s pretty tame, but I had to pick something that would slip beneath my parents’ radar. Of course, the fact is that no matter what dog name I picked, there was no way it would make up for the fact that we lived at 8415 Flaccid Street. But for one entire day, having my new puppy, “Dingus”, did make me feel better about being bi-polar.
Okay, so the next day, the “Son of Sam” told reporters the reason he went on his killing spree was because his dog had told him to do it. Hey, good call on the puppy, Mom and Dad. That meant that the number of things the “Son of Sam” and I had in common had just doubled.
Okay, so I wondered, if my new puppy started telling me to do evil things, would I? I’d like to think not, but how could I look into those cute little puppy dog eyes and say “No”? So, just to be safe, I devised what I thought was a foolproof plan. I promised myself that whatever my dog told me to do… I would do the opposite. It seemed like a pretty sound strategy. I was ready to take on whatever evil prodding Dingus might dish out.
Okay, so just as I was steeled myself to deal with whatever sinister plot might come out of his mouth… Dingus refused to talk. Not a word. It was actually kind of frustrating. The one possible side benefit of being bi-polar was that you got a talking dog. Then, I began to wonder where “Son of Sam” got his dog? Was there maybe a special breed of talking, homicidal enabling dogs?
Okay, so then, I started to suspect that maybe the “Son of Sam” was lying to the cops. That after he was caught, he decided to try to pin the blame on someone else, so he implicated his poor, defenseless, mute dog. You know, the way that whenever someone farts in a room that has a dog in it, the farter will say something like, “Oh, Rover, did you just fart?”, effectively absolving himself of suspicion while making the poor pooch a patsy. A furry fall guy for his flatulence. Oddly, cats never seem to get framed for farts. If a person farts in a room, then looks around to find that the only animal in sight is a cat, then they know they have no choice but to go ahead and confess to the misdeed.
Okay, so just as I was resigning myself to the incredible disappointment of having a pet with whom I could never hope to have a meaningful conversation, I woke up one morning and heard a voice say, “Rise and shine, Honey Bear.” But when I looked around, the only one in the room was Dingus. He speaks! About time. My first thought was that his calling me “Honey Bear” must be his payback for my naming him “Dingus.” My second thought was that I was bummed that these were the first words out of my special talking, homicidal enabling dog’s mouth. Not exactly a call to commence the Armageddon.
Okay, so then, I wondered, should I stick with my rule and do the opposite? Should I deliberately not rise, and refuse to shine? In the end, I decided to stick with my sound, carefully thought-out strategy.
Okay, so an hour later, I got in serious trouble for being late for school, because I neither rose nor shined. So now, I was confused. Was it possible that Dingus was actually giving good advice? Or was I just being played? Was it possible that I was locked in a battle of wits with my new evil puppy?
Okay, so for the longest time, pretty much all that came out of Dingus’ mouth were harmless pleasantries, like “How ya doin’?” or “How’s it hangin’?” or, “Damn, your Mom’s hot.” But nothing I could invoke my “do the opposite” strategy for. I was beginning to worry that maybe I had been given a defective devil dog.
Okay, so finally the day arrived when Dingus showed his true intentions. I was just telling him about my day at school, and about how this kid named Billy Coder had punched me in the arm for no reason. Dingus seemed to consider this information, then he calmly suggested that I go and kill the bully Billy Coder.
Okay, so finally I could put my “do the opposite” strategy into action. The next day at school, not only did I not kill Billy Coder, but I made it a point to be especially nice to him. And to my surprise, Billy Coder reacted to my kindness by confessing that he didn’t really want to be mean to anyone, but that his hamster told him he had to. It turned out Billy Coder was bi-polar, too.
Okay, so is there any wimpier “go kill” pet than a hamster? And how lame is “Go forth and punch other kids in the arm”? But in spite of the general wussiness of his pet/malevolent muse, I still offered to trade Billy Coder straight up, his hamster for Dingus. Because I’d always wanted a talking hamster from the moment I’d learned that such a thing existed. Which was that day.
Okay, so Billy Coder didn’t go for the trade, but he did take my suggestion that he try my “do the opposite” strategy with his hamster. And sure enough, the next day, the bullying stopped as we bonded over our shared latent homicidal tendencies and quickly became best friends. Unfortunately, I eventually lost touch with Billy Coder. Last I heard he was serving 21 consecutive life sentences at Riker’s Island. I guess his hamster wasn’t so lame after all.
Okay, so in spite of my failure to kill Billy Coder, Dingus refused to give up on me. He continued with almost daily exhortations to “mete out justice.” And I continued doing just the opposite. For instance, instead of chopping her up, I started offering to carry that stuck-up Carly Townsend’s books for her. Soon, I was rewarded for my kindness with my first fleeting glimpse of girl breast. Although on nine-year-old Carly, girl breasts didn’t seem to be much different from what I saw every day in the mirror. Then, instead of vivisecting her, I was nice to my teacher, Miss Clark. Unfortunately, Miss Clark still flunked me, but she did give me my second, not so fleeting, glimpse of girl breast. Although on 24-year-old Miss Clark, I could finally see what the big deal was.
Okay, so when Dingus eventually realized I was always going to do the opposite of what he told me, he shifted strategies and started telling me to not, under any circumstances, “rain death down from the skies.” Lame. What did he think I was, seven? Hey, I was nine, and had seen more girl breast in the previous two weeks than most guys see in their entire elementary school career. I was too sophisticated to fall for his transparent reverse psychology.
Okay, so after several weeks of being unable to convince me to even just seriously injure anyone, Dingus grew so frustrated that he decided on a new tack – the silent treatment. And after that day, I never heard from him again. Not even a bark.
Okay, so flash forward 50 years to just last week. That was when I woke up one morning to hear a voice say, “Wake up, Mate. It’s time to go out and do some bloody damage.” But I knew this voice couldn’t be Dingus, because not only was this it speaking with a very proper British accent, but it also seemed to be coming from inside my head.
Okay, so this threw me for a loop, because while I had the forethought to cover myself for a talking dog, I had never thought to devise a strategy for how to deal with voices inside my head. However, in the absence of any well-thought-out plan, I simply dusted off and crudely adapted the old dog rule: whatever the voices in my head told me to do, I would do just the opposite.
Okay, so this strategy seemed to work for a while. For instance, that first day, when the voices told me to go “people hunting”, I did go up on the roof of the Seattle Municipal Tower. But once there, I just laid out a blanket and worked on my tan. The strategy was working.
Okay, so the next day, when my British head voice told me to start stockpiling weapons, I immediately drove to Big 5 Sporting Goods and purchased a massive arsenal of guns and knives, but I quickly turned around and donated them to a local charity that caters to “at-risk” teens. The score was now, “Ty, two. Head talk, zero.”
Okay, so then I stopped to think… was I maybe being too hasty in simply dismissing this new voice’s suggestions out of hand? Because the thing is, unlike Dingus’ prodding five decades earlier, this voice actually made some pretty persuasive arguments to support its proposals. In fact, it made some very compelling justifications to explain how its recommended acts of violence would benefit not only me, but the community at large. And, of course, the British accent added just that little extra air of credibility.
Okay, so last night I finally gave in to the voice’s overwhelming logic. I broke into the “at-risk” teen charity office and stole back my arsenal, packed some light snacks and reading material for the slow periods, took out my Google Maps directions to the Seattle Municipal Tower again, and printed out the most recent version of my hate-filled manifesto (which I was constantly updating, just in case the porn star thing didn’t work out).
Okay, so as I was about to walk out the door in my military camouflage body stocking, my fully loaded khaki backpack, my big ass steamer trunk full of firepower, the aforementioned light snacks and reading material, and my Thermos of green tea, the voice in my head said, “Go kick some arse… Honey Bear.”
Okay, so you know that feeling you get when you realize that the voices in your head aren’t, in fact, emanating from inside your head, but rather are actually just your dog staying out of sight while talking to you? Well, that’s how I felt. And it made me mad. Mad at Dingus.
Okay, so you’re probably wondering why this made me so mad at my dog. Well, it’s because of the overwhelming sense of betrayal I felt. Because my own dog had obviously put a lot of effort into making me look the fool. And I realized this whole thing was simply the result of a massive grudge held by a sore loser.
Okay, so apparently, it was so important to Dingus to “win” just once, that he had spent the previous 50 years mastering the ancient Hindu art of mental telepathy/ventriloquism just for this moment. And that he’d tirelessly devoted every waking moment of these past five decades perfecting a spot-on Brummie British accent. And, that he had taken every available online course in both “The Art of Persuasion” and “Using the Power of Positive Thinking to Get Someone to Kill for You.” And, most impressively of all, that he had somehow figured out how to return from the grave. You see, Dingus had died nearly 30 years earlier. I mean, it had been almost 50 years since I first got him as a puppy. And 50 in dog years is… dead.
Okay, so once I realized this was just a non-corporeal Dingus up to his old corporeal tricks, I re-returned the massive arsenal to the charity that caters to “at-risk” teens, put the light snack I had prepared into the refrigerator so that I might enjoy it later, and settled in to watch some TV, happy in the knowledge that Dingus still hadn’t “won” one. And as for the fact that a dead dog would put that much time and effort in and not even manage to get a heavily armed, certified loon off the couch… well, you tell me, who’s the real crazy one?
Although there is one thing that still bothers me… if Dingus is a ghost, then whose snout was giving me the scrotal scrub that had angered me before?
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Okay, so I’ll admit that I wasn’t mad at my dog today for being a risen-from-the-grave bad influence, but the truth is that I really did enjoy a light snack while watching TV. The rest is just light embellishment.)