← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Off the Leash
01:03:01
Meg Wolitzer presents three stories about our relationship with man’s best friend, from an evening of dog stories hosted by Saturday Night Live alum Ana Gasteyer. Emma Brewer’s “Think You Deserve Companionship? Apply to Adopt a Dog Today,” pokes fun at the bureaucratic hurdles involved in getting a new friend. It’s performed by Gasteyer. Wizard of Oz author L. Frank Baum offers a up a tale of romance, transformation and machinations, in “The Glass Dog,” performed by Jeremy Shamos. And David Means’ “Clementine, Carmelita, Dog,” tells the tale of one dog with two names—and two families. It’s performed by Javier Munoz.
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- [00:00]
CDC Public Health Announcer
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- [00:32]
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- [00:58]
Meg Wolitzer
Today on this selected shorts we go to the dogs From a live event hosted by Saturday Night Live alum Anna Gasteyer, we bring you three very different works that explore our relationship with man's best friend. So sit, stay and stay tuned. Fun fact 66% of US households, that's 86.9 million homes have a dog or dogs according to the American Veterinary Medical Association. And those homes range from People magazine worthy mansions to comfortable suburban ranches to tiny studios in big cities. And there's a reason for this. Whatever the size of the house, many people have room in their hearts for a dog. And why is that? The origin story of the domestic dog always focuses on the transformation from wolves to companion animals, from lean and hungry predators to a dazzling array of canines. For all aspects of life, it doesn't focus so much on us, but because of dogs, we too were transformed. Sure, some dogs were purpose bred to track game or deter thugs or sit on our laps. But many dogs, both purebreds and mixed breeds, are just members of our family and their function to be read to, to sleep with, to take on a run. And because of them we are kinder, less anxious, less driven, less a medically proven fact. By the way, I think I've mentioned before my childhood dog, Max, a dachshund. He made my family laugh and now he is an indelible part of my memories. And he loved to play a little toy piano, the kind that Schroeder played in Peanuts cartoons. We would put it in the den and he would plant his paws on the keys and make crashing chords, clearly excited by the sounds he was producing. Max lived a long time and was a very active member of our family. When I see photos of him, I feel like myself now and myself then at the same time because I still feel love and attachment for this dog who has been gone for, my God, almost half a century. And that's a little different from feeling love for a person you lost. Maybe in some ways it's simpler. Mostly I remember play. I remember summers running on a beach and winters running in the snow with Max, my darling friend. And if my voice sounds a little choked up right now, well, chalk it up to the indelible paw print that dogs leave behind, that distinctive imprint in sand, in snow, or even in mud on your kitchen floor that speaks of joy, an element that can be scarce until sometimes a dog brings it into our lives. So that's just one of the ways a real dog can make our lives better. And perhaps you are petting yours now. But fictional dogs operate by different rules. They are message bearers from writers imaginations. They appear in tearjerkers like Old Yeller and classics like the wizard of Oz and Lassie. Dogs in movies are often sentimentalized, but dogs in fiction play broader and more complex roles. And we think this show handily demonstrates that one piece has fun with the bureaucratic side of adoption. One one morphs into a disconcerting fairy tale, and one presents a nuanced take on a dog's ability to offer unconditional love. Our first work is by Emma Brewer. Brewer is a satire and fiction writer whose work has been featured in the New Yorker and McSweeney's, among other outlets. Brewer's Story is performed by host Ana Gasteyer, whose work, in addition to Saturday Night Live, includes Once Upon a Mattress on Broadway and Lute on Apple tv. And here she is with Emma Brewer's Think youk Deserve Companionship. Apply to Adopt a Dog Today.
- [05:13]
Commercial Narrator
So here we go. This is Emma Brewer's story, the title of which really tells you everything, and I'm going to save it for the reading, which I'm going to move over there for. Think you deserve companionship? Apply to adopt a dog today. Thank you for your interest in adopting Fester. Please fill out the application below to help us determine whether you are a good fit. Provide contact information for your veterinarian. If you are not registered with a vet's office, your application will be discarded unread. Do you currently have pets, or have you recently had pets? If so, your application will be discarded unread. You may be wondering about the apparent paradoxical nature of the first two questions. The correct answer would have been that you posed as an animal for several years in order to establish a relationship with a veterinary clinic and a favorable rapport with the office staff. Have you ever returned a library book late? Please explain at length below. Have you ever been dumped? Provide the relevant contact information so that we may learn the circumstances of this interpersonal failure. Did you lie about the library book? Please be aware that we will be contacting your elementary school librarian whom you last saw in 1997. Please be aware that though you may go back and change any answers on this form, we will know. Have you ever bought a bag of salad mix and let it rot instead of eating it? 2 years ago @ a networking event, when Tara was telling the group about her new Jack Russell Terrier, did you cut her off to talk about your own bullshit? Why did you do this? What's wrong with you? Are you now remembering other times when you interrupted people to make inane comments? Any personality flaws will be noted and may cause us to re examine your documents. We have a high volume of applicants for each dog. Applicants with superior math skills and glossy hair. Applicants whose friends regard them more highly than yours. Do you? Our Forever Homes applicant acceptance rate is lower than 1%. Are you overthinking the previous question? A tendency towards introspection is not necessarily a quality that we look for in a prospective dog owner. We are also wary of applicants who are not introspective enough. We will know the correct level of self reflection when we see it. So will our dogs. Have you ever said, nice, I'll check that out? With the absolute knowledge that you will not at any point check that thing out. Were you once involved in a scheme to genetically modify dogs so that they could play tennis by breeding them to eventually have one front paw replaced by a hairy tennis racket? Are you now frantically digging through your files scratch scouring old correspondence to discover how we could possibly know about the Tennis Dogs project? Do you think it was Tara who tipped us off? Do you think that maybe you shouldn't have approached her with that proposition regarding her Jack Russell terrier, then claimed it was a joke? Do you think that you're funny? Please note that the processing of submitted applications will take as long as it needs to take and that we will not be responding to failed applicants. We emphatically do not accept simultaneous applications. If you are considering applying to adopt a dog from a different rescue organization, we will know. The only way for you to learn the outcome of your application is to refresh our page repeatedly while gazing at Fester's fluffy face, his expression of longing, his lovable underbite, and developing an irrepressible attachment to the idea of growing old with Fester by your side. Until at last his profile vanishes from the site. At this point, you are free to begin your search all over again. Best of luck.
- [09:36]
Meg Wolitzer
Ana Gasteyer Performed Think youk Deserve Companionship Apply to Adopt a Dog Today By Emma Brewer I'm Meg Wolitzer. Maybe this little gem resonated with listeners who have adopted a shelter animal or or tried to renew their driver's license. Next, a story by Toto's creator, Lyman Frank Baum, a 19th century jack of all trades who turned to writing later in Life, eventually producing 13oz books as well as novels, poems, and short stories. The Glass Dog is performed by Jeremy Seamus, a Broadway regular who is featured in two of television's hottest properties, the Gilded Age and Only Murders in the Building.
- [10:24]
Narrator/Storyteller
The Glass Dog, an accomplished wizard, once lived on the top floor of a tenement house and passed his time in thoughtful study and studious thought. What he didn't know about wizardry was hardly worth knowing, for he possessed all the books and recipes of all the wizards who had lived before him, and and moreover, he had invented several wizardments himself. This admirable person would have been completely happy but for the numerous interruptions to his studies caused by folk who came to consult him about their troubles in which he was not interested, and by the loud knocks of the iceman, the milkman, the baker's boy, the laundry man, and the peanut woman. He never dealt with any of these people, but they rapped at his door every day to see him about this or that, or to try to sell him their wares. Just when he was most deeply interested in his books, or engaged in watching the bubbling of a cauldron, there would come a knock at his door, and after sending the intruder away, he always found he had lost his train of thought or ruined his compound. At length these interruptions aroused his anger, and he decided he must have a dog, and to keep people away from his door. He didn't know where to find a dog, but in the next room lived a poor glassblower with whom he had a slight acquaintance. So he went into the man's apartment and asked, where can I find a dog? What sort of a dog? Inquired the glass blower. A good dog. One that will bark at people and drive them away. One that will be no trouble to keep and won't expect to be fed. One that has no fleas and is neat in his habits. One that will obey me when I speak to him. In short, a good dog, said the wizard. Such a dog is hard to find, returned the glass blower, who was busy making a blue glass flower pot with a pink glass rose bush in it, having green glass leaves and yellow glass roses. The wizard watched him thoughtfully. Why cannot you create a dog out of glass? He asked presently. I can, declared the glass blower, but it would not bark at people, you know. Oh, I can fix that easily enough, replied the other. If I could not make a glass dog bark, I would be a mighty poor wizard. Very well. If you can use a glass dog, I'll be pleased to create one for you. Only you must pay for my work. Certainly, agreed the wizard. But I have none of that horrid stuff you call money. You must take some of my wares in exchange. The glassblower considered the matter for a moment. Could you give me something to cure my rheumatism? He asked. Oh, yes, easily. Then it's a bargain. I'll start the dog at once. What color of glass shall I use? Pink is a pretty color, said the wizard. And it's unusual for a dog, isn't it? Very, answered the glass blower. But it shall be pink. So the wizard went back to his studies, and the glassblower began to make the dog. Next morning he entered the wizard's room with a glass dog under his arm and set it carefully upon the table. It was a beautiful pink in color, with a fine coat of spun glass, and about its neck was twisted a blue glass ribbon. Its eyes were specks of black glass and sparkled intelligently, as do many of the glass eyes worn by men. The wizard expressed himself pleased with the glassblower's skill, and at once handed him a small vial. This will cure your rheumatism, he said. But the vial is empty, protested the glass blower. Oh, no. There is one drop of liquid in it, was the wizard's reply. Will one drop cure my rheumatism? Inquired the glassblower in wonder. Most certainly. That is a marvelous remedy. The one drop contained in the vial will cure instantly any kind of disease any ever known to humanity. Therefore it is especially good for rheumatism. But guard it well, for it is the only drop of its kind in the world. And I've forgotten the recipe. Thank you, said the glass blower, and went back to his room. Then the wizard cast a wizzy spell and mumbled several very learned words in the wizardese language over the glass dog, Whereupon the little animal first wagged its tail from side to side and then winked his left eye knowingly, and at last began barking in a most frightful manner. That is when you stop to consider the Noise came from a pink glass dog. There is something almost astonishing in the magic arts of wizards. Unless, of course, you know how to do the things yourself, when you are not expected to be surprised at them. The wizard was as delighted as a schoolteacher at the success of his spell, although he was not astonished. Immediately he placed the dog outside his door, where it would bark at anyone who dared knock and so disturb the studies of its master. The glass blower, on returning to his room, decided not to use the one drop of wizard cure all just then. My rheumatism is better today, he reflected, and I will be wise to save the medicine for a time when I am very ill, when it will be of more service to me. So he placed the vial in his cupboard and went to work blowing more roses out of glass. Presently he happened to think the medicine might not keep, so he started to ask the wizard about it. But when he reached the door, the glass dog barked so fiercely that he dared not knock and returned in great haste to his room. Indeed, the poor man was quite upset at so unfriendly a reception from the dog he had himself so carefully and skillfully made. The next morning, as he read his newspaper, he noticed an article stating that the beautiful Ms. Midas, the richest young lady in town, was very ill and the doctors had given up hope of her recovery. The glassblower, although miserably poor, hardworking and homely of feature, was a man of ideas. He suddenly recollected his precious medicine and determined to use it to better advantage than relieving his own ills. He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed his hair and combed his whiskers, washed his hands and tied his necktie, blackened his shoes and spong his vest, and then put the vial of magic cure all in his pocket. Next he locked his door, went downstairs, and walked through the streets to the grand mansion where the wealthy Ms. Midas resided. The butler opened the door and said, no soap, no chromos, no vegetables, no hair oil, no books, no baking powder. My young lady is dying and we're well supplied for the funeral. The glassblower was grieved at being taken for a peddler. My friend, he began proudly, but the butler interrupted him, saying, no tombstones either. There's a family graveyard and the monument's been built. The graveyard won't be needed. If you will permit me to speak, said the glassblower, no doctors, sir. They've given up my young lady, and she's given up the doctors, continued the butler calmly, I'm no Doctor, returned the glassblower. Nor are the others. What is your errand? I called to cure your young lady by means of a magical compound. Step in, please, and take a seat in the hall. I'll speak to the housekeeper, said the butler, more politely. So he spoke to the housekeeper, and the housekeeper mentioned the matter to the steward, and the steward consulted the chef, and the chef kissed the lady's maid and sent her to see the stranger. Thus are the wealthy hedged around with ceremony even when dying. When the lady's maid heard from the glassblower that he had a medicine which would cure her mistress, she said, I'm glad you came. But, said he, if I restore your mistress to health, she must marry me. I'll make inquiries and see if she's willing, answered the maid, and went at once to consult Miss Midas. The young lady did not hesitate an instant. I'd marry any old thing rather than die. She cried. Bring him in here at once. So the glass blower came, poured the magic drop into a little water, gave it to the patient, and the next minute Miss Midas was as well as she has ever been in her life. Dear me. She exclaimed. I have an engagement at the Fritters reception tonight. Bring my pearl colored silk, Marie and I will begin my toilet at once. And don't forget to cancel the order for the funeral flowers and your morning gown. But Ms. Midas remonstrated. The glass blower who stood by you pretty, promised to marry me if I cured you. I know, said the young lady, but we must have time to make proper announcements in the society paper and have our wedding cards engraved. Call tomorrow and we'll talk it over. The glassblower had not impressed her favorably as a husband, and she was glad to find an excuse for getting rid of him for a time. And she did not want to miss the Fritters reception. Yet the man went home filled with joy, for he thought his stratagem had succeeded and he was about to marry a rich wife who would keep him in Lux forever afterward. The first thing he did on reaching his room was to smash his glass blowing tools and throw them out of the window. Then he sat down to figure out ways of spending his wife's money. The following day he called upon Miss Midas, who was reading a novel and eating chocolate creams as happily as if she had never been ill in her life. Where did you get the magic compound that cured me?
- [19:43]
Narrator/Character Voice
She asked.
- [19:44]
Narrator/Storyteller
From a learned wizard, said he. And then, thinking it would interest her, he told her how he had made the glass dog for the wizard and how it barked and kept everybody from bothering him. How delightful, she said. I've always wanted a glass dog that could bark. But there is only one in the world, he answered, and it belongs to the wizard. You must buy it for me, said the lady. The wizard cares nothing for money, replied the glassblower. Then you must steal it for me, she retorted. I can never live happily another day unless I have a glass dog that can bark. The glassblower was much distressed at this, but said he would see what he could do, for a man should always try to please his wife, and Miss Midas had promised to marry him within a week. On his way home he purchased a heavy sack, and when he passed the wizard's door and the pink glass dog ran out to bark at him, he threw the sack over the dog, tied the opening with a piece of twine, and carried him away to his own room. The next morning he sent the sack by a messenger boy to Miss Midas with his compliments, and later in the afternoon he called upon her in person, feeling quite sure he would be received with gratitude for stealing the dog she so greatly desired. But when he came to the door, he and the butler opened it. What was his amazement to see the glass dog rush out and begin barking at him furiously. Call off your dog. He shouted in terror. I can't, sir, answered the butler. My young lady has ordered the glass dog to bark whenever you call here. You'd better look out, sir, he added, for if it bites you, you may have glassophobia. This so frightened the poor glassblower that he went away hurriedly. But he stopped at a drugstore and put his last dime in the telephone box so he could talk to Miss Meitis without being bitten by the dog. Give me Pelf 6742, he called. Hello? What is it? Said a voice. I want to speak with Miss Midas, said the glass blower. Presently a sweet voice said, this is Miss Midas. What is it? Why have you treated me so cruelly and set the glass dog on me? Asked the poor fellow. Well, to tell the truth, said the lady, I don't like your looks. Your cheeks are pale and baggy, your hair is coarse and long, your eyes are small and red, your hands are big and rough, and you are bow legged. But I can't help my looks, pleaded the glassblower. And you really promised to marry me? If you were better looking, I'd keep my promise. She returned, but under the circumstances you are no fit mate for me. And unless you keep away from my mansion, I shall set my glass dog on you. Then she dropped the phone and would have nothing more to say. The miserable glassblower went home with a heart bursting with disappointment and began tying a rope to the bedpost by which to hang himself. Someone knocked at the door, and upon entering he saw the wizard. I've lost my dog, he announced. Have you indeed? Replied the glassblower, tying a knot in the rope. Yes, someone has stolen him. That's too bad. Declared the glass blower indifferently. You must make me another, said the wizard. But I cannot. I've thrown away my tools. Then what shall I do? Asked the wizard. I do not know, unless you offer a reward for the dog. But I have no money, said the wizard. Offer some of your compounds, then, suggested the glassblower, who was making a noose in the rope for his head to go through. The only thing I can spare, replied the wizard thoughtfully, is a beauty powder. What? Cried the glassblower, throwing down the rope. Have you really such a thing? Yes, indeed. Whoever takes the powder will become the most beautiful person in the world. If you will offer that as a reward, said the glassblower eagerly, I'll try to find the dog for you. For above everything else, I long to be beautiful. But I warn you, the beauty will only be skin deep, said the wizard. That's all right, replied the happy glassblower. When I lose my skin, I shan't care to remain beautiful. Then tell me where to find my dog, and you shall have the powder, promised the wizard. So the glassblower went out and pretended to search, and by and by he returned and said, I've discovered a dog. You will find him in the mansion of Miss Midas. The wizard went at once to see if this was true, and sure enough, the glass dog ran out and began barking at him. The wizard spread out his hands and chanted a magic which sent the dog fast asleep. He then picked him up and carried him to his own room on the top floor of the tenement house. Afterward, he carried the beauty powder to the glassblower as reward, and the fellow immediately swallowed it and became the most beautiful man in the world. The next time he called upon Miss Midas, there was no dog to bark at him, and when the young lady saw him, she fell in love with his beauty at once. If only you were a count or a prince, she sighed, I'd willingly marry you. But I am a prince, he answered. The prince of dog blowers. Ah, said she, then, if you are willing to accept an allowance of $4 a week. I'll order the wedding cards engraved. The man hesitated, but when he thought of the rope hanging from his bedpost, he consented to the terms. So they were married, and the bride was very jealous of her husband's beauty and led him a dog's life. So he managed to get into debt and made her miserable in turn.
- [24:49]
Meg Wolitzer
Jeremy Shamus performed the Glass Dog By L. Frank Baum I'm Meg Wolitzer. It's not surprising to find that Baum is a confident master of the fairy tale form. The Oz series is all about hope and friendship and transformation. What's a little surprising is the irony. A classic dog centric version of Beware what you wish for, you might get it. I had not known until now that L. Frank Baum had explored wizards outside of his classic Oz series, but it just serves as a reminder that writers have passions which they delve into in various ways. While the wizard of Oz ultimately reminds us that there's no place like home, the Glass Dog provides more of a social satire edge at the end. If there is indeed a cure for the miseries of the world, L. Frank Baum isn't saying, except maybe he is in a way, because stories are the only thing I know that can reliably transport us from our own lives and turn us into other people, at least for a little while. When we return, a dog with two names and two lives. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [26:00]
Narrator/Character Voice
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- [26:30]
CDC Public Health Announcer
Do you ever wonder if you might be at higher risk for getting very sick from a respiratory illness like flu? While most people have mild symptoms, respiratory illnesses can be more serious if you're over 65 years old or have certain underlying conditions. If you're in one of these higher risk groups and start feeling sick with a respiratory illness, get medical care as soon as possible. Talk to your doctor today about recommending vaccines. A message from cdc.
- [27:20]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction. One short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. On this program, we're celebrating Man's Best Friend, the short story. No, wait, I mean the dog. But really, why not have both? In addition to the canine gems offered today, our literary shelter features works that star cats and parrots and chimpanzees and that most puzzling animal of all, us. Adoption is easy. No scary forms to fill out. Just Visit our website selectedshorts.org to find our archives, our podcast, and your new best friend. Our final story is Clementine Carmelita Dog by David Means, whose short story collections include Instructions for a Funeral and the spot his novel Histopia was long listed for the Man Booker Prize. To read Means story, we're happy to welcome back Javier Munoz, best known for his long run as Hamilton on Broadway but also busy on television in shows such as Shadowhunters and Blind Spot. Now here he is with Clementine Carmelita Dog by David Means.
- [28:41]
Narrator/Character Voice
Clementine Carmelita Dog, a middle aged dachshund with a short haired, caramel colored coat, scurried along a path, nervously veering from one side to the other, stopping to lower her nose to the ground to catch the traces of human footwear, a whiff of rubber, an even fainter residue of shoe leather, smells that formed a vague pattern of hikers in the past. Some had probably walked through that part of the woods long ago. She lifted her nose and let it flare to catch the wind from the north, and in it she detected the familiar scent of river water after it had passed through trees and over rock, a delightful and under other circumstances, soothing smell that in the past had arrived to her in the house when her person, Norman, opened the windows. The wind was stirring the trees, modeling the sunlight, and she tweezed it apart to find his scent, or even her own scent, which she lost track of in her burst of freedom. But all she caught was a raccoon she knew and a whiff of bacon frying in some faraway kitchen. So she put her nose down and continued north again, following an even narrower path. Then she paused for a moment and lifted her head and twitched her ears to listen for a whistle or the sound of her own name, Clementine. In Norman's distinctive pitch, all she heard was the rustle of leaves, the call of birds. How had she gotten into this predicament, her belly low to the ground, lost in a forest? That morning Norman had jiggled the leash over her head, a delightful sound, and asked her if she wanted to go for a walk, as if she needed to be asked and looked down as she danced and wagged and rushed to the back door to scratch and bark at the door. She had sniffed at the crack where the outside air slipped in and as she had many times before, caught the smell that would never leave the house, the mix of patchouli and ginger that was Claire. She was still Claire's dog. In the scent was a memory of being lifted into arms and nuzzled and kissed the waxy lipstick, and then other memories of being on the floor, rolling around, and then the stark, earthy smell that she'd noticed one day near Claire's armpit, a scent she knew from an old friend, a lumbering, gray furred beast who was often tied up outside the coffee shop in town. It was the smell of death. Claire got that smell seeping up through her skin. It became stronger and appeared in other places until she began sleeping downstairs in the living room in a bed that moaned loudly when it moved, and there were days on that bed, sleeping in the sun, at her feet or in her arms, and then, in the strange way of humans, she disappeared completely. When Claire was gone, Norman began to give off his own sad odor of metal and salt, and Clementine did everything she could to make him happy, grabbing his bald socks out of the laundry pile and tossing them in the air, rolling to expose her belly when he approached, leaning against him as he read on the couch until she began to carry her own grief. This morning he dangled the leash, and while she was waiting at the back door he'd gone to the kitchen and got a tool from a drawer, an oil and saltpeter thing that made a frightening sound. Clementine knew, because once he had taken her along to shoot it upstate. Don't get me wrong, she knew it was a gun, but she didn't have a name for it. It was an object that had frightened her. The thing was zipped into his bag when he came to the door. He stood with his hand on the handle, and she waited while he looked at the kitchen for a few seconds, minutes in dog time, and then she was pulling at the leash, feeling the fresh air and the sun and the morning dew as she guided him along the road, deep in rock routine, barely bothering with the roadside odors, to the entrance of the park. On that main path that morning, with the water to the right and the woods to the left, there had been the usual familiar dogs, some passing with their noses to the ground snobbishly, others barking a greeting. There had been an old Irish setter, Franklin, who had passed her with a nod and then a fellow dachshund named Bunny, who had also passed without much of a greeting. And then finally Piper, an elderly retired greyhound who had stopped to say hello while his person and Norman spoke in subdued voices. She got the tone of sadness, picked up on it, and then when the talk was over, Norman had pulled her away from Piper and they continued up the path until they came upon a small, nameless mixed breed mutt who launched unprovoked into a crazy tail chasing routine in the middle of the path, a dervish stirring up the dust in a way that made Clementine step away and pull on the leash. Because it is a fact that there is just as much nonsense in the dog world as there is in the human world. Sitting now on the rocky ground, resting, she lifted her nose to the wind and caught the smell of a bear in a cloak of limestone dust from the quarry, and inside that same cloak was the raccoon she knew, the one that had rummaged around Norman's garbage cans. And then, of course, deer. They were everywhere. Lacking anything better to do, she put her nose down and began to follow deer traces along the rocks and into the grass, a single file line of hooves that led to a grove of pines where they had scattered, broken in all directions, and at this spot she cried softly and hunched down, feeling for the first time what might in human terms be called fear, but was manifested instinctually as a riffle along her spine that ran through the same fibers that raised her hackles, and then for a second smelling pine SAP, she closed her eyes and saw the basement workshop where she sometimes stood and watched Norman until one of his machines made a sound that hurt her ears and sent her scurrying up the stairs. Since Claire had disappeared, Norman left the house in the morning only to return at night in the dark to pour dry, kibble that senseless food into her dish and splash water into her drinking bowl. Behind his door the television droned, and maybe on the way out of the house the next morning, he might reach down and ruffle her head and say, I'm sorry, girl, I'm not such great company these days, as she opened her eyes, stood up, and began walking. These memories were like wind against her fur, telling her where she should be instead of where she was at that moment, moving north through the trees. The sun had disappeared behind the cliffs and dark shadows spread across the river and the wind began to gust, bringing geese and scrub grass, tundra and stone wrapped in a shroud from beyond the Arctic Circle, an icy underscent that foretold the brutality of missing vegetation. It was a smell that got animals foraging and eating, and it made her belly tense. Here I should stress that dog memory is not at all like human memory, and that human memory, from a dog's point of view, would seem strange, clunky, unnatural, and deceptive. Dog memory isn't constructed along temporal lines gridded out along a distorted timeline, but rather in an overlapping and of course deeply olfactory manner, like a fanned out deck of cards, perhaps, except that the overlapping areas aren't hidden but are instead more intense, so that the quick flash of a squirrel in the corner of the yard or the crisp sound of a bag of kibble being shaken can overlap with the single recognizable bark of a schnauzer from a few blocks away on a moonlit night. In this account, as much as possible, dog has been translated into human, and like any such translation, the human version is a thin, feeble approximation of what transpired in Clementine's mind as she stood in the woods, crying and hungry, old sensations overlapping with new ones, the different sounds that Norman's steps had made that morning, the odd sway of his gait and the beautiful smell of a clump of onion grass, her favorite thing in the world, as she deliriously sniffed and sneezed, storing the smell in the chambers of her nose for later examination while Norman waited with unusual patience. That smell of onion grass was the last thing she could remember again in that overlapping way, along with a small herd of deer who that morning had been a few yards away in the woods, giving off a funk and the sudden freedom around her neck when Norman unharnessed her and took the leash and she darted up into the woods, running past the place where the deer had been and on the way catching sight of the rabbit for the first time, chasing it while feeling herself inside a familiar dynamic that worked like this. He would let her go and she'd feel the freedom around her neck, running, and then at some point he would call her name, or, if that didn't work, whistle to bring her back each time she'd bound and leap and tear up the hillside, and then when he called she'd find herself between two states, the desire to keep going and the desire to return to Norman, and each time she'd keep running until he called her name again or whistled, then she'd retrace her own scent to find her way back to him. It was true that since Claire had disappeared the sound of his whistle had grown slack, lower in tone, but he always whistled, and when she returned There was always a flash of joy at the reunion. Not long ago he'd swept her into his arms and smothered her with his blessing, saying, good girl, good girl. What did you find up there? Then, with great ceremony, he rolled her up into his arms, kissed her, and plucked a bur from her coat. Yes. In the morning light, she'd caught sight of a cottontail, flash of white in the trees, and then giving chase, barking as she ran, followed it into the brush until she came to it in a clearing, brown, with a white tail, ears straight up, frozen in place, offering a pure but confusing temptation. There they stood, the two of them. His big eyes stared into her big eyes. The rabbit darted sharply and Clementine was running with the grass thrashing her belly, and then faster with all four paws leaving the ground, each stretched out, bound. There was nothing like those bounds slowed down in dog time. It was sublime joy, the haunches tightening, spreading out and then coiling. She could feel the sensation as the rabbit zigzagged at sharp angles and at some point dashed over a creek while she followed, leaping over the water to the other side, where, just as fast as it had appeared, the rabbit vanished, finding a cove or a warren hole in the rocks at the bottom of the palisade, leaving her with a wagging tail and a wet nose and lost for the first time in her life. Now she was alone in the dark, making a bed in the pine needles, circling a few times, and then lowering her nose on her paws, doing her best to stay awake while the cool air fell onto her back. Out of habit, she got up and circled again in place and then lay down, keeping her eyes open, twitching her eyebrows, closing them and then opening them until she was in the room with Norman, who was at his desk working. Claire was there, reaching down and digging her thumb into a sweet spot where the fur gave around her neck. The tapping arrived in morning light. It came from a stick against the forest floor. The man holding the stick was tall and lean, with a small blue cap on his head. Hey, good dog. Good doggy. What are you doing out here? You lost? The flat of his palm offered something like coconut, wheat flour, hemp, and an underscent, the appealing smell of spicy meat. The man picked her up gently and carried her. How long you been up here? What's your name, girl? Across the ridge of stones, through the woods to a wider path under big trees, and then down over several large stones to the beach where he smoked and poured some water into a cup and laughed as she lapped it up, twirling her tongue into her mouth. In his hand was a piece of meat, spicy and sweet as she gulped it down and then another, tossed lightly so that she could take it out of the air, not chewing it all, swallowing it whole. That was all it took. One bit of spicy meat, and she reconfigured her relationship with the human. She felt this in her body, in her haunches, her tail, and the taste of the meat in the back of her throat. But again, it wasn't so simple. Again, this is only a translation, as close as one can get in human terms to her thinking at this moment, after the feeling of the cold water on her tongue and the taste of meat. One or two bits of meat aren't enough to establish a relationship. Yes, the moment the meat hit her mouth, a new dynamic was established between this unknown person and herself. But to put it in human terms, there was simply the potential in the taste of meat for future tastes of meat. The human concept of trust had in no way entered the dynamic yet, and she remained ready to snap at this strange man's hand, to growl, or even if necessary, to growl and snap and raise her hackles and make a run for it. Human trust was careless and quick, often based on silly in canine terms, externals, full of the folly of human emotion. This is as good a place as any to note that through all of her adventures, from the early morning walk to the path to the long trek through the woods and the night and the pine needles, Clementine did not once hear the loud report of a gun. Of course, she wasn't anticipating the sound. Once the gun was in Norman's bag, it was gone from her mind completely. Naturally, it wasn't some kind of Jacovian device that would have to at some point go off. The man picked her up from the sand, brushed her paws clean. It's gonna be okay. Where do you live? And carried her to the main trail. The sway of his arms made her eyes close. When she opened them, they were on a road and the limestone dust was strong and there was a near at hand bacon smell coming from a house. He put her down, let her clamber down a small cinder block stairway and through a door and into his house. In a charged emotional state, Clementine poked around the strange rooms, sniffing the corners eagerly, reconnoitering a dusty stuffed seal under a crib in a room upstairs, eatable crumbs under a bed, a cinnamon candle near a side table, a long row of records, all the while missing the freedom she had experienced in the woods. Bounding through the trees, the harness gone, and beneath that, a feeling that Norman, somewhere outside, was still calling her name or whistling. That day, Clementine came to understand that the man's name was Steve. Later in the afternoon, a woman named Louisa arrived and spoke a different language. No words like Sid or walk or good dog or hungry, to which she paid close attention, partly because Louisa had smelled similar to Claire's, gingery and floral, with a faint, verdant, bready odor that Clementine felt. This, in her dog way, united them in a special way. There was also the way Louisa rubbed her neck gently and then more firmly, using her thumb as she leaned down and said, what should we call you? And then went through many beautiful words until she settled on Carmelita. Carmelita, she said. Carmelita. Even in her excitement over her new home, Carmelita was experiencing a form of grief particular to her species. There are 57 varieties of dog grief, just as there are, from a dog's point of view, 110 distinctive varieties of human grief, ranging from a vague gloom of Sunday afternoon sadness, for example, to the intense, peppery lost father grief to the grief she was smelling in this new house, which was a lost child or lost pup type of grief, patches of which could be found in the kitchen, around the cabinets, near the sink, and all over the person named Luisa. It was on the toys upstairs, too, and as she sniffed around, she gathered pieces together and incorporated them into. Into her own mood. Days passed, weeks passed. Carmelita settled into her new life. Some days Luisa was in the house, moving around, sitting at the table with the smell of green stuff, dangling a bag of it in front of Carmelita's nose so she could sniff and open her mouth and gently clasp. She had learned not to bite the bags. In the evenings they ate at the table in candlelight and talked about someone named Carmen. Each time the word appeared, the smell of grief would fill the room. The scent was all over the house in different variations. She even found it on the thing that Steve carried when he left the house in the morning, a leather satchel with a bouquet of iron and steel, clinking when he hefted it up. So long, Carmelita. See you after work. Gotta go build something. An object always worth examining when he came back to the house because it carried an interesting array of distant places and other humans. Sometimes they took her for a walk to the woods or down the road, past the stone quarry to a park where children played and the other dogs hung out. She became friendly with the dogs there, and they exchanged scents and greetings. Winter came, snow fell. The ice smell from the north became the smell outside. When Carmelita went out in the evening, her belly brushing the snow, she kept to the path and did her business quickly, stopping only for a moment to taste the air. Then she dashed back to Steve in the doorway, the warmth of the house pouring around him into the cold blue. One morning there was another presence in the house. A small thump in Luisa's belly, a movement. Carmelita put her head down and listened, hearing a white liquid fury along with a thump, while her tongue, licking and licking Luisa's skin, tasted the tangy salt of new life. That night she woke in darkness, the moon gone, no moon at all, to the sound of a raccoon crying.
- [50:04]
Narrator/Storyteller
Through.
- [50:04]
Narrator/Character Voice
The window over her bed. The strong southern wind slipstreamed, and when she fell back asleep, she was free, chasing the rabbit. If you had been in the room, you'd have seen her paws twitching as she lay on her side, bounding through soft grass. Inside the pursuit, the rabbit froze, ears straight and still, and offered its big pooling eyes. They stood in the clearing for a moment, Carmelita on one side, the rabbit on the other. The air was clear and bright and the sun was warm overhead. Then the rabbit spoke in the language of dog. The rabbit spoke of the sadness Carmelita sometimes felt, a long, stretched out sense of displacement that would arrive suddenly amid the hubbub of the house, the leather satchel fragrance, the thump in Louisa's skin, that heartbeat and the memory of Claire. The end of spring came and the air filled with a superabundance of local trees, grasses, flowers, and pollen. Some days the air was neither north nor south. A newborn was in the house too, gurgling and twisting, crying at night. One afternoon, the house quiet, Carmelita went onto the deck to air and sun. At the railing, her chin on the wood, she examined the wind coming from the south, and she sniffed and she caught and held Norman's smell. It was faint. In human terms, it was not a smell at all, a microscopic tumbleweed of his molecules, but it was there. She caught it and held it in her nose in one of her chambers and turned it over like a gemstone. That night the rabbit did not pause at the end of the glade, and instead the chase went on and on, weaving around until she woke up in the darkness, and to soothe herself, she sat up and examined the little bit of Norman's smell she had stored in her nose. Again, this is just a translation. There wasn't in any of this a concept of causality, and the smell of Norman in the Air alone, mixed into billions of other smells, wasn't enough to make her dream of escaping to the woods, to trace her way back to her previous origin point. She was perfectly content in her life with Steve and Louisa and the baby walks in the woods, good food, lots of fresh meat, even on occasion the spicy meat, that tiny bundle of molecules that smelled like Norman, was just something to ponder, to bring back out. Dawn was breaking. She got up and went to the bedroom, clicking her long nails to listen to Steve and the baby. One night in August she was chasing the rabbit again, a ball of white movement that pulled her along a stretch of the main path that she had traveled many times. After she ran, she passed familiar pea spots, picnic bench legs, trash cans, bushes. The rabbit didn't zig or zag, but was running in a straight line, undaunted, and because of this she felt a new kind of fury and eagerness that drove her across the wide parking lot, past cars and people, with the wide river glassy and quivering to the left of her vision, everything in a dreamlike way pulled into the vortex of her singular desire, nothing at all playful this time, so that she kept her head down and plunged ahead. Then she was up the hill, completely familiar, and along a stone path to the door of the house where the rabbit had stopped and turned, twitching, standing still as if offering itself to her in a single fluid motion. She clutched it in her rear paw, twisting hard, and then when she had her chance, she got to the rabbit's neck, clamped down and shook it until it stopped moving, and then shook it some more, taking great pleasure in its resistance to the motion of her neck. And then she was tasting the bloody meat, gamey and warm. There was the sound of Steve speaking and she was on her blanket, which she had pawed all the way across the room. It was morning. He was in the doorway to the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hand. You must have been dreaming, he said. Your little paws were moving. Did one dream foretell another? Was it possible that the dream indicated what was to come? Of course she would never think of it that way, because she wasn't bound by the logic of causality. The dream of the rabbit was as real as her waking state, so it overlapped with what happened one afternoon, a Saturday late in the summer, when Steve took her for a long hike along the path. He never took her too far down the path because he didn't want to give her up. He made a half hearted attempt to locate her owner, asking around, looking at posts on the Internet until he was persuaded that no one in the area had reported a missing dachshund. But then one day, at the Stop and Shop on Mountain Road, on the community bulletin board, he saw her photo. But by the summer, the dog was part of the family, and it seemed important in some mystical way, that she had appeared in the woods before Luisa became pregnant. At a turn in the path, the wind funneled along the rock and narrowed, bringing together several streams. In this wind, she detected Norman's smell again, just a trace. Steve often let her loose for a few minutes at this spot where the trail was quiet. The trees were sparse as she ran up through the woods, not really chasing anything, although, of course, the rabbit dream was still fresh. She was surprised in a wide clearing by a rabbit in the grass ahead, eating clover, Unaware of her presence, she drew closer, barked, and the rabbit froze and then dashed away, making a zigzag, leaping across a creek with joy and fury. She ran, entering freedom. It was a smart old rabbit, larger than the one in the dream. It disappeared ahead, while Carmelita kept running, skirting the creek, slowing down to nose the ground. It was here that she caught Norman's smell in the air again, stronger than before, a distinctive slice of odor coming through the woods. Not just Norman, but his house and yard, too. It came strongly in a clear cut, redolent shape. So she ran toward it, tracking and triangulating as it appeared and then disappeared. A flash of brown daub through the grass and then the woods, her instincts making innumerable adjustments as she went over the rocky ground, through another grove of trees, pulling away from Steve, having passed before, beyond the familiar dynamic, as the pull of the voice behind her was counteracted by the scent ahead. It was a matter of chance that Steve had been on the phone with Luisa, talking about the baby, about diapers or formula. On this day, the wind was just right, and Clementine was 50 or so yards behind a certain boundary line, not ignoring the sound of Steve's voice, distant but clear, calling her name but overwhelmed by the scent ahead. Simply put, the smell of Norman prevailed over the sound of Steve. I wish I could make words be dog, get into her coat and paws and belly and ears as she ran, slowing down on the main trail, passing the picnic tables, the trash bins, catching now and then the familiar fragrance of home, but also, by this point, her own trace of scent on the asphalt where she had passed a hundred times long ago. If I could make words be dog, then perhaps I could find the way to inhabit the true dynamic, to imagine a world defined not by notions of power or morality or memory or sentiment, but instead by pure instinct locked in her body, her little legs, as she trotted up the hill along the wall, and when the wall disappeared, cut across manicured grass, past the sign to the park, another great peace spot, then up to the road, staying to the side as she had been taught, to the driveway, stopping there for a moment to sniff. Out. In the back porch Norman was at a table under a wide green umbrella, working. Music was coming through the open door. His neck was stiff and he had his hand up and was trying to work out a kink. He sighed and stood to stretch when he heard her bark once, a big bark for such a small dog. Then he had his arms out and was running, and she was running too, with her body squirming around her flapping tail until he was near, and then with another yip yip yip, she was on her back with her belly up, bending this way and that, waiting for his hands, because that's all there was at that moment, his hands lifting her up, lifting until, still squirming and crying, she was pushing her face into his, licking and licking as he spoke to her, saying, oh girl, I missed you so much. I missed you. I let you go and started missing you the second you were gone, and when you were gone I knew I had to go on. And then there was a burst of something beyond the wind itself, beyond the taste of meat, and the two of them were inside. Reunion. Even in that moment she was aware that his smell had changed. She was still dancing on her paws as she went into the house to investigate, checking the floorboard beneath the sink, going from room to room, from one corner to the next. One day in the fall, keeping the leash tight, he took her back along the path to the spot where she had left him. It might have been that day or another when she caught Steve's scent in the wind, the baby too, and then another time, Louisa's distinctive scent. In her dreams, the rabbit still appeared. From time to time she ran and leapt and bounded between earth and sky, hovering in bliss and stillness that seemed beyond the animal kingdom. Often at the end of a long dreamed chase, she met the rabbit and they watched each other from their respective sides of the clearing, frozen inside the moment, speaking with their eyes of the tang of onion grass and the taste of spicy me.
- [62:00]
Meg Wolitzer
Javier Munoz performed Clementine Carmelita Dog by David Means I'm Meg Wolitzer. What David Means does in this truly astonishing story is give us access to a dog's deep inner life, her awareness and preferences, and most movingly to me, the way she is made to adapt to a world not of her own making. The rider and the little dog take us on a sensory trail that we follow all the way to the end. This story tests one of the cliches often uttered about dogs, that they offer unconditional love. But here is a dog willing and able to transform herself in order to make two different households happy. And she does ask something in return. So there clearly are conditions. We just can't always understand them. While my childhood dog was Max the Dachshund, my adulthood dog so far was Jet, a Havanese. He was so different from Max. He would stare and stare at us, and if we put on a certain voice and say to him, jet, remember when we went to the dog park or to any other place where we'd been that day or even days earlier? His eyes showed recognition, as if the word remember had set off some deep recollection. Max was a dog of play and Jet was a dog of contemplation. And maybe in a way that roughly characterizes childhood versus adulthood. Max was an open book, a happy, easygoing book, and Jet was harder to read, but always interesting. So, three dog stories from an evening celebrating the human canine bond. But of course, as you heard, these pieces, which run the gamut from satire to fairy tale to contemporary realism, are about much more than dogs. They are about us, our tech weary brains, our misguided hearts, our need for completion. I'm Meg Walitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brady Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nolsen. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [65:03]
CDC Public Health Announcer
Do you ever wonder if you might be at higher risk for getting very sick from a respiratory illness like flu? While most people have mild symptoms, respiratory illnesses can be more serious if you're over 65 years old or have certain underlying conditions. If you're in one of these higher risk groups and start feeling sick with a respiratory illness. Get medical care as soon as possible. Talk to your doctor today about recommended vaccines. A message from CDC.
- [65:33]
Meg Wolitzer
Psoriatic arthritis symptoms can be unpredictable.
- [65:37]
Narrator/Character Voice
I had joint pain and I couldn't move like I used to. I needed relief.
- [65:42]
Commercial Narrator
I got Cosentyx.
- [65:45]
Narrator/Character Voice
It helped me move better. Cosentyx Secukenumab is probably prescribed for people 2 years of age and older with active psoriatic arthritis. Don't use if you're allergic to Cosentyx before starting, get checked for tuberculosis. An increased risk of infections and lowered ability to fight them may occur like tuberculosis or other serious bacterial, fungal or viral infections. Some were fatal. Tell your doctor if you have an infection or symptoms like fevers, sweats, chills, muscle aches or cough had a vaccine or planned to, or if inflammatory bowel disease symptoms develop or worsen, serious allergic reactions and severe eczema like skin reactions may occur. Learn more at 1-844-cosentics or cosentix.com.
- [66:28]
Narrator/Storyteller
Ask your rheumatologist about cosent.