November 12, 1998

I took little Jack to the dog run off of Fourth Street in the middle of Hoboken the other day. He spends most of his day alone inside my small apartment, so I thought giving him a chance to socialize with other dogs might cheer him up.

I work long hours and I'm ashamed to confess that most nights, when I get home, I walk Jack around the block and that's it. Sure, I'll toss a frisbee to him for few minutes before I sack out on the futon, but that's about the extent of the entertainment I provide him. (Other than sending him flying out of my car window at 80 miles per hour on Interstate 95. Longtime readers will remember that story.)

Despite my lackluster performance as his guardian, little Jack curls up beside his lazy master every night with all of the affection his little heart can muster. Jack seems to love me no matter what. He deserves a lot better.

So in the spirit of trying to right past wrongs, I took Jack to the dog run in the middle of town and turned him loose to frolic with the other hounds. But Jack did not frolic with the other hounds. Instead, he walked the chain-linked fence perimeter sniffing each inch for a place to pee. While the other collies and spaniels and shepherds and basset hounds chased each other in circles and wrestled around in the gravel, Jack kept to himself; a good 50 yards from the rest of the pack.

I plopped my butt down on a wooden park bench, while keeping my eye on my little guy until this really sweet Australian Shepherd female came up to me demanding my attention. She was really nice. A young woman walked over to me while I was petting the beast.

"Is this your dog?" I asked.

"Yeah" the young woman replied.

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Maggie" she answered.

"What a cool name" I said. "She looks like a Maggie."

"Thanks" the young woman smiled. "I think she looks like a Maggie, too."

We smiled at each other, but then said nothing. There was an awkward pause as we both assessed each other as men and women do when they first meet.

"So" the young woman began, breaking the silence, "which one's your dog?"

I scanned the perimeter for Jack, but he wasn't there.

"He's a little beagle named Jack, but I don't see him. That's weird."

I was a little concerned. Could Jack have found some hole in the chain-link fence? I stood up to get a better look. All the other dogs were still there, huddled together in a crazy, jumping, frenzied pack.

Then I saw him. Peering out from behind the mass of gray and black and brown and golden fur, I saw Jack's little beagle head. I walked over to the group of dogs, and as I did, they scattered. All but the basset hound who was sodomizing my little guy.

"Get off him!" I shouted. I reached down and grabbed Jack by the nape of the neck and yanked him out from under the boorish basset.

"Jesus Fucking Christ!" I raged as I scanned wildly about the dog run for the owner of the pudgy little rapist.

"It's just a dominance thing" the young woman from before said as she hooked a leash onto the basset.

"He's your's, too?" I asked.

"She's mine, too" the young woman responded.

I picked up Jack and carried him out of the dog run.

Well, at least he wasn't penetrated. But to have been raped by a butch female basset couldn't have done much for his self-esteem. I keep him locked in an apartment all day and the one time I take him out, he get's brutally fucked by a bitch.

Why am I telling you this story? It's a metaphor for one of the most disturbing scenes I've ever witnessed.

The other night, I took my workaholic friend out for a drink. This guy never goes out. He works until 8 or 9, then goes home to his wife.

But two nights ago, I convinced him to break off early and have a drink with me. Wouldn't you know it, out of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, we walked into the one that was being visited by his wife and her lover.

 

Broadway Jim Jenkins