I don’t want to be a show dog anymore. I don’t want to dance around and do tricks so people find some sort of interest in me.
But when they say speak, I bark, and when they say dance, I dance. They don’t notice the anguish it causes me as they mock, and stare, and gawk, and laugh, and ridicule, and gape, and ogle, and gaze, and goggle. I think she knows though, I think she can see it in my sad dog eyes as I try in vain to entertain her. She mocks, and stares, and gawks, and laughs, and ridicules, and gapes, and ogles, and gazes, and goggles at me almost every waking minute of every waking day.
I don’t want to be a show dog anymore. I don’t want to dance and do tricks just so she won’t leave me.
***
It was a lovely spring morning and the birds had started to wish the sun good morning with their chirps. I had woken up long before them, as usual, and had spent most of the time sitting at the breakfast table. Visha came down the stairs and barely acknowledged my presence as she went about making her usual cup of coffee. A small little dove was hovering around in the garden, drawn for an unknown reason to the strelitzias I had planted earlier. I watched it for a while before it flew away.
“You’re up early. Did you sleep well? I had a terrible nightmare” Visha said. I turned my attention to her immediately and prepared to play my part.
“A nightmare? What about?”
“It started in the front door. I’d just gotten off work and was about to come upstairs to find you when I had a terrible feeling of doom come over me. I reached the bottom of the steps and you were at the top. You muttered something that I couldn’t hear, then I felt a sharp pain in my head. I don’t know why but I felt so scared then I woke up. I can’t shake the dream for some reason.”
“Sounds scary. Maybe it’s a warning, you know the subconscious is a very powerful thing. You wouldn’t believe the things you know deep down in it.”
“A warning? I doubt that. You’re just being silly again, you don’t mean that.”
“Haha. Yeah I’m just kidding.” I leaned back in my chair as she sipped her coffee. The look on her face told me that she knew deep down I was being serious.
“You know Alice and Rudolph are having a house party tonight. I told them we’d go” Visha said. I sighed then nodded my head. Parties always meant I had to do my usual routine, and I always have the fear that my little tricks will get old. I have to make them laugh; it doesn’t matter how. If I can’t make them laugh then I have no value to them and they won’t love me anymore. “Try not to fall on your face and make an idiot of yourself.”
“Can’t make promises. You know how I am.” Nobody knows the real me. They know of the caricature I’ve crafted to keep them around. A perfectly tailored personality fit to be society’s jester. If I hate the show dog role, why do I find myself unable to quit? Is it out of fear of abandonment or do I wallow in self-pity because I want people to feel bad when in reality I secretly enjoy it? I can’t properly articulate how I feel about my acting, since everyone around me doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a show dog. What could I be if not a show dog? The only way out for an unhappy show dog is either to die or to disappear, and I can do neither.
“Oh knock it off. I’m being serious and don’t do anything stupid. I can’t stand to hear everyone laughing and making fun of how stupid you are. It’s getting old” Visha said sternly. It was at the words “it’s getting old” that I felt a familiar hand of fear plunge into my chest and squeeze my heart till it felt that it would be no more. The pictures on the wall, the plants, the sunshine, the animals outside, the appliances, the furniture all started to laugh and taunt me. The room — the room spun faster, and faster, and faster– sucking up all the air as it went. If I had been standing up I surely would have fallen, since you can’t stand on jellied legs. Visha hadn’t noticed a thing as usual. If she had it probably would have killed me. If they were getting tired of my act I’d have to change it up, but the amount of energy to do so was energy I didn’t have. Every waking moment I spend obsessing over who I should be in order to entertain. I’ve given such big chunks of my soul to the characters that I create that I fear I may have lost myself.
“Right. Sorry I’ll try not to be an idiot.”
“Good. I don’t want to be embarrassed by you again” Visha said with a scoff. She took another sip of her coffee before setting the cup down in the sink. “I don’t know why you do it. I’ll never understand you.”
***
The party was nothing special when we arrived. Rudolph was in the corner swirling a drink around in a cup by the fireplace. A small group flocked around him, hanging onto every word that fell from his lips like a rope over a cliff.
Alice was in the kitchen working on the finger foods that get passed around at these types of events. Visha seemed to be gravitating towards her, pulled by an unseen force to her side. I’m lucky in the way that show dogs are magnetic to others instead of vice versa. I wonder if I’d be happier if I was pulled by the unseen hand towards someone to make them dance, act, and clown. If I have my experience from this life in the future, and I become a man not a show dog then I’d finally understand happiness at knowing there’s someone who can relate. Nobody’ll understand a show dog besides other show dogs and I fear there are no others out there.
“Hey man! Get over here and meet my buddies.” Rudolph called me over with a wave of his hand. The spotlight that follows me to these events was flicked on signaling the start of my routine. “Fellas, this is my good friend. He’s a funny guy. Tell them one of your stories.”
They think me a maniac. They think I’m delusional. A horrible, insane, maniac. I’m so afraid of how they’ll view me, but I find I don’t care as long as they find me entertaining. I’ll spout my insanity, and spin my little tales till I breathe my last. Every time I perform I feel myself slipping away into someone or something greater. Whenever I’d be put in a group I’d cease to exist and in my place would; Alfie, or Gregory, or Troutsky, or Andrienna, or Frankfort, or whatever else I thought would get my peers to laugh. If they knew the truth, or the pain it causes me to be the show dog, then the appeal would be lost and I’d be nothing.
I can’t recall a time when I was something more than a show dog. Maybe I was born to be one or maybe I was bestowed that role without ever fully realizing it. Whatever the case, I never felt relaxed in social settings. Despite my attempts to feign an outgoing personality, it was obvious to those closest to me that I’m of a shy and timid nature.
“This guys a hoot. Quite a story teller — you’ll love him.” Rudolph said to his little group of friends right as I stepped over. There were about five of them, all of different builds and demeanors, wrapped around the fireplace in a semicircle. The one closest to me was by far the worst of them. He was a large man, his skin seeping over the sides of his chair. His black hair hadn’t been groomed in at least a week and he hadn’t shaved either. It was obvious to me — and I’m sure to the rest of the group — that the man didn’t care how he appeared to us. His personality wasn’t much better than his looks. He was arrogant, held an air of authority by the throat, and clearly an egoist. I learned his name was Randall.
Next to him was a more aesthetic man with curly brown hair, black rimmed glasses, a blue shirt tucked into white dress pants, and matching black shoes and belt. When the second man smiled, he got a gleam in his eye that all but drew you into them. If you’d talk to him you’d find that his thoughtful expression can almost speak and says “I find your topic of interest most fascinating. Please go on.” His name was Jack. A fine name for a fine man.
The third man was a mix of his neighbors. He had the same unruly hair as the first man but his personality was more admirable. If he could’ve wrestled the air of authority from the large first man he’d have won, surely, but he was far too modest for that. I never learned the third man’s name, nor had I the chance to retain the other men’s faces before Rudolph cracked his hand against my shoulder blade and pushed me forward.
“Some storyteller this one is; hasn’t said a word all evening.” Mr. Randall said with a sneer as I fumbled over my words ‘Bark dog’.
“No, no you misunderstand. Rudolph exaggerates. I’ll tell a story.” I then descended into a long retelling of a story that normally impressed any audience. I’ll spare the details as this story isn’t for you. I’m tired of making a fool of myself for your sake. I’m not a toy, I’m not a show dog, and I’m no one’s entertainment. Wouldn’t you be happier if you stopped here and followed your own passion? Has the world become so cruel they’ll torture a poor show dog for a laugh? The story I told to the semicircle was a typical tale of adventure and love and heartbreak. Despite this, most people usually enjoy listening to it, the semicircle was evidently not most people.
“You call this a story? I’ve heard machines tell more engaging stories than this.” Randall said ‘Bark doggy, bark’.
“Oh don’t tease him! You know he’s shy.” Visha’s voice floated from the kitchen as she worked with the hostess to plate the food. “Have him come here, he can help us girls in the kitchen.”
“We’re dying for entertainment.” Alice chimed in. The semicircle around me had decided that, although they were opposed to the idea of giving me away, they would reluctantly let me go. Once in the kitchen I was hit by an invisible wall of fragrance wafting up from the food, like a hand tempting a dog to a watering hole. Alice was busying herself by the oven, and Visha was circling around the island, her skirt swishing this way and that with every movement she made.
“Here, come plate the dessert cakes. Then go take the crab bites out to them.” Visha barked as her hand waved towards a platter of small cupcakes that had been iced in red and yellow. “Don’t even think about eating one. You haven’t had dinner yet. Spoil your appetite.”
“Oh don’t be so hard on him Visha. You act like he’s your son.” Alice giggled softly as she fanned the quiche that had just come out of the oven. I saw Visha roll her eyes right as I went over to the crab bites and picked them up. “You’re too harsh to him Visha. He’s such a cutie and you treat him like a dog.”
“He acts like a dog. I swear sometimes I think he acts like that on purpose.” She can see through me. She sees through me and yet she still doesn’t understand. The familiar hand of fear came up behind me and plunged itself into my chest. I could feel it squeezing my heart tighter and tighter as the room began to spin and a bell started to ring somewhere in the house. With great effort I was able to make it to the semicircle and hand the plate of crab bites to them.
“Something bothering you? You’re as pale as a ghost.” A voice — I think it was Rudolph — asked, just barely able to be heard over the bell that had gotten louder. Somehow I was able to nod. I wanted to turn and go back to the kitchen but-
“Cut the act already! I asked you not to make a fool of yourself! You’re embarrassing.” I heard Visha’s angry voice from the kitchen. Cut the act already…those words…those four words broke something in me and- instead of going along with it– I stopped. What was I thinking, I couldn’t say. I screamed, I think.
“I don’t want to be a show dog anymore! I’m sick of it! Sick!” With those words I ran off. There’s only two ways out for an unhappy show dog: death or disappearance, and I’m afraid to die. They were yelling after me as I bolted down the street towards the woods, but they weren’t fast enough to catch me. For a brief moment I got the taste of freedom before it was ripped away when I tripped on a misplaced root and tumbled head first into a deep ditch. As I stared up at the doves flying overhead one single thought came to me: nothing was, nothing is, and nothing will be, as sad of a show dog as me.
