Song 01: "Prelude/Angry Young Man"
The night swirled with cold white flakes that made him shiver, especially when they fell on his nose. Was the city always this cold, or would it go away after a while? He hoped it'd go away — his mother promised it would — but in the few weeks of his life, cold was all he'd known. He and Mom moved around often to stay warm, and he was tired of it.
Tonight, they were hidden behind a dumpster in an alley. He was teething, and he loved to chew on discarded shoes. His white, gray, and brown-spotted fur was thin and scraggly, dirty and patchy. He had two floppy brown ears, a gray muzzle, and a white tail that wagged as he devoured his shoe. "Take that! Grr! And that!" Destruction was a thrill.
His mother told him not to leave the alley, but he liked to creep around the dumpster to the very corner and watch the honky cars go zoom. Sometimes they slid on the icy road, barreling too fast through the snowdrift.
That night, he'd wanted to watch the cars. The mutt puppy wandered farther than he should've, eyes wide at the headlights, the tires, the horns — the city's natural symphony. Not many dogs had his innate appreciation for music.
He returned to their alley, but her scent led out of it. She wasn't behind the dumpster.
"Momma?" The pup charged onto the sidewalk. "Where'd ya go?"
He ran an entire block, following her scent. He tracked her paw prints in the snow. Finally, turning a corner, he saw he huddled under a flickering street lamp. She turned at his approach. He saw tears in her eyes. "Baby, please… Don't follow me."
She greatly resembled him, except that her fur was sandy-colored with brown spots, not white and gray. Like him, she was some sort of terrier mix. The streets had taken their toll on her, sunken the bags below her eyes. Her ribs poked through her fur. Her name was Annie.
"But I wanna." He marched up to her. "I wanna go with ya."
"Ya can't." Her voice cracked. "Go back to tha alley."
Her stomach growled miserably.
"I don't want ya."
The street lamp sparked out. She sped away, just like a honky car.
And in his mind, the screech of tires skidding the road.
His heart beat faster than a puppy's ever should. He shut his eyes, convinced he'd wake up tucked beside her. He opened them, and he was still standing in the snow. "Gah. Grr!" He shook his head and charged the other direction, growling. "Grrrr!"
His paws slipped on a patch of ice on the sidewalk. He slid into a tin trash can. "Aahhh!" He kicked the can over, snarling and howling. "Aagh!" The tears froze on his cheeks.
When he turned the corner, he ran into some New Yorkers with their hands in their pockets, moving fast through the cold. One passed too close, and the pup snarled and bit his shoe. He was good at biting shoes. "Get off, ya mutt!" The man kicked him away.
The snow was coming down heavier. The pup shivered cold on the outside and hot on the inside. He fought back tears, for they were painful when frozen. He shook his head and ran into a new alleyway, hidden from the people.
A growl came from behind. He turned around just in time to catch the attack.
It was an underfed German Shepherd puppy with black-and-brown fur and leering yellow eyes, but he was hardly bigger than himself. The two pups circled each other, pretending they were older than they were. Their fur bristled, their lips curled back.
"This is my alley!" he barked. "I don't want ya!"
Claws and teeth clashed. The Shepherd fought hard, but the terrier mutt snapped and snarled with unbridled ferocity. He'd never bitten anything but shoes, hats, and newspapers, but it'd been good practice. He didn't realize how hard he bit the Shepherd's ear.
When he stopped thrashing, he saw a deep red gash where the ear had been. The puppy howled in pain. He dropped to the ground and whimpered, tail down.
"Stop, please!" he cried. "It hurts — it hurts!"
Horrified, the mutt pup dashed out of the Shepherd's alley and back into the snowy streets. The fight, the injury, it'd all happened absent of thought. He scampered from one block to the next, running from every human, even the ones who reached out to him. The sound of cars honking, shrieking, was no longer a symphony. It was chaos.
He sunk to the cold concrete, whimpering at the cacophony. He knew his mother would scold him for what he'd done — she was always telling him he was too ferocious, too excitable — then he remembered the screeching tire skid in his mind. Rubber on road.
The noise overwhelmed, and he ran into a building with crumbling walls for cover. He didn't know what the yellow "condemned" tape meant. He stepped into the center of a wooden floor, and he heard a crack. In an instant, the planks broke.
The puppy crashed through the floor, landing hard on concrete below. He whimpered, more from fright than pain, coughing as the dust cloud cleared. He'd fallen into a basement. When the dust settled, he saw there wasn't much down here. The walls were cement blocks and mold grew on rusty pipes overhead. There was a metal tank, a few crates, and lots of garbage.
It was quiet, at least. The pup sneezed and shuddered. Water dripped.
Then something caught his eye in the corner of the basement: a large black instrument, almost like a table, only curvy-shaped and with rows of black-and-white keys. It was covered in filth, a bit cracked, but still standing. Even had a bench in front.
Slowly, carefully, he hopped up and pressed his paw to a key. Plink!
He liked the sound. He played another Plink! This one was higher and sharper, and when he hit a key at the opposite end, it was louder and deeper. These weren't any old sounds.
The pup had an ear for music. It was talent. It was euphony.
He played a few more notes, and he had to laugh through his tears. He invented a song, not exactly professional but he could work on it. Hitting those keys, he briefly forgot what had happened that night. When he stopped playing and crawled on top of the music table, trying to fall asleep, he remembered. He hated how she made him feel.
Hungry and tired and nameless, he stayed safe in that basement. It was hidden enough — humans never found him there. He avoided the hole in the ceiling, which sometimes let the rain and cold in, but this was the best place he'd stayed yet. Good find for a puppy.
And in a few months, he wasn't a puppy anymore.
New York City. That was the name for his home, his city, the morning fog and impossible buildings and every kind of vehicle — cars, taxis, trucks, limousines, bikes, you name it, they had it — it wasn't called the City That Never Sleeps for nothing.
More than hotdogs or bagels, what NYC had more of than anything was people.
New Yorkers bustled up and down the streets in fur coats, cruddy jackets, even bare shoulders to the cool morning air. They drove their loud vehicles, honked their horns, and yelled all the time. An unshaven man waved newspapers to passers-by. A fellow who reeked of sewer water was screaming about "aliens." Another warned about the "end of days."
All of a sudden, a hairy old man in patchy overalls grabbed the young mutt and waved him around the crowds. "I need money to feed my dog!" But the mutt growled and clawed and bit his hand, and the man dropped him. "I need money for a rabies shot!"
New Yorkers were the worst, but he couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
He yelped as a taxi cab splashed him with dirty puddle water. "Hey, I'm walking here! I'm walking here!" he barked. The young dog shook his fur, grumbling.
He'd learned much in the months since the night he found his basement. His music table was called a piano. The neighborhood he'd been born in, with its red-brick buildings and faulty street lamps, was the Bronx. It was north of the rest of New York, and what he'd discovered by exploring the lower city was that in the Bronx, the strays were a little fiercer, the apartments a little shabbier, and the people a lot poorer.
Now he could navigate the neighborhood with his eyes closed. He'd been to the Bronx Zoo and seen animals stranger than he'd ever imagined. He'd snuck into Yankee Stadium to watch a game and steal hotdogs. He'd drunk disgusting water from the Hudson, the East River, and Long Island Sound. Made him sick, but totally worth it.
And when he'd gotten tired of it all, he headed south like a bird.
He crossed a bridge over the Harlem River and wandered the urban jungle they called the Big Apple. Steel towers rose high above the streets, people ran to and fro like they were all late for something, and best of all, they all smelled like money. Money meant food.
He sauntered into an alley, sniffing around but finding little. Suddenly, the back door of a bar slammed open, and two men threw a scrawny fellow onto the pavement. "And stay out!"
When they'd shut and locked the door, the shabby man jumped to his feet, swaying where he stood. He was unshaven, his red hair untidy, and his green trenchcoat patchy. He saw the terrier mutt staring at him. "Ah, hey there. Don't got a flask on ya, do ya, pal?'
The mutt shook his head. This man was so nonthreatening that he had no reason to run.
The dirty-faced fellow staggered, leaning on a dumpster for support. "Suppose ya looking for lunch, huh?" The dog barked and pawed at the dumpster. His nose was telling him there was a burger to be found. "Well, ya happen to be looking at a dumpster-diving pro!"
The man checked that no one from inside the bar was watching. "Ah, they deserve it. Never appreciate a paying customer, so why would they appreciate one with no money?" He gave a wheezy laugh. "They can put it on my tab." He took a hairpin out of his pocket, and in a moment, he'd picked the lock and flung the dumpster open.
He made fast work of the garbage. When he found the burger — complete with cheese, pickles, and ketchup, not too stale — he ripped it in half and shared it with the mutt.
When they were done, the man pulled a dog treat out of his pocket. "Got a couple dogs myself, y'know. Big dog named Einstein. Had him for years." He held the treat out to the mutt, who took it warily. "We just found this fat fella, a Bulldog. His tags say Francis, and he… well, he ain't taking too well to tha bum life. Real refined type."
He hiccuped a laugh. "Bet ya could teach him a thing or two! A survivor, ain't ya?"
The man scratched his ginger hair, and a tick flew out. "Oh, hold up — haven't introduced myself. Tha name's Fagin. Alec Fagin." He dug through his coat pockets for another treat, but this one he ate himself. "Ya got a name, boy?"
When the food was gone, the mutt distanced himself from Fagin.
"No name, eh?" Fagin looked around the alley for anything of interest. Squeezed behind the dumpster was a weathered baseball cap, blue with a white B emblazoned in the center. He saw the mutt's eyes light up, and when he tossed him the hat, he happily began to chew. "Ah, we got a Brooklyn Dodgers fan. Well, why don't we call ya... Dodger?"
It was then that the bar door swung open again, and the two strong men stuck their heads out. They saw the open dumpster. "Hey! Ya want us to call the cops?"
"That's our cue, boy!" Fagin scrambled to his feet and dashed off.
He didn't know why, but he followed him. Maybe he liked the name "Dodger." Maybe for the burger and dog treat. Maybe it was because dogs have always been, and always will be, the best judge of a man's character.
They strutted the streets together, trying not to look half-starved to the judgmental crowds' eyes. "Let's see what we can scrounge up." He pointed to a nearby pawn shop.
From inside, Dodger could hear the man's animated salesmanship. "Ya getting a great bargain for this collector's piece! I'm practically giving it away!" But the pawnbroker didn't look too impressed with Fagin's variety of watches. In fact, he looked to be ordering Fagin to leave his store. Fagin slumped onto a nearby metal bench.
His pockets seemed to be endless. Fagin reached to the very bottom and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Don't look at me like that," he mumbled. "I know, I know… Bad habit. Expensive habit. But we all got our problems, don't we?" He lit a smoke.
A man who walked past in a peacoat coughed at the smell. He spat at Fagin's feet.
Dodger instantly growled and snapped his fangs at the man's fancy black shoes, and he ran away in terror. Fagin didn't look amused. "Hey! Ya better cut that out." He sighed dismally. "Get that temper under control before it gets ya in trouble, mister."
Dodger whimpered and crawled under the street bench.
"Y'know, I get tha idea ya all alone out here." Fagin had no more dog treats, but he found a rolled newspaper in his pocket that he let Dodger shred. "I got this place below tha docks, well, a houseboat is what ya'd call it. Little run-down, but beggars can't be choosers, right?"
He took a long draw of his cigarette and blew a smoke cloud. "Point is, I have Einstein and Frankie, and they ain't too much bother, honest. So if ya interested, uh, ya can always…"
It was then that Dodger bolted from under the bench, ran down the sidewalk, and disappeared into a crowd of people. He knew humans, and he didn't trust any of them.
Sure, the name was awesome, but that was all he'd take from this Fagin fellow. Living with humans wasn't his style. If he'd looked back, he would've seen Fagin watch him run away with a long face, but Dodger never looked back on principle.
New York was his home. Bad as it could be, it was all he needed.
It was impossible to see the tops of the skyscrapers that night against the bursting winds, the gray storm clouds, and the onslaught of rain. The city and all its inhabitants were drenched. Dodger had been on the docks of the East and watching the storm gather, fascinated by the raindrops splashing the river's surface, but he'd lingered too long.
The young dog ran through busy traffic and reentered the city. The downpour had turned cold and windy, and soon Dodger was freezing his tail off. He tried to look for shelter, but he couldn't see anything through the heavy rain.
Lightning crashed overhead, and Dodger whimpered and ran into an alley. He crawled inside a cardboard box, but it was soon damp and falling apart.
He didn't know why he was so tired. He'd seen storms before, but this time he was cold and hungry — he was so tired of being cold — and he had no place to go. His piano basement in the Bronx had been torn down, the entire building had gone down.
Soaked to the bone, he laid his head on the concrete. He shut his eyes.
Dodger didn't realize he was wrapped in a trenchcoat.
He wasn't aware that arms picked him up.
The man carried him under a stairwell, where they sat huddled by crumpled papers, rotten apples, and soda cans. He rocked him in his arms, shivering because all he had was a t-shirt and overalls. "It's okay, pal." Dodger's eyelids cracked open.
He saw Alec Fagin's smiling, unshaven face. "I want ya."
They waited out the storm for hours. When it'd become a light fall of rain, when the morning sun made the droplets sparkle, Fagin shook him awake. He could feel the dog was cold, so he took a red bandana from his own neck and tied it around Dodger's.
"Alright, boy." Fagin staggered to his feet with Dodger in his arms. The mutt was too weak to resist, even if he wanted to. "We're going home."
Home was a creaky houseboat hidden below the docks by the Brooklyn Bridge, not officially licensed to be there, but it was so pitiful that no authority cared to intervene.
Dodger had been there a week. It was blistery on cold nights, and all his other dogs huddled to keep warm — but Dodger wasn't there quite yet.
There was an enormous gray Great Dane who drooled like a baby and took up the entire couch when he napped. Then there was a tan-colored Bulldog with a British accent, and he dominated the TV whenever he found a Shakespeare play or an arts documentary. They were Einstein and Francis, the two he'd been told about. Nice guys with no survival skills.
There was also a sweet, shy girl who rarely spoke to anyone. She was a golden-furred mutt, some kind of Spaniel, and her name was Nancy. He often caught her staring at him, and when he'd look back, she'd pretend she wasn't. Whenever Nancy had a nightmare, a scruffy, black-and-white collie named Charlie would cuddle with her. Charlie was a tough girl who'd growled when they first met, but she'd started to warm up to him. The third girl was a brown-furred Saluki with a head of bushy maroon hair. She was the spunkiest, definitely the most sensible, and she liked to rough-and-tumble with Charlie. Her name was Rita.
The dog he liked best was Noah. He was a dark gray Bullmastiff, a purebred, and he knew when to talk to Dodger and when to leave him alone. He was the only one funny enough to make him laugh. He knew Noah had braced the streets just as long as he had.
They were a funny crowd who called themselves the Company. Truth be told, he liked them all, but when they got to be too much he'd duck out the wooden stairs.
That was where he found himself tonight — sitting on the splintery roof of Fagin's houseboat. The nights had been warm since the storm cleared. Dodger never saw stars in the city, of course, but the moon was always there. He used to howl to it growing up.
"Just look at ya. Big and beautiful." Except Dodger wasn't talking to the moon. His eyes were fixed on the Manhattan skyline, for from the roof of the houseboat, he had a perfect view of the city. He saw the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State, the Twin Towers, the Chrysler, the Cities Services building, Rockefeller, and countless others.
"I beat ya, New York." Dodger grinned proudly, head raised. "I survived everything ya threw at me. This pup ain't begging for a meal no more."
Ever since that night, he had fought. He'd fled from bigger dogs and scared off smaller ones, he's stolen food and slept in cardboard, and he'd been lonely. Angry and lonely.
"You okay up there, Dodge?" a voice called from the deck.
Rita had peeked her head out the stairs. He hadn't realized he'd been sniffling, and after wiping his face, Dodger looked over the edge of the roof with his signature grin. "All good, Rita baby." He couldn't resist flirting. She always rolled her eyes in the funniest way.
She vanished back downstairs, sorry she'd asked. Dodger wished she'd climbed up to join him on the roof, but he wasn't about to ask her. Maybe when he'd been there two weeks.
His eyes were still wet. "C'mon, get it together… this is embarrassing." Dodger wiped his eyes, but it didn't help. The honky cars, the piano, the storm. It was too much.
"I hate this. I absitively posolutely hate this." Thinking of what he'd been through was the worst feeling in the world. Dodger never wanted to feel this way again. He never wanted to worry or care ever again. "Worrying never helped. Neither has caring."
His ears perked up, and at last, he stopped crying. Remembering that snowy night had brought back a tune he'd played, the first tune he'd ever invented. "Why should I worry? Why should I care?" He wagged his tail. The rhythm came back to him. "I may not have a dime…' He looked at the New York skyline. "...but I got street savoir faire! Ooh, that's catchy."
Dodger curled up on the roof, not caring that the sun would be up soon. For now, he was content to watch the cars driving over the Brooklyn Bridge. Each honky car was one of his worries speeding away. Fagin had been right when he told him to get his temper in check — anger was a downer. It was easier to dance through life with no worries, no cares.
He hadn't slept all night, but Dodger decided to stay up to watch the sunrise.