By Clint McElroy
HQ 75 | AUTUMN 2011
I screwed up. I disregarded the unbreakable “Rule of 5:30.” You’re familiar with the Rule of 5:30, aren’t you? It’s the rule that states if you patronize a restaurant in the Tri-State after 5:30 p.m., you will wait to be seated.
So there I sat, at 5:31 p.m., outside a popular area eatery. I won’t name names, but it rhymes with Pat Fatty’s. Anyway, I suddenly heard a voice say, “Dude.” I quickly looked around but saw no one.
Then I heard the voice again. “Dude. Down here.” I looked to my left and down a bit, and there, sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at me, was a dog.
And the dog spoke: “You, hey, how you doin’?” He sounded a lot like Joey from Friends.
“You’re a dog!” I exclaimed.
“Hey, nice job, Sherlock. You put all the clues together and figured out the mystery.”
“H-h-how did you learn to t-talk?” I stammered.
“All of us pets can talk,” he said. “Don’t you watch movies? Marmaduke? Milo and Otis? That timeless classic, Beverly Hills Chihuahua?”
I sadly shook my head.
“You really should expand your horizons to include cutting-edge canine cinema.”
I noticed his dog tag said “MOXIE.”
“That’s not my real name,” this dog said when he saw me checking out the tag. “It’s what my owners call me. My real name is Sebastiano Bonifacio.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “You don’t look Italian.”
“I’m not,” he told me. “I’m a standard poodle.”
“Oh, really? Because you seem kind of … you know.”
“I seem kind of what?” he said, a slight growl in his voice.
“You just seem kind of … butch, you know, to be a poodle.”
His doggy eyes glared at me.
“A breed-a-phobe! You’re a stinkin’ breed-a-phobe!” he barked at me.
“No, no, no!” I exclaimed, trying to placate him. “I’m just not used to having conversations with someone who usually drinks out of a toilet bowl.”
“Good point, dude,” he said, no longer baring his fangs. “Besides, I’m not here on behalf of my breed. I’m representing my entire species.”
“Dogs?” I asked.
“Yeah, dogs. Try to keep up, Spanky,” Sebastiano said. “On behalf of the entire dog species, we want to thank everybody for all the hard work to make the Huntington Dog Park happen.”
“Oh, well, you’re very welcome,” I replied.
“A lot of people worked very hard in the planning phase, in winning the $100,000 from PetSafe and in all of the other fundraising efforts,” he said. “We really appreciate it. We’re proud of you.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally I said, “Speak, boy, speak!”
The glare and the fangs were back and he appeared to have more to say to me.
“Look, we really are proud. We think this is a perfect example of the great things the humans of Huntington can do when they all pull together. Don’t stop doing things like this.”
“I will tell them what you have said,” I promised him solemnly.
“Don’t do that, you sledge head! People who have conversations with dogs don’t usually earn the greatest reputations. People call them witches, lunatics!”
He turned and began walking away.
“If I were you, I’d keep it to myself.”
And he was gone.
And here I am, telling you all about it, ignoring his advice. But of course I am! He was a dog! What does he know, anyway?
