THE DOGIST:

REAL CANINE BUSTS

We’re in Central Park. The Dogist, holding his camera, approaches a middle-aged woman and her Lab-mix as they walk across the Sheep Meadow.

DOGIST: Excuse me, is that your dog?

DOG OWNER: Yep. He’s my best pal.

DOGIST: What’s his name?

DOG OWNER: Bunko. He eats anything and everything! 

DOGIST: I bet he does. Can I take Bunko’s picture? 

DOG OWNER: Sure.

The Dogist takes Bunko’s picture. Bunko barks.

DOG OWNER: Oh, that’s funny — he never barks!

DOGIST: Can you have Bunko turn to the right, so I can get his profile?

DOG OWNER: Um, sure.

The Dog Owner encourages Bunko to turn to the right. The Dogist takes Bunko’s profile picture. 

DOGIST: Great. Now, can you have Bunko raise his right paw, like he’s shaking hands?

DOG OWNER: Absolutely. He loves to shake.

Bunko barks again.

DOG OWNER: Bunko! What’s wrong?

DOGIST: Sometimes they sense things. Let’s see that right paw.

DOG OWNER: Bunko, shake! Shake, Bunko!

As Bunko raises his right paw, The Dogist pulls out an inkpad and pawprint card. He takes Bunko’s pawprint.

DOGIST: OK, now your left paw, Bunko.

DOG OWNER: Hey. What are you doing?

DOGIST: Taking his prints.

The Dogist takes Bunko’s left print. Bunko seems to know what’s happening — he’s busted.

The Dogist pulls zip-tie pawcuffs out of his back pocket. He places a cuff on Bunko’s left paw, then his right.

DOG OWNER: Wait a minute! What’s going on?

DOGIST: I just pre-booked Bunko. Now I’m placing him under arrest for eating cat poop out of the litter box at home, the litter boxes of other people’s homes, and even in public parks.

DOG OWNER: Hold on! It’s just a silly habit!

DOGIST: Silly? Once they get the taste of it, they’re addicts. Bunko has become a bad boy, ma’am. ... You’re a really bad boy, Bunko! A disgusting and bad boy! You have the right to remain silent.

The Dogist takes Bunko’s leash from his owner. He leads Bunko away. Bunko struggles to walk on two legs.

DOG OWNER: Don’t say a word to them, Bunko! I’m calling your lawyer! 

–

The Dogist approaches a man sitting on a bench in Washington Square. The man is holding a gray-brown Chihuahua that’s wearing a miniature argyle vest. The Chihuahua is nestled in the man’s jacket, shivering ... though it’s not that cold.

DOGIST: Hi. Can I take a picture of your dog?

DOG OWNER: Sure! This is my little Pontchartrain. Pontch, for short.

The Dogist stares at Pontchartrain for a long moment. Pontchartrain looks back, shivering. 

DOGIST: Do you know why your little dog shakes like a scaredy-cat?

DOG OWNER (slightly thrown): Well, he’s just always cold. That’s why he has his vest.

DOGIST: Pontchartrain shakes all the time because his name’s not Pontchartrain, and he’s afraid that someone will figure it out. His name is Duke. Duke Johnson. He’s wanted for impersonating dogs in three states. Isn’t that right ... Pontch?

Pontchartrain/Duke Johnson starts to show his teeth.

DOG OWNER: But. What do you mean, impersonating a dog? He’s a Chihuahua.

DOGIST: Actually, sir, he’s a rat. An overgrown, dirty, Norwegian sewer rat. I’ll need to place him under arrest now.

DOG OWNER: But I got him at the Chihuahua shelter!

The Dogist pulls out his pawcuffs. He places the cuffs on Pontchartrain/Duke Johnson’s paws while Pontchartrain/Duke Johnson squeaks and squirms.

DOGIST: How many times have I told you, Duke? Rats aren’t Chihuahuas!

The Dogist escorts Pontchartrain/Duke Johnson away. Bystanders gather around his flustered owner.

DOG OWNER: I have his papers! They told me he was a good dog! 

BYSTANDER: They always say that.

–

The Dogist walks down Park Avenue on the Upper East Side. He approaches an older woman in a fur coat. She’s walking a miniature white poodle wearing a pink bow on one ear.

DOGIST: Excuse me, is this your dog?

DOG OWNER: Yes. Little angel’s name is Sherylynn.

DOGIST: Does she mind having her picture taken?

DOG OWNER: Are you kidding? Practically all this little socialite does is get her picture taken! 

The Dogist snaps a few photos while Sherylynn sits and poses, aloof.

DOGIST: Pretty sure she does a lot more than get her picture taken.

DOG OWNER: Oh? What do you mean?

The Dogist finishes taking photos.

DOGIST: Ma’am, I hate to be the one to tell you this. But Sherylynn’s been running a Canine Ponzi Scheme. She’s scamming Upper East Side dogs out of their snack biscuits. She takes the biscuits and converts them, through a Doberman connection, into caviar, Balenciaga doggie scarves, Hermès doggie purses, Chanel doggie dresses, all kinds of things.

DOG OWNER: That can’t be true — all the other dogs love her.

DOGIST: They won’t love her when they realize they’re not getting their biscuits back.

DOG OWNER: But just look how innocent she is!

They look at Sherylynn, who poses innocently.

DOGIST: Yeah. So I didn’t want to bring this up. But the truth is, Sherylynn isn’t even from the Upper East Side.

DOG OWNER: How dare you say that! She has always been my first-class little-lady poodums!

DOGIST: No, ma’am. Sherylynn was the runt of her litter, born in a shoebox behind a crazy family’s couch in Jersey. It wasn’t her fault, OK? She did what she had to do to survive. And she escaped that madhouse when she was old enough to run on her own. She eventually made her way to Manhattan by learning the train system and tricking people into taking her in. First, she found a hip West Village artist-family to adopt her. She stole cat food from their cat all the time. Then, when things got weird with said cat, she ran off, took the subway, found an Upper West Side playground, and made fast friends with a little brown-haired girl ... Isn’t that right, Sherylynn? And you didn’t give one lick about that sweet little girl, did you? You just wanted a new home for yourself. Free food. A new family to con. And it worked. They spoiled her rotten. Then the family started talking about getting another dog. Poor Sherylynn couldn’t stand the idea that another mutt would steal her hard-won attention. She had bigger plans in store. So she escaped during leash-free time in the park and ran east, the wind in her ears, and –

DOG OWNER: – she ran right up to me at Eli’s Market. Her rose-colored, rhinestone-bordered tag said, “Sherylynn,” with a little heart etched underneath it. But it offered no phone number. I knew she was lost. I put up signs for her family to find her!

DOGIST: Of course, you did.

DOG OWNER: I loved her immediately. For instance, I converted the maid’s closet into her own little doggie chamber. At night, she snuggled with me when I watched reruns of Murder, She Wrote.

DOGIST: Great show. Never gets old.

DOG OWNER: Eventually, I figured her owners didn’t care about her. So she officially became mine. We became a family. Or so I told myself. Even when I saw the biscuits piling up in her chamber, and the designer scarves and purses and dresses, I didn’t want to pry into her personal business. I told myself that she found them! But now I just feel duped!

Sherylynn’s owner starts to weep. The Dogist waits for it to pass.

DOGIST: Ma’am? These con-artist dogs – they’re deceptive and cruel. They can make us believe anything. They wag their tails and yip, and we think they love us.

DOG OWNER: But ... Sherylynn doesn’t love me. Does she?

DOGIST: No, ma’am. Sherylynn doesn’t love anyone but herself.

DOG OWNER: Oh Sherylynn, how could you.

Sherylynn refuses eye contact, holding her nose high. The Dogist takes Sherylynn’s leash.

DOGIST: Sherylynn, I’m charging you with biscuit embezzlement, biscuit fraud, and biscuit laundering. If you come quietly, I’ll spare you the pawcuffs.

Sherylynn rolls her poodle eyes, but she follows The Dogist down the street to his canine squad car.

++

© 2023 Jamie Allen