Song 08: "The Stranger"
Mr. Foxworth had given his family one of his grandiose fatherly talks before he left for work that morning. This one had been about the importance of being thankful, about how they should appreciate each other and what they had. Easy for a billionaire CEO to say.
But that Thanksgiving morning, when he and a certain show-winning poodle got into yet another fight, Dodger wasn't exactly feeling grateful. "Yeah, so what if I am?"
"I'm just saying," Georgette snarked, "that mutts don't have the same appeal."
"Oh, and why's that? Is it tha fur? Don't say it's tha fur," he growled.
"You're all just so, well… mismatched. No other way to say it."
"Ya wanna know what's mismatched?" Now he really was growling, not that he would fight her — Georgette wasn't worth the effort, and Mrs. Foxworth would kick him out for sure — but he was done. He was so done. "Tha fact that rich brats like ya get to live in castles while tha rest of us freeze in winter. Think ya tha creme de la creme? Ya just spoiled milk." Dodger spat at her feet. "Ya no better than tha Purebreds."
"Oh, are we forgetting that you live in this castle too? A month now, is it? Goodness, how time flies when you're…" She fixed him with a sardonic scowl, "...having fun."
"And it's high time I took a break. Go drown in ya water bowl."
He charged down the grand staircase and dashed into the living room. He felt like ripping up pillows, destroying shoes, an urge he hadn't had since his puppy days. His bandana was blue, but he was seeing red. All he could hear in his mind, over and over again, was the terrifying snarl of Ruscoe saying how scraggly his fur was… were those brown spots or mud… and what kind of terrier was he, anyways? Anger and shame rolled like thunder in his chest.
The only thing that snapped him out of it was seeing Oliver on the sofa, concern in his feline eyes. He gingerly hopped down and brushed against his best friend.
"Dodge… I heard you yelling." He sniffled. "Are you gonna leave?"
"For good? No, never. I just…" Dodger didn't speak for several seconds. "I don't know. I just wanna go out… see the city again… stretch my legs. Is that so wrong?"
"No, it's fine to want to… but what would you do out there?"
His eyes lit up. "Oh, what wouldn't I do? I'd head to tha Meatpacking District first, they got tha best sausages, then I'd walk across tha Brooklyn Bridge. I'd catch a taxi Uptown an' check out tha Upper West-haven't been there in a while. Might even find Old Louie, for old times' sake. Steal some all-beef kosher franks. What's not to do?"
Oliver's gaze was fixed on the window. It looked like it might rain soon.
"Ya don't approve." Dodger whimpered. "Ya don't understand."
"I just don't have the same memories you do. I wish you could be happier here."
"Kiddo," the mutt said with his signature grin, "I'm totally happy here. I'll be back before they cut tha turkey, 'kay? That's a Dodger promise."
Winston had spent all morning in the kitchen, cooking up carrots, green beans and a cranberry sauce. The turkey had been stuffed, seasoned, and shoved in the oven since the early hours of the day. It smelled heavenly, and it was almost enough to keep a dog inside. Almost.
"I will be back, kid," he said when the cat still didn't look convinced. "Just gonna check out tha Macy's parade. Steal a bite to eat, hit on some girls. Casual fun."
Oliver nodded, and Dodger jumped up on the windowsill. The Foxworths had left the window open, not thinking that any of their pets would ever escape. It'd been nearly a month and Dodger hadn't left… until now. He squeezed out, landed on a flower bed, and was gone.
Some days Oliver didn't know what to do without Dodger. Some days he didn't know what to do with him. He hoped today wasn't the latter.
Dodger was having a grand time. He was whipping through the crowds up and down Sixth Avenue, who were wrapped in coats and jackets, drinking warm beverages and eating hot sandwiches, hotdogs, and pretzels to fight off the cold. That was Dodger's favorite part of festivities in New York City — they were a smorgasbord of food.
He wolfed down a hotdog he'd taken out of a man's hands, who'd been too busy staring at the balloons to notice. By the time he took a bite and only got a bun, no meat, Dodger was already gone, cackling to himself. "This parade gets better every year."
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade was in full swing. Performers wore bright costumes, dancing in troupes and playing instruments in marching bands, waving to the tourists and families they passed. The announcers proudly declared this performance, in the good year of 1988, to be the 62nd annual Macy's parade.
Children laughed to see their favorite cartoon characters in massive balloon form, floating hundreds of feet above the ground. Dodger looked up and saw an enormous squeaky-voiced Mickey Mouse, who wore pants but no shirt, and his angry pal Donald Duck, who wore a shirt but no pants. "Always indecent, huh, Donald?" He stared at giant balloon Mickey. "That don't look like any mouse I've ever seen."
Dodger chuckled and navigated further down the street. They were almost to Macy's Herald Square, which marked the end of the parade. He'd met several dogs on leashes, even a stray here and there, but no pure breeds so far. "Guess tha Purebreds ain't tha type to give thanks." Then he turned the corner and feared he'd spoken too soon.
His blood froze when he saw the burly black Rottweiler covered in old scars and wearing a spiked collar. He seemed as big as a parade balloon; he looked like a bull that had been shaped into a dog. He looked like a bull in the shape of a dog, minus the horns. He and two others, so small in comparison, were chowing down on discarded burgers. The Rottweiler looked up at the intruder.
"Hey, look, I'll just go. I ain't fighting tha Purebreds on a holiday."
Dodger quickly turned to leave the alley, but the Rottweiler barked.
"Wait a sec!" His every step thundered as he approached Dodger, who was rigid with fear. The Rottweiler sniffed him curiously, then he broke into a slobbery grin. "I ain't no Purebred. Well, technically I am, but ya can't help what ya born, right?"
"Ya not in their gang?" Dodger frowned. "Sorry, I just assumed. Ya look, uh…"
"Scarier than an unpaid landlord? I get that a lot."
The two dogs sniffed noses, and sensing nothing but welcome from each other, any remaining defenses dropped and they woofed together happily. This monstrously huge dog — his body covered in more scars than any dog should ever have — exuded friendliness.
The Rottweiler invited him to enjoy their unwanted hamburgers, and Dodger gratefully accepted. When they were full, they belched and laughed. "I oughta introduce myself," the Rottweiler said. "Tha name's Skipper, but everyone on tha streets calls me Skippy Dawg. Ya can call me whatever, just not Skip, got it?" His deep laugh echoed down the alley.
"Alrighty then, Skippy," he laughed himself. "My name is Dodger. Ya might've heard me called tha Dodge, or tha Artful Dodger, or tha coolest dog on this concrete island."
"Dodger? Yeah, I've heard of ya. Stories ain't always flattering."
"Libel and slander. Can't believe everything ya hear."
"I believe it," he chuckled. Skippy Dawg nodded for him to follow them further down the alley, and he surprised himself by doing so. Skippy's friendly demeanor couldn't quite bury Dodger's learned mistrust, so he hung back a few paces.
Their group came to a metal fence blocking their exit. Skippy dog threw his weight on it and budged an opening. When they'd all slipped through, they descended into a parking garage. They kept out of view, away from moving cars, until they reached the lowest level. Skippy looked back at Dodger. "Earlier ya said something about fighting tha Purebreds, didn't ya?" He nodded approvingly. "That's exactly tha kind of attitude we need."
"Need for what?" Dodger wondered what he'd gotten himself into now.
"Tha resistance. Tha rebels. Or as I like to call us… tha Underdogs."
Dodger took a good look at their shadowed corner on the bottom level of the parking garage; he realized it was a makeshift base. A stack of crates and a chain-link fence separated them from the few parked cars. There were piles of stolen vendor food to snack on, heaps of torn clothing and newspapers to sleep on, and there were dogs. About fifteen were down there, big and small, and most looked tired and hungry but content. Several were males who'd make good fighters, but there were mothers and pups, too. The best part was they were mutts.
"I've been finding mutts who got run off by tha Purebreds. Got a couple spots all over tha city where we stay safe. One is tha basement of a theatre north of Broadway. Another is deep in Central Park, tha castle by tha lake. Anyone can be an Underdog, pure or mongrel."
"This is amazing… but ya really planning to fight back? It's dangerous."
"What's more dangerous is what happens if we don't fight back."
Both of their eyes went to the mothers and their pups, their happy mutt babies.
"If someone ya love is in danger, ya gotta fight with all ya got to protect them." Skippy gazed at the dogs under his protection with resolve and affection. "Tha Purebreds operate by spreading fear and division. They know calling mutts inferior pits dog against dog… that's what they want. They want us fighting each other. If we're divided, they win."
He nodded at the Rottweiler's words, which echoed through the parking garage. He remembered his morning argument with Georgette with a twinge of guilt.
Then Dodger's mind flooded with the memory of being attacked, chased, and thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge by the Purebreds. Even earlier, by being bitten and beaten by Roscoe and DeSoto. Before that, fighting to survive the streets. Dog fights were nasty things, full of claw and fang, and he didn't want anyone getting hurt that didn't have to. But then again, if the Purebreds wouldn't stop, what choice did they have? It was resist or submit. No other option.
"Resist or submit," he voiced. Then he asked what he'd been wondering since Skippy brought up their enemy. "How do ya know so much about tha Purebreds?"
He was quiet. "Truth is… I used to be one." Skippy bowed his head, shame in his eyes. "Running with tha strongest was how I survived. Me and Ruscoe grew up together. Were in tha fighting ring together. I thought we were friends… but he got power-hungry. Liked giving orders a bit too much. I was a high-ranking member of tha pack, but when he started hurting mutts, that's when I quit. I knew Ruscoe had to be stopped before it's too late."
Dodger couldn't imagine being betrayed by someone you'd grown up with, someone you thought was your friend… then he felt guilty again, thinking of the Company.
He narrowed his eyes at the purebred Rottweiler, privileged by his breeding — but that was a mean thought. He liked Skippy no matter his pedigree. "I'm glad ya defected."
They mingled with the dogs in the parking garage, nibbling on scraps, resting their paws, when Dodger caught a familiar scent. It belonged to a girl he used to know, a sweet Spaniel mix with golden fur he knew from another lifetime. "Nancy babe! What are ya doing here?"
"Dodger, I can't believe it!" she beamed. Her coat was dirty but she was beautiful as ever. "I was looking for ya, actually. Tried to find ya on Fifth Avenue, but I got lost. Tha Underdogs found me." She nuzzled him, then backed off and blushed. "I'm so happy to see ya."
That was the most words he'd heard her say at once, and it'd been for him, about him — did that mean that she… could she? Butterflies in his tummy was an understatement.
"Me too, Nancy babe." He nuzzled her back. "I'm thankful."
Skippy laughed heartily. "Almost forgot it's Thanksgiving." He smiled at their embrace, smiled over all the dogs in the garage. "I'm thankful we're alive and well."
Dodger licked her cheek. "Ya look half-starved. Come home with me. My new family will give ya tha best Thanksgiving dinner ya ever had. What do ya say?"
"Oh, Dodger… are ya sure? They won't mind?"
"Course they won't. Who could turn away a pretty face like ya?"
She turned her head and batted her eyes, and with her lovely long ears and honey-colored fur, Dodger felt more than butterflies. Nancy made him remember all the good times on Fagin's houseboat he thought he'd forgotten. She was quiet when he was loud, clever when he was rash, humble when he was proud. He'd never realized how much she balanced him.
"Dinner does sound good," she giggled. "Okay, let's go."
Nancy followed him to the parking garage exit, and having her walk so close to him sent tingles down his spine. Before they were gone, Dodger turned back to Skippy Dawg and all the mutts in his care. "Listen, Skippy. About tha Underdogs."
"Will ya join us?" the Rottweiler woofed. "Fight tha Purebreds?"
"Man, it's a holiday. I wanna resist, but for now… I wanna be with my family."
"Fair enough," he sighed. "Well, ya know where to find us. When ya ready."
Dodger nodded. Once more he felt those horrible pangs of guilt, but the fear of Ruscoe's fangs was still in him. He was a medium-sized dog, not a huge fighter like Skippy or Rusoce.
He was one dog. What difference could he make?
The table was set with green beans, sweet potatoes, and carrots on one end, pumpkin pie and chocolate cake on the other. Between the vegetables and desserts were mashed potatoes with hot gravy, rolls fresh out of the oven, buttered corn on the cob, and a platter of cranberry sauce. An enormous turkey, carved and stuffed to perfection, was the centerpiece.
The Foxworth family was gathered around the table, only the husband, wife, daughter, and an aunt and uncle who lived in the city, as well as Winston the butler and his equally plump, ever-smiling wife, who were both as good as family. Mr. Foxworth had promised no business colleagues this year, and he'd kept his promise.
They all laughed when Mr. Foxworth accidentally dipped his tie in the gravy bowl. Winston offered to fetch him a new one, but Jenny said it was more fashionable this way.
"What a sweet family," Nancy sighed. "Ya real lucky, ya know?"
"Yeah. Guess I am." Dodger scratched behind his ear nervously.
At the Foxworth residence, animals ate as good as humans. They'd set several large bowls of delicious wet dog food, cuts of turkey and gravy, many strips of bacon, and a water dish in a circle. Dodger and Nancy shared the feast with Oliver and Georgette.
When Dodger had returned to the mansion, he'd barked to get the family's attention — and show them the lovely golden mutt hiding behind the front flowers. Mr. Foxworth made an easy joke about Dodger bringing ladies home with him, which Mrs. Foxworth elbowed him for; she was fawning over Nancy. It was impossible not to, she was so sweet.
They'd made no decision about her yet, but she was welcome to the feast.
After a day of parades and renegades, Dodger was relieved to be home safe and sound. These walls were a comfort, not a prison — a shock to discover. He wanted to be happy here. If not here, where else could he possibly be content? Dodger held his breath.
"Hey, Champ," he said, barely looking Georgette in the eyes, "maybe it's just tha turkey talking, but… sorry we got into it this morning. Ya wrong, but I'm still sorry."
Georgette sighed. "Perhaps I was being… intentionally provocative." She rolled her eyes exquisitely. "I'm sorry too. Mutts are perfectly good canines."
"We sure are," he grinned. "And perfect isn't easy."
For the rest of the feast, it felt like a fog had been lifted and the pets gobbled their meat and gravy and were happy to be around each other. Dodger's tail wagged to be beside his little bro Oliver, to have made up with Georgette, and to have brought Nancy home.
He only hoped it wasn't till the end of the meal. When the Foxworths were done eating, had brought their dishes to the kitchen, and packaged all the leftovers — they had a tradition of taking leftovers to homeless shelters — they turned their attention to Nancy.
"Did you like the food, girl?" Mr. Foxworth scratched her chin.
"She's adorable." Mrs. Foxworth was radiant. "I think Dodger's in love."
The two mutts exchanged a look of nervous excitement. They barked in unison.
"I know we have two dogs and a cat," Mrs. Foxworth began, grabbing her husband's arm and kissing his cheek, "but I couldn't live with myself if we put her back on the streets."
"What kind of people would we be? On Thanksgiving, no less." He bent down, his back hurting only slightly, and picked up the golden dog. She licked his face, cradled like a newborn. "Of course she can stay. Why don't we name her… Goldie?"
"That's so cute!" Jenny laughed, kissing her newest four-legged friend.
While they were welcoming her, Dodger was gazing at them all with a funny feeling in his stomach. He realized that this must've been how Skippy Dawg felt gazing at the Underdogs in their garage, the ones he protected. He knew that if anything happened to any of them, he couldn't live with himself. Then he remembered Skippy's words.
If someone you love is in danger, you've got to fight with all you've got to protect them.
As scary as Ruscoe was, as cozy as the mansion was, Skippy was right.
Because the Foxworth family was busy showing Nancy — or Goldie — around her new home, and because Dodger was following her like a lovesick pup and Georgette was looking at herself in the mirror, no one noticed Oliver slip into the kitchen. He grabbed a sizable bite of turkey in his maw, glanced back, and leapt out the sink window.
It was quite dark by now; an early night overtook the city, but with street lamps, building lights, car beams, and shop windows, it was better lit than during the day. Oliver walked to the back of the Fifth Avenue mansion. "Adena? Are you there?"
A calico cat with emerald eyes poked her head out of a flower bush. "Hello again, Ollie." The nickname almost made him drop the turkey from smiling too wide. "Right on time."
"I didn't want you to go hungry on Thanksgiving." Oliver did drop the turkey now, but at her paws. He brushed against her warmly. "You're so cold."
"Eh, I'm used to it." She began gnawing at the meat. "Thanks, by the way."
"Oh, anytime! Anything you need — Anything I can do." He gulped and grinned.
Adena leaned forward and licked his cheek. Oliver nearly fainted.
"I finally got you out of that stuffy mansion," she giggled. "Not so bad, is it?"
"No, it's kinda… kinda exciting." Oliver gazed at the city lights all around him.
"It's totally exciting. And if you're smart, you don't get hurt."
"Well… it doesn't seem so bad. Maybe one day I could… we could..." He smiled sheepishly, looking back at the mansion. Then at her. "...explore."
"It's a date," she whispered. "I don't talk about feelings, not ever, but… I really like you, Ollie. You're sweeter than anyone I've ever met on the streets."
He could've sworn his fur melted off on the spot. Oliver licked her in return, then he said he'd better go back inside but promised to go out with her soon. She ate the rest of the turkey and vanished around the corner again, but this time, she winked before she was gone.
In a shabby third-floor Bronx apartment, a part of town most people avoided, an unshaven man was kneeling on the floor with six dogs around him. Fagin's achy bones would make him regret sitting down, but so what? He liked seeing his children at eye level.
"Here ya go, fellas," he wheezed, his breath a mixture of cigarettes and breath mints. The former overpowered the latter. Fagin had set out plastic tupperware with food for the dogs. "Not much of a feast, but it's being together that counts, ain't it?"
He had nicked a few cans of wet dog food, the tasty kind, and poured extra kibble. There were hamburgers, bagels, and for the centerpiece, a plate of microwavable sausages. Ever since he'd found a microwave in a dumpster, Fagin had been eating nothing but frozen meals.
"Happy Thanksgiving, guys." He wiped his wet eyes. "We're gonna be okay."
The Company touched their noses to him, bringing a smile to his face.
Their numbers had grown in recent months, even if they'd lost Dodger — the gang included Rita, Charlie, Francis, Tito, Einstein, and Annie, and if you counted the puppies the old mother had on the way, their numbers were even bigger. Knowing how pregnant she was, the Company allowed Annie more food than the rest of them. Einy made sure of it.
She was several weeks along now. Annie's stomach had swelled to twice its normal size, and she often said she felt the litter kicking. None of the gang were experts in puppy birth, but they figured she was about halfway to the big day. Another month or so.
"This is so good," Annie laughed. Her voice sounded creaky. "I guess food tastes better when you're expecting, huh?" She and Einstein nuzzled each other.
Seeing them together warmed Rita's heart. The senior dogs had only known each other a couple months, but Einstein and Annie had taken to each other like peanut butter and jelly. They often laid on the couch together, her looking so small next to him, his nose on her head. They stayed up late talking about their youths, their lives, or simple silliness.
"This is the best Thanksgiving ever," Einy said with a huge grin. He and Annie devoured a burger together, then he licked her stomach. They weren't his, but you'd never know.
"Who needs a fancy spread to be happy?" Charlie woofed.
"Hear, hear," Francis cheered. "We have each other, don't we?"
"Wouldn't mind a real turkey though," Tito grumbled. Francis elbowed him.
"We got everything we need right here." Rita smiled at the dogs in her care.
They all enjoyed the rest of the feast, eating all the sausages in a minute and scarfing down the burgers and wet food. They gulped tap water from two big tupperwares. The apartment was always a bit cold, but the dogs knew they'd sleep warm and full that night.
Fagin took a hamburger, but that was all he ate. He staggered to his feet, groaning about his knees and back, and knelt over the kitchen counter. There he flipped through a stack of bills, notices about late rent payments and overdue utilities. He shoved them in a drawer, trudged to his mattress, and collapsed like a falling tree.
Einstein whined to see him so exhausted. Annie nuzzled him and he was quiet. She laid her head across his legs, a faraway look in her eyes. "I'm so thankful ya guys took me in… I wanna say I have everything I want, but to be honest… I don't."
"What's missing?" Einstein asked quietly. His ears drooped.
"Well, I wish…" Annie closed her eyes. "...I wish my son would forgive me."
The Company didn't say anything. There was nothing they could say.
"I understand why Dodger is angry, I know it's all my fault, but still… if he stays angry, he's only gonna hurt himself." Annie seemed so weary, like a flickering candle growing dimmer and dimmer. "I just wanna see him again. I'm an old girl, and I dunno how much longer…" She sniffled and bowed her head. "If he forgave me, I could die happy."
"Don't say that, sister." Rita frowned. "You got pups to live for."
Annie nodded but said nothing. She just laid on Einy's legs, eyes shut.
Rita stared at her in wonder and worry. The rest of the gang had settled down for the night, sleeping on the rug, the couch, or tucked beside Fagin on the mattress, but she didn't think she'd be able to fall asleep. Rita turned her eyes to the window, a plan in her head.
As leader of the Company, she was responsible for her gang's happiness.
