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p r e s e n t s
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by Sharon Walters
Lazy he might be, but Silas was not stupid. Even in the drug and alcohol haze in which he made his way through school, he always kept one mental eye open for the main chance, the fortuitous circumstance or, if luck refused to open her legs to him, the bright idea that would generate enough money to allow him to slide right through to the grave without ever having to do a single thing that required undue effort.
In the meantime, he had carefully put together a college curriculum consisting of all the easiest courses. For his science requirement he had chosen biology, because it seemed likely to call for the least math. And it was there that the seed was planted, the seed that showed its first tiny leaves that lazy afternoon with Croaker, Lewis & Chatsworth.
"Don’t bogart that joint, my friend," said Chatsworth, reaching in Silas’ direction.
"So sorry Chatsworth," said Silas. "Here you go."
They all sat, with their private smoky thoughts, when Croaker suddenly spoke.
"Hey guys," he said, his brow furrowed in thought. "Why is there anything?"
"What?" said Silas, after a moment.
"I mean, why is there anything, instead of nothing?"
Chatsworth whistled slowly, at the profundity of the concept. "I never would have mistaken you, of all people, for a deep thinker," he said. "Yet there you go."
"I mean, thousands of years ago, when the universe was young," Croaker went on, "there was nothing but rocks, right? Hurtling through space? And now today, look, there’s us, here." He gestured widely at the rather shabby lounge and the four of them, splayed out on the ancient furniture. They all looked around.
"Yep," said Lewis, at last. "Here we are. The crowns of creation." He turned to Chatsworth, "Yo, man, who’s bogarting now?"
"No, seriously guys, don’t you every wonder, why are we here?"
"Can‘t say I have," said Silas, and silence settled back into the room.
Although," said Chatsworth, after a few minutes, "now that I think about it, it does seem odd that Charo should exist."
"That‘s true," said Silas. "Or Englebert Humperdinck."
"Or Speckles," said Lewis, as the house mascot, an old, fat and completely unspeckled brown dachshund, ambled into the room looking for bits of dropped junk food and perhaps a pat on the head.
And that’s when it happened. Silas looked at Speckles, and suddenly the dog did look extraordinarily unlikely. His legs were too short. His body was too long. He was, in fact, like many breeds of canis familiaris, created by humans for a particular purpose. Speckles was there because generations of Germans had directed and, just as important, speeded up the process of Darwin’s natural selection process, to produce a dog who could hunt badgers and martens and weasels by following them down their holes. Silas had just studied natural selection for an exam in Biology 101, and as he watched Speckles hoovering up some day-old corn chips from the carpet in front of the TV, something tickled at the back of his neck and told him to pay attention. He did.
Silas graduated college with a solid 2.0 grade point average and promptly moved to Brazil, where land was cheap and government was lax. He bought a very nice house a few miles outside Rio de Janeiro, with a bar, a deck, a pool, a view of the harbor, and four acres of land. He brought with him ten breeding pairs of miniature dachshunds with the shortest legs he could find.
For the next few years the world heard little from Silas. He learned Portuguese -- languages came easily to him -- and he took on a caretaker, a gardener, a maid, two mistresses, and an old German couple who knew all about dogs. Every evening, with one or the other of the mistresses, he sat on his deck, gazed at his view, sipped his martini and smoked the finest weed South America had to offer. To be sure, he did much the same thing during the day, except that every day he checked in with Herr & Frau Himmelfarb, to see how things were coming along.
Finally, seven years into Silas’ project, a milestone was reached when one of his dachshunds, Matilda, gave birth to a litter of pups. One of these pups had legs that did not reach the ground.
Matilda herself, of course, could barely pull herself along with the tiny limbs Herr & Frau Himmelfarb had bred her for, but this puppy could not even manage that. He lay there, eyes closed, squirming and mewling, and Frau Himmelfarb had to hold him to Matilda’s teat before he could take his first meal.
Things moved more quickly after that, and five years later, when Silas was 34 years old and his trust fund, as predicted, was running low, he was ready to roll.
One of Silas’ mistresses, Martine, was the daughter of a wealthy Brazilian family whose fortune had come from rain forest hardwoods. He would occasionally accompany her to soirees in Rio or Sao Paulo, and it was at one of these functions that what came later to be known as the wormdog made its first public appearance. Martine wore a long shiny gown of red and black, her dark hair pulled back with ruby pins. Over one shoulder she wore a jeweled pouch, and in that pouch was a very small, black, nearly legless dog named Ebony.
The response was electric. Of course some of the guests found the dog appalling, and one woman was not afraid to say as much to Silas and Martine. "Indeed, Madame," Silas responded politely, "this dog is not for everyone." And truthfully it was that fact -- that this was the only such dog anyone had ever seen, and there was nowhere that one could be purchased -- that made most of the women, and not a few men, determine that they must have one of their own, no matter what the cost.
The cost, as you may imagine, was quite high. There were, at this point, no more than fifteen animals Silas felt he could spare. And even then, he refused to sell any of them, until one frenzied socialite pushed her offering price to $65,000. He finally sold one to her, and the bidding war began. Within two months, Silas had put over one million dollars in the bank.
Next stop was Paris, accompanied by Martine, who knew a number of high society people in the French capital. After a particularly lavish garden party at a mansion outside Paris, where the lovely Martine and her adorable accessory were the center of attention, the demand for dogs reached a point where Silas had to sell lottery tickets at $5000 each for the opportunity to purchase one.
The French press was incensed. "The popularity of this monstrosity is appalling," said one editorial. "It is Tulipmania all over again, except that all of the tulip bulbs are deformed, and all of them are controlled by one man. And he is not even French!" It was Le Monde which first gave the dog the name which eventually stuck -- "chien de ver" or wormdog. The official name of the new breed was the "Slenderdog," but since Silas’ main concern was money, he didn’t really mind what they were called. "Just don’t call them late to dinner," he joked.
On the way out of town there was an unpleasant run-in with customs at Orly airport, involving a night in jail for Silas, and a great deal of money. He decided that perhaps it was time to give up marijuana.
When he returned to Brazil, he let his other mistress go, and married Martine. The Himmelfarbs, in the meantime, had not been idle for a moment. As each new generation of dogs appeared, the legs were shorter and shorter, until they were mere flaps of skin, and then, finally, they disappeared altogether. With each generation, of course, prices rose proportionally.
In the United States, demand for the dogs exploded among the jet set. Everyone wanted, although not everyone could have, a small, smooth, utterly legless dog (tails usually bobbed for a cleaner line, although this was up to the final owner) Naturally there was controversy as well; owning a wormdog became just as politically offensive to many people as wearing a fur. But since only the fabulously wealthy could afford to buy one, and they tended to flock together in their own opulent enclaves, there were few direct clashes. There were many names given to this new breed, in magazines, newspapers, television and the internet: teenie weenies, test tubes, stogies, and endless improvisations on their phallic shape, dick dogs or ding dongs being only two. Of course all the media chased after Silas, but he chose to give no interviews. He felt this approach whipped up more interest, and anyway he was not a publicity hound. But finally he agreed to do one, with Barbara Walters, and be done with it.
Outside the studio, three hundred protestors shouted and held signs saying "Worm Dog = Dog Torture," and "Silas Budge is an ethical basket case." But inside, Barbara held one of the dogs on her lap, and cooed at it and kissed it in front of the cameras. Then, after the initial pleasantries, she asked the questions on everybody’s mind, starting with the most obvious.
"How do they mate?" she asked.
Silas explained that of course it all had to be done by hand, which was one of the many reasons the dogs cost so much.
The name wormdog became cemented into the public imagination when Barbara asked about exercise, and Silas pulled from behind his chair a long contraption, basically a narrow channel lined with velvet, with a small saucer at the end. He took the dog from Barbara’s lap and put it in the device, and placed a liver snack in the saucer. "Come on, Duchess," he said. The overhead camera shot of the dog squirming its way down the channel became an instant video classic. "She has to use all of her muscles," said Silas proudly. "And see? She is obviously enjoying herself." Duchess reached the saucer and flipped the liver snack into her mouth, then looked up at Silas and wagged her stump of a tail.
After the interview, Silas put up a web site, Slenderdog.com, to answer all questions and address all inquiries. Some of the FAQ’s:
Q. How does the Slenderdog do its business?
A. The Slenderdog is very intelligent. Every dog going to a new owner has learned to make a distinctive "yip" when it needs to relieve itself. And we have found that most people who can afford one of our dogs tend to have a maid or other attendant who can see to their needs. Of course, if you also purchase one of our carrying pouches, you’ll find that each one is lined with a removable plastic sheath, in case of emergency.
Q. Why is every Slenderdog neutered?
A. Of course we do not neuter our breeding stock. But it has taken many years and considerable investment to do the selective breeding necessary to develop the Slenderdog, and to recoup our investment we intend to remain, for the present, the only outlet for this marvelous animal. Of course, anyone can begin a breeding program of his or her own, but he or she should know that the process has taken us almost fifteen years.
Q. Do Slenderdogs get along with other pets?
A. You probably remember the tragic incident in San Diego, when one of our dogs was attacked by an owner’s jealous chihuahua. The Slenderdog was unable to run from the assault, and sustained injuries which resulted in her death. Of course the owner was refunded the price of the dog, but as we all know, a canine companion is really priceless. Therefore, we now insist that a Slenderdog be an only dog. For that matter, a prospective owner may not even possess a cat. As you can imagine, a cat and a Slenderdog are an accident waiting to happen.
Q. Isn’t the very concept of a dog with no legs unnatural and cruel?
A. Most breeds of dog are artificial constructs. You won’t find a Shar Pei or a greyhound in nature. We feel that the Slenderdog is no more than the dachshund taken to its logical conclusion.
Q. Can they swim?
A. No.
While in New York, Silas received a call from Chatsworth, his old fraternity brother. They met for a drink, to catch up. Apparently Croaker was in prison for five to fifteen, for attempting to firebomb an ex-wife’s house. Lewis headed up a right-wing think tank in Virginia. As for himself, Chatsworth confessed that his own trust fund had run out, and that all the ventures he had tried since then had failed. Would Silas possibly have a place for him in his organization? Silas invited him back to Brazil and gave him a job with vague responsibilities at impressive pay.
In fact, he let him have his old house, because he and Martine built a new one, right next to it, with a bigger deck, a bigger pool, more bedrooms and a better view of Rio. Soon Martine became pregnant, and the first of their two sons was born. The two of them would sit on pleasant evenings out on the new deck, and the nanny would bring the boys out to kiss Mommy and Daddy goodnight before putting them to bed.
Silas was now quite wealthy, and one day it hit him that he had more than enough money to let him live in style for the rest of his life, as well as able to leave his sons with trust funds of their own. He began endowing charitable institutions in Rio, and would drop in on them sometimes, to see how the street urchins or elderly poor were being treated. Invariably some old man or woman would grab his hand and kiss it, in gratitude, and Silas‘ chest would swell with pride. He received a commendation from the mayor. One year he sponsored a float for Carnival, with a giant wormdog made of roses and carnations, and young girls aboard tossing candy to the crowd.
Silas had never actually cared that much about the wormdogs, as animals. He left their care and development to the Himmelfarbs. But one day he got the idea to walk through the kennel and really look at what he had created. He stopped before a velvet-lined box holding a litter of puppies, and one of the pups, smooth and brown, reminded him of Speckles, except that it was young and slender and, of course, had no legs. But he was charmed, and picked it up to take a closer look. The puppy squirmed and licked his face greedily, and wagged its stump of a tail. Silas took it back with him to the house.
He became more and more attached to the puppy, which he named Sprinkles. He took it everywhere. He spoke to it as if it were a baby. He had a special black leather pouch made for it, with black diamonds and rubies. Sometimes he would tell the boys a bedtime story, holding Sprinkles up and pretending to speak with his voice.
When it came time for Croaker to get out of prison, Silas offered him a job with the kennel, and flew him down to live with Chatsworth in the small house. Sometimes he would stroll over there of an evening, Sprinkles in tow, to have a martini with his old buddies.
One day Silas, again reflecting that he had reached his financial goal, finally approved the sale of intact animals, effectively allowing other breeders to sell the dogs. As competition began to develop, and more dogs became available, the price of individual animals dropped. The cachet of owning one of the original Slenderdogs never quite disappeared, but as the dogs’ price came within the reach of the merely well-off, as opposed to the obscenely wealthy, some of the shine wore off. It didn’t matter much to Silas and Martine, because they had already made their fortune, and diversified their investments.
"Why shouldn’t more people have the chance to love a dog like Sprinkles?" said Silas, staring into the dog’s eyes and stroking it gently.
Then tragedy struck. The two of them were at a ribbon-cutting ceremony celebrating the opening of the Silas P. and Martine L. Budge Ipanema Veterinary Clinic, and they hadn’t taken Sprinkles. Silas wanted to, but Martine convinced him that it would be best to leave him with the maid, who was set to give him a bath. But while they were gone a burglar broke in, tied Lupe to a chair at gunpoint, and stole a few targeted items of great value. But Silas didn’t care about those. Lupe, who had been holding Sprinkles as she bathed him, had to let him go when the intruder poked a gun into her back. They found his lifeless body floating in the bowl of Meissen china where she had left him.
The maid was disconsolate, weeping bitterly and blaming herself. Silas assured her that there was nothing she could have done, but nevertheless he took it very hard. He commissioned a huge portrait, painted from photos, and hung it over the fireplace in the great room. Martine tried to pull him out of his slump, but eventually she began to worry about Silas’ gloomy influence on the boys. She also began to suspect that he blamed her, for urging him to leave Sprinkles behind on that fateful day. He didn’t blame her, or at least not consciously. But he sank deeper and deeper into himself. After a while, with the older boy away at college and the younger one away at prep school, Martine began to spend more and more time traveling. Inevitably, the day came when she called him from Sri Lanka to say she’d met and fallen in love with another man, one who built nuclear power plants in developing countries. The divorce was amicable; Silas gave her a nice settlement and his best wishes for a happy life.
The big house seemed empty without Martine, the boys and Sprinkles, so Silas moved back into the original house with Chatsworth and Croaker. He sold what was left of the Slenderdog business to the Himmelfarbs, or rather their children, and rented the big house to an odd sect that tore down the kennels and built huge mazes out of laurel hedge, walking slowly through them while softly meditating in sing-song voices. They never minded at all when Silas took the occasional meditative stroll himself.
One day Lewis showed up at the door, wearing dark glasses and a low-brimmed hat. Apparently he had fled the United States just ahead of an arrest for embezzling funds from the America is Right Foundation and another arrest for consensual sex with an underage male. He asked for refuge, and Silas granted it.
Silas had not smoked marijuana for years, but one particularly lovely evening, with the harbor lights twinkling in Rio and the breeze bringing snatches of bossa nova from a beach a few miles away, he couldn’t remember why he had quit.
"Hey, Chatsworth," he said. "Don’t bogart that joint." His friend looked surprised, but handed it over. Silas took a long toke and let it out with a sigh. After several minutes of silence, he said softly, almost to himself, "Why is there anything?"
"Hey man," said Croaker. "Don’t go there."
"Yeah," said Lewis. "Don’t."
So he didn’t. He let the lights of Rio and the faraway sound of the marimba carry him off into the night.