And pasta. To tell the truth, it was the mention of pasta that did it.
Legs, be steady! Mouth, get ready!
I trotted behind the photographer up the stairs. From hunger and anticipation I simply dismissed the high art of poetry from my mind and turned to primitive rhyming chant instead. I murmured it under my breath up three flights of stairs:
spaghetti spaghetti spaghetti spaghetti.
Quickly and happily I settled into my new digs. There was a bit of a power struggle over sleeping places until finally, grudgingly, I agreed to sleep on a blanket folded in the corner. In return, the photographer agreed to refrain from kibbles and nourish me with pasta whenever possible.
These decisions were reached, of course, without conversation. Life would be easier for dogs if humans could comprehend our speech as we do theirs. Instead, we have to resort to pantomime and subterfuge.
I won't even bother to describe the on-or-off-the-bed struggle we endured before we came to an understanding. The ultimate compromise was this: during the night, he slept on the bed and I slept on the floor. During the day, if he was at home, I slept on the floor. If he was out of the apartment or closed away in his darkroom, as he often was, I curled up on the bed. When he returned, I got down with a great show of languid boredom, leaving pawprints which he pretended not to notice.
We postponed dealing with the issue of the couch.
It was early afternoon on the third day. "Pal?" The photographer spoke gleefully to me as he emerged from the darkroom in his apartment. "You're not gonna believe this!"
He was carrying a dripping wet photograph; while I watched, he took it over near the window and examined it in the bright light there. He whistled. Startled by the sound, I jumped a bit from the folded blanket in the corner that had been designated my space. Ordinarily when a human whistles, it means that a dog is being summoned.
But this wasn't a shrill, dog-calling sound. It was a low, extended whistle of admiration. Self-admiration, actually, since he was whistling at one of his own photographs.
I could forgive him a little self-congratulation, since I am prone to it myself. I understand the feeling of ecstasy and pride when one has accomplished something. For me it is most often a particularly fine pose, perhaps on a windy day when my fur ripples and my glorious tail is extended with its ornamental fringe parted in waves and I know that I am a magnificent sight. If I could whistle then, I would. But a dog's mouth is not configured for whistles, and so most often I simply emit a low groan of pleasure, unintelligible to humans.
"Look!" he said excitedly, and knelt beside me with the wet photograph in his hands. On his part, it was simply a gesture, since he did not truly expect me to look, or to admire his work. Humans believe (wrongly) that a dog's thoughts extend no further than the basic needs of food, shelter, and reproduction.
If they only knew what complex creatures we really are, and how deeply aesthetic our tastes!
But I was touched by his gesture, and in fact, when he thought I was simply nuzzling his hand in search of tidbits, I was actually studying the photograph very carefully.
It was one that he had taken on the day of our meeting, only three days before. I stood beside the boy, who was grinning in that supercilious way, with his hands in his pockets, displaying his baggy trousers, enormous sneakers, and macaroon-like cap, pretending that he was in love with his clothes.
My look was one of disdain. Disdain for the boy, for his clothes, for his smile, for the entire surrounding world. My lip was ever so slightly curled, my eyes half closed in boredom, my ears limp with ennui.
It was, I have to admit, a marvelously sophisticated look, one that said attitude. I admired it. I admired myself for creating it. Unconsciously, sitting there on my frayed blanket, the photo in front of me, I created it again on the spot, lowering my eyelids, raising my lip a micromillimeter, turning my neck an infinitesimal bit to the left.
The photographer leapt to his feet and shouted in exhilaration. Once, at the back door of Toujours Cuisine, I heard a cry of that sort. A Grand Marnier soufflé had just emerged from the oven, and the chef, overwhelmed by its height and fragrance, had cried out in the same way.
"Pal!" the photographer shouted, almost delirious with pleasure. "You did it again! Can you do it on command?" he asked.
Of course I could. I could do it whenever I wished. But command? Pardonez-moi? A self-respecting dog does not do things on command. On request, perhaps.
"What shall I call it? What command can I give?" He was talking to himself but watching me.
"I know, I know!" He knelt in front of me, looked me firmly in the eye, and said in a deep, commanding voice, "Sneer."
I yawned, turned around in a carefully thought-out circle, lay down on my blanket, and placed my head, my face impassive, on my crossed front paws. The photographer's face fell.
He sighed and stroked me behind my ear.
Finally he murmured, "Pal? Please. For me? Sneer."
That was more like it. A humble request carries a lot more weight than a shouted command, at least with me.
I raised my head, looked at the photographer, and sneered.
In his joy, he actually turned a somersault. It was an embarrassing display, and I am glad we were the only two beings in the room. I chuckled to myself, aware of how little training it takes to make a human perform tricks of surprising idiocy.
He hugged me. He ran to the refrigerator, brought out a cold frankfurter, dangled it before my nose, and said, "Sneer."
Again I yawned. Bribery? Mon dieu.
Abashed but learning, he returned the bribe to the refrigerator, stood in front of me, and asked politely once again. "Pal? Please? Sneer?"
So I sneered for him one more time; he flew into one more paroxysm of joy; and finally I licked his hand, acknowledging that we were partners and friends.
Thus my career began.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Chapter 8
THE PHOTOGRAPH OF ME AND THE BOY in the collapsed muffin hat appeared publicly the next week, in a Sunday supplement called "Fashions of the Times." Both of us, the photographer and I, admired it extensively. He left the publication on the coffee table, open to that page, just in case any neighbors dropped by.
Late that morning I was lying on the floor, eating some leftover lasagna while the photographer, wearing his fuzzy bathrobe, worked on the crossword puzzle and sipped coffee. The telephone rang.
"Yes," I heard him say, "he's my own dog. What breed?" He glanced over at me.