The Cerebral Catalyst

Sometimes I don't understand why I didn't get rid of Pard when he was a puppy. Now he had become an inseparable part of my life. Three walks a day at Tompkins Square Park. Two meals a day. Doggie vitamins. Doggie treats. Biscuits. Endless poaching on my leftovers. Fortunately so far, only a few visits to the veterinarian, the dreaded and expensive monster who Pard loathed. As if by ESP, Pard knew when we were getting ready to go to the vet. First his ears would droop, then he'd hide, although there wasn't much concealment in our tiny East Village apartment. When I finally trapped him, he would manage to get away each time that I tried to put on his collar. At last, with collar and leash in place, I'd have to drag him out the door. How did the infernal mutt know where we were going? Then the ordeal of dragging him through the streets. The second time we went through this exasperating ritual I yelled at him, something I never did before. A righteous old lady materialized as if by magic and whomped me with her umbrella, admonishing me for "pet abuse." People stared at me like I was the pet executioner at the S.P.C.A. Pard and I slunk off, tails between our legs, albeit for entirely different reasons.

When we finally reached the vet, Pard would give me the most anguished look of betrayal imaginable. His eyes contained such pathos that I could only wish my acting students at Gotham University School of the Arts could emulate this exponent of silent acting. His ears of dejection, an asset that my students would have to do without, although they needed them more than my expressive dog, were truly heart rendering. I experienced the peculiar frustrations of the dog owner, doing something for the good of the pet that wasn't appreciated. I had tried several times to explain to Pard that the visit to the vet was necessary, to no avail. So on the infrequent occasions when Pard was destined to suffer at the hands of Dr. Mengele's heir, I steeled my resolution and took him, regardless of his woe, for shots or other torments.

I learned a lot about myself from taking care of a dog. I realized that I certainly wasn't ready for the responsibility of children. It was traumatic enough taking a dog to the vet, so I could only imagine how a parent would feel, rushing a stricken child to the hospital. However, I also noticed that I was developing a little bit of patience. Granted, I still had a big mouth that sounded off too quickly, with an acerbic wit that offended most people, but there were occasions, albeit infrequent, when I actually suppressed biting comments that would have wounded my students. It wasn't that I thought of them as dumb beasts to be protected, well, perhaps I privately ascribed to that theory, but they were my charges, even though they weren't an endangered species. In fact, I believe we could probably do without a few million students, if we could only replace them with old-fashioned handy people: electricians, plumbers, and mechanics, with blue-collar skills that we no longer respect in our online society.

Well, I guess that's enough meaningless griping. The truth be known, I bonded with Pard a while ago and he was an integral part of my life. I talked to him more than to my friends and he was probably more empathetic. I never feared a break-in, which was especially reassuring, since my landlord was eager to get rid of me and I wouldn't put it past him to arrange a destructive burglary. I also never worried about walking Pard late at night, because he was very protective and wouldn't let anyone suspicious approach me without growling menacingly. I had grown fond of him. Well that's an understatement. I loved him without reservation, something I couldn't say about anyone else in this life. I didn't question how he mastered the look of total adoration that could only be learned in Doggie Acting 101.

Now that I was a dog owner, I had become very aware of how other people treated their dogs. I wasn't particularly tolerant of the abusive behavior that people inflicted on their devoted pets: yanking them harshly for not anticipating the master's intentions; smacking, kicking, cursing the confused beast who only wanted to please. This attitude caused me to make negative remarks to certain dog owners, further alienating me from the regular dog walkers, who already considered me a procurer for an oversexed predator dog. My previous stalking of female dogs for Pard was bad enough, but somehow the Tompkins Square Park dog walkers had found out that I was the publisher of the short-lived Doggie Tribune, which I had started to find a sex partner for Pard. Someone must have seen me dropping off copies of the newsletter in the neighborhood and spread the word. Instead of a landmark trial that Peter Zenger would have admired, I was condemned by rumor and gossip. I wasn't deluded enough to think that this was a constitutional issue, but it would have been nice to have had an opportunity to defend myself.

The only consequences of my actions on behalf of Pard's sex life so far were neglect and scorn, but I couldn't help wondering why no one was amused by my witty writing in the Doggie Tribune. Perhaps I wasn't as clever as I thought. I could brood about my various failures, if I chose, or I could try to bring some order out of the chaos that swirled around me. This was an opportunity to cherish the positive elements in my life. I had a good job, a nice apartment and a faithful dog. Spring would be here soon, which would allow me to do my silent clown show again and test the new material for my planned one-man show. So I didn't have a girlfriend at the moment. That could change. Why, I could turn a corner, bump into an exciting beauty and a random event would bring us together. Meanwhile, I made a mental note not to stare at the nubiles in my acting class. That was one complication I certainly didn't need. Oh, but some of the corn fed sirens could tempt a man of lesser willpower, or a dumber one. I repeated a mantra several times: "Don't think about them." "Don't think about them." "Don't think about them."

Of course, the next time I was in class I promptly forgot my resolution and eyeballed several of the more delectable morsels. Fortunately for me, before eye contact was established and recognition signals exchanged, I managed to clamp down on my restless libido and resume the bland classroom demeanor that allowed me to avoid entangling alliances. I garnered a few puzzled expressions, but none significant enough to stimulate a request for a private conference. Whew. I almost had to bite the bullet, whatever that means. I invoked self-control just in time to avert calamity. Nothing good could result from a dalliance with a student. If discovered, I would be discharged immediately, subjected to public contumely, if I had a public, and possibly degraded in the media, which would cause my family no end of humiliation. And even if there were no negative consequences, what could I hope for from this unnatural teacher/student relationship? Anything more than enthusiastic sex? Improbable, since the student was an inexperienced girl.

So I formed a new resolve to put temptation behind me and find a suitable girlfriend. Let the rapidly expanding lesbian population at Gotham U. sneak up on the naïve girl students and lead them into whatever. Yet it was uncanny how a man's sexual need was so easily sensed by women, who were never as urgent. This peculiar difference in attitudes or needs had made me almost as horny as my lustful mutt, and just as unsuccessful socially. But I wasn't in the mood for internal debates about hormonal differences, so I decided to go to the Tompkins Square library after class and do some research in theater production. I made a mental note to check out some of the East Village Internet cafés, after the library closed. These days, you never knew who you'd find online. While two of my students tepidly droned on making the incendiary passion of Romeo and Juliet into a middle-class date, I drifted into a fantasy about spotting an exotic woman at a café. Our eye contact flared into instant desire. I was boldly approaching her, when the silence from the mutilators of Shakespeare brought me back to the room. I made some sedative comments, dismissed the class and fled to the library of refuge.

I started browsing the web and became hopelessly trapped on the pages of one of those monstrous hunting and fishing sites that peddled everything imaginable for the outdoorsman. I kept scrolling through an endless collection of doggie beds, couches and boxes that came in a vast array of shapes, sizes and colors, all modeled by happy dogs. I wanted to get one for Pard to console him for his lack of a sex life, but I couldn't decide between the ultra hi-tech hyper-thermal bed and the deluxe foam reclining sofa. I couldn't help wondering what kind of society needed almost as many beds for dogs as there were for people. Perhaps I could train Pard to use my credit cards to save me from the stress of decision-making. While I wrestled the demon of bed choice, I browsed the section of doggie boots. It was as congested as beds. I particularly favored the nifty styles in neoprene and suede. I finally gave up on a purchase, hoping Pard would never know and took a break.

The library was crowded with the usual assortment of the mentally active senior citizens who would rather read than obliterate themselves in TV, scruffy students, the odoriferous homeless, pretentious researchers and horny hopefuls like me. Two tables down a gorgeous redhead was intent on a laptop. Every seat was taken at her table, so there was no way to move closer. I stared longingly at her pale freckled face, pert nose, and lickable lips, framed by her shimmering hair. Instant lust possessed me and I sent her urgent ESP messages of desire that were ignored. I didn't know if I was transmitting poorly, or if she had her mind shield up, but she wasn't receiving anything. My eyeballs began to ache from optically devouring her and I let my gaze wander around the room. At least three other cavaliers were preening and displaying, futilely trying to catch her eye, so I went back to the complications of theater production. I plowed through page after page of material for Broadway and regional theaters that had enormous budgets. I couldn't find anything that applied to small budget production and gave up in disgust. I tried again to reach the dazzling redhead with my penetrating look, but was unsuccessful. I looked around the room in search of another attractive female, but the most eligible was over 65, with her head buried in a crocheting magazine. I called it a day and went home to take faithful Pard for his evening walk.

By the time we got to the park it was rush hour, but still a bit early for most of the regular dog walkers. Pard romped, chased squirrels and barked at crows, and I didn't have any confrontations with the locals, which was a pleasant change. When the usual hasslers began to arrive, I called Pard, who reluctantly obeyed. After all, the poor mutt was cooped up in the house all day, while I was out somewhere, having a blast without him. I exited the park at Avenue A and slowly walked south, checking out the cafés. I noted one or two for a follow-up visit, while carefully monitoring Pard to make sure he didn't get us into trouble. In warm weather he would try to snatch food from the tables of outdoor cafés, and he was so quick and sneaky that he frequently succeeded. When he got caught, I would apologize profusely and rebuke him for the benefit of the indignant diner. He would look woeful and invariably earn forgiveness.

I always had to be alert when we were outdoors, because he constantly looked for plump, overfed pedigreed pooches that he could nip. Nothing delighted him more than the outraged squeals of a pampered victim and doting master. If you ever saw a dog laugh, you'd appreciate Pard's moments of hilarity. He moaned, snuffled, snorted, hopped around and actually chortled with delight. My apologies were never acceptable and I slunk off to the usual threats of police, dogcatcher and vengeful boyfriend. Despite all the tensions in these canine incidents, I must confess Pard amused me. He was such a mischievous swashbuckler that I couldn't get angry with him. I almost envied his devil-may-care attitude. I was a little shy and reluctant to risk rejection. He plunged in regardless of consequences. I guess it was lack of a sexual and social life that led to my identification with doggie activities.

I had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and Pard consumed his share, a portion as large as mine. The mutt even gobbled down a piece of garlic bread. Well at least I wasn't dining alone. Afterwards, I sat down to read and became completely absorbed in a Restoration comedy by Aphra Behn, the first professional female playwright. The Emperor of the Moon was a silly farce about a foolish doctor who believed there was a superior civilization on the moon. While the doctor watched the moon through his primitive telescope, his irreverent servants schemed to thwart the marriage of his daughter to a rich old man. I just got to the scene where the servants pretended to descend from the moon, when Pard reminded me that it was time for the late night walk by bringing me his leash. Well, another escape from frustrating reality shattered. I may not have been able to change anything in my life by complaining about it, but at least these days I got a lot more exercise dog walking.

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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.

posted 09.26.05.

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