The dog . . . is a god of frolic.
Henry Ward Beecher

In the forties, my family lived in Birkhead Place, an enclosed area of homes clustered around a large park. Every family had an abundance of children and at least one pet. My Aunt Tick’s family pet was Pee Wee, a dachshund with severe osteoporosis. Aunt Hazel’s dog was Sparky, a miniature cocker spaniel with a nasty colon. We had Junior, a wire haired terrier so evil he terrorized every living being, even the ladies from The Salvation Army who came to collect Mother’s cast offs for the poor.

“Let’s have a doggy parade for 4th of July this year,” I told my cousin Jessica, when I was twelve. “We’ll hold a contest with prizes for the most patriotic dog, the most independent and the most American.”

“Good idea!” said Jessica. “My father can be the judge because he owns a drugstore and can bring the best prizes. Lets invite the Kaplan’s collie, Zeke, the Zarneckie’s poodle, Francois, the Murphy’s basset hound, Chester and Mrs. Bloom’s mutt, Mary Beth.”

“Mrs. Bloom’s dog is the ugliest animal I have ever seen,” I said. “Her wrinkles hang down to her front paws, she drools like a water fountain and has a disgusting breath. Do you really want to ask her?”

Jessica nodded. “Mrs. Bloom always brings cookies to our neighborhood parties,” said Jessica. ”She would be very hurt if we didn’t include her dog.”

“We’ll put all the dogs in a cage and have a flag at the other end of the park. When we open the cage, the first dog to get to the flag will get the Grand Prize.”

Jessica looked doubtful. “How can we be sure the dogs will run toward the flag instead of chasing each other?“

“We’ll put some beef bones under the flag,” I said. “That should do it. We better make flyers to announce our contest or no one will be there except Junior, Pee Wee and Sparky.”

“When Sparky gets in the cage, he’ll asphyxiate all the others,” said Jessica. “He has terrible gas.”

“I know it, “ I said. “For years, we thought it was Uncle Jack until that night when he was out of town and Aunt Hazel had us over for Thanksgiving.”

That 4th of July, Jessica improvised a platform at one end of the field and I put a pungent combination of beef bones, Alpo and garlic under the flag. “That smells disgusting,” said Jessica. “My dog will run the other way when he smells it and one bite will kill Sparky. He has diverticulosis.”

My Uncle Harry hurried across the street with a pad and paper and Pee Wee in his arms. “Pee Wee’s arthritis is acting up. I don’t think he’ll be able to get down to the flag much before Labor Day,” he said. ”Wait til you see our prizes! We’ll give the most American one a red, white and blue neckerchief, the most independent, a designer choke collar and the most patriotic a red, white and blue doggy sweater that says, ”Uncle Sam Cares”. I special ordered gourmet bones for the losers.

“Look!” I said. “The contestants are here!”

The Kaplan’s collie Zeke walked toward us, regal and tall in his pointed red hat, his white shawl and his blue booties. Next, came Sparky dressed in a white lace sweater that said ‘I AM America’. My sister Marsha brought Junior over. He was pulling so hard I was certain he’d take her arm with him when he galloped into the cage to attack the other dogs. “ I tried to put his George Washington hat and musket on,” gasped my sister. “But he bit my finger and then he got a chunk out of my leg.”

Chester arrived next. He was dressed in an Uncle Sam top hat with a blue bow tie around his neck and red woolen booties on his short stubby legs. Francois jingled right behind him, little bells tied to each leg with patriotic ribbons and a snappy satin beret on his curly head. We put all the dogs together in the cage and they began bickering and nipping at one another. ”The only one missing is Mary Beth,” I said. “Maybe Mrs. Bloom decided not to enter her.”

“Its just as well,” said Jessica. “That dog is the ugliest, most placid lump I’ve ever seen.”

Everyone gathered around the American flag to see which dog got there first just as Mrs. Bloom came across her front lawn with Mary Beth on a red, white and blue leash. Mary Beth wore a white lace bonnet tied with a red satin ribbon, a knit shawl with an eagle embroidered on it and bright red pantaloons with suspicious dark spots on them. She sported blue suede booties with white tassels on her feet. Her eyelashes fluttered and her behind had a distinctive swagger as she sashayed toward us. “It’s Mary Beth’s time of the month,” explained Mrs. Bloom and she blushed.

At that moment, Uncle Harry opened the cage and the dogs hurtled out toward Mary Beth. Zeke got there first and ripped away the pantaloons. Francois, his hat askew tried to get on top of the little mutt but her shawl locked into the bells on his feet. Pee Wee zoomed across the lawn faster than light and crawled under the others while Junior clawed his competitors with the fierce determination of King Henry at Agincourt.

In less than a minute, Mary Beth’s costume and her equanimity had been destroyed. Mrs. Bloom’s eyes filled with tears. “Men!” she said. ”They have NO savoir faire.”

I turned to Uncle Harry as he ran to rescue the little dog. “What’s savoir faire?” I asked.

Jessica shook her head. “Beats me,” she said. “What’s Mary Beth’s time of the month?”

“Mary Beth was feeling especially feminine today,” he explained. “And she certainly was a fashion plate. I am going to award her all three prizes. Like every woman since time began, she knows how to dress, where to place her loyalties and never lets a man get the upper hand.”

Mrs. Bloom smiled. “That’s exactly what I used to tell Mr. Bloom,” she said. “Before he decided to explore greener pastures.”

“In heaven?” I asked and Mrs. Bloom shook her head.

“In Paris,” she said.

She put her arms around Jessica and me. “Remember girls: Men always think love is the appetizer to the meal of life; but women know it is only the dessert.”

The trouble with a dog race is that even if you win, you’re still a dog.

Lynn Ruth & Lily Tomlin