JOCK
by James Baker

The year that I was six but turning seven years old, my family moved to a new town and I wasn't happy there at first. I developed asthma and skin rashes and other outward manifestations of my inner turmoil, but worst of all, I was stricken by one of the worst cases of clinical Cry-Babyism ever seen by medical professionals in the New England Tablelands region of Australia. (I believe that my case is still cited in some medical texts even today).

The breakthrough in adjusting to my new hometown came along in the form of a jaunty little dog named JOCK. My parents rescued him from death-row at the local dog-pound and in exchange for this reprieve he agreed to do what he could to rescue me from my self-pity. Jock was a black and white mutt, a mix of some terrier and perhaps some sheep dog. With the wisdom of hindsight he probably wasn't much to look at... but I was oblivious to that at the time because I loved him so. He was built low to the ground, with legs too short for his body and a body that was too short for his tail, which was curved up and held at a rakish angle; a furry pirate brandishing his scimitar.

Even though Jock was small, he could keep up with me wherever we had to go. If I climbed over fences, he would too, or else find a way under them. Unlike many small dogs, he wasn't afraid to jump in a swimming hole or go in the surf. He had the run of the neighbourhood and I don't remember him ever being on a leash, he was out on his own recognisance most of the time. When not with me, he got around with his own little gang of neighbourhood dogs. There were about 6 of them and they were all small to mid-sized dogs. The overall effect that they made as they trotted about the place was that of a bunch of teenage punks. There was something slightly roguish about them. They were up to no good.

Jock ostensibly slept outside in a space under the water-tank stand, but at night he would sneak into my bedroom through the window I had left open for him and actually sleep on my bed. He usually had the sense to make himself scarce in the mornings so as not to be caught there by my parents, who were of the "no pets in the house" variety. He was a really fantastic dog for a little seven-year-old boy to have.

The Nasty Stranger

On our way home from an errand to the corner shop, Jock and I encountered a big, nasty looking dog that we had never seen around the neighbourhood before. He was the kind of dog that makes you nervous from the get go, and I could tell that Jock didn't like the cut of this bugger's jib any more than I did. They immediately began that circling, probing dance that dogs do when they first meet each other; backs tight and noses buried in each other's resumes. I have always wondered what it is that they are looking for back there? What constitutes the difference between those times when you jam your nose in a stranger's backside and become his best friend, versus those times when you both partake in this mutual examination, only to decide that you are deadly enemies?

Well, this particular tension-tango ended up being one of the "Let's be enemies!" times. These blokes each saw something in the other's philosophy that they simply could not abide.... and boy, IT WAS ON! Where one second earlier there were two separate dogs, there was now only a writhing, biting, snarling tangle. Like a fight in an animated cartoon: a boiling dust cloud out from which flailed more paws, teeth and tails than seemed possible, except that this particular cartoon fight wasn't making me laugh. These two dogs were really going at it, and I am sad to say that dear Jock wasn't getting the best of the exchange of violence. He was battling every bit as fiercely as the bigger bloke, but was no match for his size.

I dropped Mum's shopping, picked up a stick and tried to get in there and hit the big bloke a couple of whacks, but this brawl was thrashing all over the place like a savage whirligig of fangs, fur and saliva. The sound of a full blown, mutual-hate, no holds barred dog-fight is terrifying to begin with, but more so when one of the dogs is your best mate and worse still when he is the smaller of the two and getting a punishing. Terrified that Jock would be killed, I was screaming and bawling and beside myself within 20 seconds of this savagery getting underway.

Suddenly, Jock broke free of the melee and shot off like a rocket down the block, with the nasty big stranger in deadly pursuit. I took off after them as fast as my little-boy legs could go, but the dogs moved so fast that they had both disappeared around a corner before I had barely gone a few feet. That run to the corner seemed to take forever; I simply could NOT get there fast enough. I was in a panic that the big bloke with his longer legs would catch up to Jock in no time. Sure enough, the most heart-wrenching howls came from the direction I last saw them go. I had felt physically inadequate many a time before, at school sporting events, but never wished harder for the power to run faster, than on this occassion. With hot tears streaming down my face I ran toward what was now a blood-curdling noise, an absolute cacophony of canine screams, yelps and whines.

The pitch of the terrifying sound that I was following then changed, it became more urgent, and louder. I suddenly realised that it was coming back in my direction rather than receding, as it had been before. When I was almost at the intersection that I had been aiming for, the nasty big stranger came bolting around corner heading straight at me, and then right past me, howling and yowling, because hot on his heels were JOCK AND ALL HIS CREW!

Hah, Hah! I couldn't believe it!

Have you ever gone from feeling the absolute worst you ever felt, to the best feeling of your whole life in the space of a few seconds? From the depths of despair to absolute elation; that was the dramatic surge of joyous emotion that lifted me up and carried me along, as I saw that evil big bugger chased into the distance by a vengeful mob of little dogs, led by my mate Jock! Take that, you nasty bastard! Oh yes, it was pure triumph, I tell you. The best thing I ever saw in my short life up to that time. (In fact even now, the only thing that comes close was many years later when, clenched hard in the teeth of an absolute agony inflicted upon me by a kidney stone, I was given a shot of morphine and immediately felt... SUPERB!) Anyway, "Saved by the cavalry" wasn't even in the contest.

As was the case before, the chase was very quickly beyond my line of sight, so all I had to go by was the howling, yowling sound-effects in the distance, but my knowledge that THIS time it was the baddie who was copping a drubbing made those once-horrible shrieks and howls now sound like sweet music to my ears. I hurried along after the sound as best I could and tried to imagine what may have been going on up there... It was the soundtrack to a swashbuckling pirate movie, starring an all dog cast. I was a little disappointed to be missing out on the climactic battle scene of this epic, but my anxiety for the safety of my little, furry, black-and-white mate was now completely gone.

I went back and found Mum's shopping that I had earlier abandoned and sat on the kerb and waited for Jock to come back. I thought on what a wiley old campaigner Jock was, to have led that gullible big buffoon into the trap he had so carefully laid for him. Hah, hah! Who did that punk think he was messing with? Didn't he know whose stomping grounds he had trespassed upon? Well, he was getting some hard schooling on what-was-what at the moment, by God, so he was!

After a time, the hero of the day reappeared and accepted all my heartiest congratulations on his magnificent performance. To my great surprise, I saw that he hadn't been seriously wounded in the initial set-to with the bigger bloke. I considered the possibility that Jock had only been play-acting at losing the earlier brawl in order to trick that nasty bugger into running into an even worse walloping from his whole crew. Why, I bet old Jock just wanted to share amongst his friends the opportunity of thumping this interloper... Could it be? Ho, ho! I had always suspected that when Jock wasn't playing the role of "pet" at our house, he was secretly a tough guy in the canine community, and now I was absolutely sure of it.

We headed off home together, and I remember very well trying to convey, to everyone there over dinner that night, that in the time it took for Jock and me to go buy some milk and bread at the corner shop, an absolutely epic battle had ensued, with Jock as the triumphant hero... But even at the time, I was aware that I'd not done the story full justice on that particular night.

DMV's
INFERNO

by Steve Moore

Based on a true story.

The scene: The Department of Motor Vehicles

Center stage, Ms. Info works a computer at an information desk flanked by two armed guards.   Standing in a line that leads off stage right are an Old Blind Nun, a Pirate, Female Siamese Twins, a Cowboy, a Cheerleader, a   Man-Sized Squirrel, and a Business Man.   They hold many forms and documents.   Down stage left is a tall table where a Clown   with a Pie, a Zulu Warrior, and a Business Woman stand filling out forms.   

Ronald Reagan (not the actor/president) enters stage left looking lost.

Ms. Info: Can I halp you, sir?

Ronald Reagan: Yes, uh, I need to get a New Jersey driver's license.

Ms. Info: Do you have your six points of I.D.?

Everyone looks at Ronald Reagan.

Ronald Reagan: (holding I.D.s) I have a passport and a current California license.

The crowd moans.

Ms. Info: Are you familiar with the six points of I.D.?

Ronald Reagan: I just moved here.

The crowd erupts with jeers and laughter.

Ms. Info slowly opens a the desk drawer and pulls out a   color brochure.   She shoots a glance at the crowd.   They immediately quiet. She takes a deep breath.

Ms. Info (allegro): The six point verification program was created to protect us after the events of Nine-Eleven.   There are four steps to the six points.   Step one: present a four-point document such as a birth certificate, passport, military ID, or certificate of naturalization.   Step two: present a three point document such as a marriage certificate, a two point document such asmilitary discharge papers, or a one point document: a driver's license or bank statement.   The total points of one plus two must equal six or greater. Step three requires a proof of address, be it a utility bill, bank statement or lease.   Step four: your Social Secrity Number must be verified by the Social Security Administration.

Continues talking as she pulls out several forms.

Ms. Info (con't): Once you have the IDs, you'll need to fill these out, then go to line seven. Pay them twenty five dollars cash only and show them your six points of I.D.   They'll give you a form to take to line four.   Fill out that form, show your six points of I.D. and they'll give you an eye exam.   If you don't pass, it's over.   If you pass,   take the eye exam certificate and go back to line seven.    Show them your certificate and six points of I.D. again.   You'll sign another form and have your picture taken then go to line three, show them your six points of I.D and then-   (breath) they'll give you your license.

Ronald Reagan: I've been driving for twenty five years.    Can't you just look me up on the computer?

Crowd groans.

Ms. Info: These aren't my rules, sir. (tapping a photo on the brochure) See?   That's the Gov-er-nor .   He's keeping us safe from terror.  

Ronald Reagan: It's ridiculous.

Ms. Info: Nine-Eleven was ridiculous, Sir.

Ronald Reagan: How is some extra paperwork going to stop a terrorist?

Alarms sound.    People hit the deck. Forms fly everywhere. A dozen National Guard soldiers swarm the room holding everyone at gunpoint. Search lights scan the room, then fix on Ronald Reagan.   Guard 1 puts him in an choke hold.   Guard 2 aims his gun in shooting stance.

Guard 2: SECURE!

Alarms stop. Guard 2 rifles through Ronald Reagan's passport .  

Guard 2 (suspicious) :   Hey, it says here his name is Ronald Reagan .

Ronald Reagan:   That's really my name!   I swear!    I was born in this town! You're Irv Corson!   You know me!   I went to school with you!   

Old Blind Nun (lying on the floor) : His father was the chief of police!

Guard 2 (beat) :   Oh yeah.   (To Guard 1) Let him go, Pookie.

Guard 1 releases Ronald Reagan.   People get up.   Soldiers exit.

Guard 2: So Ronnie, how's your sister?

Ronald Reagan: She's fine.

Guard 2: Still living on Pearl Street.?

Ronald Reagan: Yeah.  

Guard 2 (hands Ms. Info the passport) : Here, look him up. (to Ronald Reagan)   So you're back from California, eh?

Ronald Reagan: Yeah, staying with my Dad for right now.

Guard 2:   We should go for a beer one night.   Bring your sister.

Ronald Reagan: Sure. Sure.

Ms. Info (indicating computer) : I show you had a New Jersey license in 1980.   But there's no Social Security number.   Do you have a card?

Ronald Reagan: No, but I know the number.

Crowd makes amused sounds.

Ms Info: You have to go get a card.

Ronald Reagan: But I-

Crowd: CARD!

Ronald Reagan: You've got to be kidding me!

More alarms, spot lights.   People hit the deck.   Forms fly.   National Guard enter.   Guard 1 wrestles Ronald Reagan to the ground, holds him in a full nelson. Guard 2 draws his gun.

Guard 2: SECURE!

Alarms stop.   Soldiers exit.   People get up.

Ms. Info: They weren't kidding on Nine-Eleven, sir.

Ronald Reagan: Can't I just give you my number?   Just type it in.   It will match!  

Ms. Info: Only Trenton can type things in.   I can call Trenton, if you'd like to wait a few hours, or you can go down to the Social Security Administration and get a card.

Guard 2:   They're just up the street.   Don't make me shoot you, Ronnie.

Ms Info: Just fill out this form, take it there and have them sign it, then bring it back here.

Zulu Warrior (warning Ronald Reagan ):   Zuba! Habba zoo dah!   Clk clk clk clk!(tongue clicks)

Ms. Info (glares at Zulu Warrior) :   Oh, yes.   Make sure they stamp it, too.

Ronald Reagan: Okay.   You win.   Uncle!

Guard 1 releases Ronald Reagan.  

Guard 2 (waves gun as he gives directions) : Just drive down, over the bridge, past the Wawa.   If you get to the second Wawa-

BANG! His gun accidentally fires, killing the Man-Sized Squirrel.  

Guard 2 (looks for a beat, then back to Ronald Reagan)    Past the second Wawa, you've gone too far.   

Pirate: Go on, matey!   I had to get me Social S'curty card too!  

Ronald Reagan:   I'll be back.

Pirate: Arr! They'd a once rued the day they crossed me path with their folly!   What use has a man who rapes and pillages fer ye Social S'curty Card?

Ms. Info (as mantra): Everthing changed after Nine-Eleven.

Zulu Warrior:   Badu Bah! Hoo Bah!  

Female Siamese Twin #1 (in line) : Well, they wouldn't take my birth certificate 'cause it's got my maiden name,   said it was no good!   A birth certificate!   They said I had to show my marriage certificate.   Well it's been sixteen years, and who knows where that's at.   So I had to take an afternoon off work, drive down to the court house,   get a certified copy.....  

Cowboy: I couldn't find my marriage thang either, but dey took m' firearm purchaser card just as good!

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Female Siamese Twin #2: What's worse is, I had to go with her !   And I'm not even married!   My birth certificate is perfectly valid, but her's they reject .   I mean, hel-LO!   (gesturing to their joined mid-section).   So I got a license but   can't drive anyway because I'm on the right!

Female Siamese Twin #1: But if we go to England...

Female Siamese Twin #2:   Or Australia!