Opinion: Pet Peeves

Dog Gone

By Mark D. Crantz

I was very excited. I snuck out of my retirement monastery to try out for next year’s Pageant of the Masters.

This was a perfect opportunity to contribute my talent to the city I love. I envision a year from now, the city will reciprocate this love by throwing rotten tomatoes gathered at the nearby farmer market’s Netflix stand.

Unrequited love is a timeless story that never tires of being told. Even though I know what you’re thinking, “We can’t stand you. There’s no love for you or your vapid stories. Don’t wreck this city’s artistic reputation by volunteering for the Pageant of the Masters. The city council has started a GoFundMe page to pay you not to perform. For any contributions above a nickel, residents will receive a bobblehead of you. Residents are encouraged to try separating your head from the unbreakable spring. This reasonable donation is advised over wasting tomatoes, rotten or not, on the hack we all know you really are. Save our city. We beg you to cease and desist.”

Playing hard to get won’t work on me. I was packed and ready for tryouts. Having lived in a monastery with a strict vow of silence, I figured I would be ahead in the audition game. But I wasn’t so certain about standing still. You see, soon after I took the vow of silence, I unconsciously used my hands to communicate. I’ve never been caught talking with my hands like Prince Louie of Great Britain has been nicked. Louie and I are more alike than different. We both have bobbleheads of ourselves. His head is still attached. Mine isn’t. I like to think mine is just the result of inferior Chinese springs. We both have mothers who love us. See, we’re the same. I know the city would be honored to have Prince Louie in the pageant, ergo, me too.

Well, it was touch and go whether I could secure the lead role at the Pageant of the Masters. The picture I chose to try out for was “Dogs Playing Poker.” I replicated one of the 1903 series of sixteen art paintings commissioned by Brown & Bigelow to advertise cigars. Critic Annette Ferrara has described the collection as “indelibly burned into…the American collective-schlock subconscious…through incessant reproduction on all manner of pop ephemera.” Translation: Ms. Ferrara loved the paintings and knew scolding the dogs would rile up dog lovers to buy more paintings. Don’t be tricked by reverse writing psychology. But take verbatim everything written about cats.

The big tryout day came. I practiced hanging out my tongue. Pricking and holding up my ears. Happy face. Sad face. Hanging out the car window face. The side mirror almost hit my face. I was good to go. I decided to be the bulldog in the painting. On close inspection, he was the one holding the best paw. If I couldn’t get the role, I would win the pot. The director yelled, “Action.” And I did. I started growling. I drooled with the best of them. I went searching and scratching for imaginary fleas. The director yelled, “Cut. Sorry Crantz. You’re out. “Cat Playing Solitaire” is in.

Crantz tells the Indy he’ll try again next year even if it means giving the star cat a bath. Although he hates getting the cat hairs all over his tongue. (I borrowed this joke from Steve Martin. If you hate it, then buy a bobblehead of me.)