Gore Vidal's animal

An old golden retriever sat on my porch. As I stood there, with that leaky, reeking can of gasoline, a million things were going through my head. Would I ever see the end of this terrible Geo Metro that could never seem to work? Would I ever get that Honda Civic that I had been dreaming about for decades?
The Geo Metro was valuable, in that it was a supreme paper weight, allowing my homework to be left on the floor of the driveway without blowing in the wind. At least I didn’t have to tell my parents that the dog ate it, again. The car was also good at appealing to the opposite sex. An attractive woman, upon seeing a Geo Metro parked in my driveway, would immediately say, “Poor baby,” and wipe my erstwhile nonexistent tears with my soft, thin fingers. Or were they really soft and thin? Never mind that.
I had everything that a boy could want: The worst car brand in America, an annoying little brother who wouldn’t stop putting his buggers in my gum sticks, a mother who actually enjoyed Empire re-runs. But that wasn’t the issue.
All I realistically had to do was come up with the next iPhone or other Steve Jobs invention, cash in, cash out, get a billion, pay the taxes, avoid the taxes, come out richer than before, play the lotto, go to the biggest casino in Nevada, and then live my life as though life were a distant memory. I would be able to make fun of my “bugger brother” through my Twitter account while sending negative reviews of Empire to Rotten Tomatoes.
I would be able to eat so much McDonald’s, so much McDonald’s, that I would somehow actually prevent a heart attack: “Can’t eat anymore. Throat’s clogged.” And then, in the shining absence of fear, I would be able to succeed at buying my next Geo Metro. And by Geo Metro, I obviously mean a ten-year-old Honda Civic, the one that’s still sitting at the Denghy’s Auto Emplorium on Carlisle and Explosion. The type of place that only the sophisticated car enthusiast can see in the phone book.
I’m not joking. And while this may seem like a lot for a kid of sixteen, remember this. Every year, millions of American kids are given a Geo Metro as their first car. Besides being laughed at and pitied by the opposite sex, this creates an atmosphere in which one cannot transition to the Porsche – I mean, Honda Civic – that one truly desires. It sullies the driveway. A driveway with Geo Metro tire tracks isn’t fit for those of the Honda Civic. The two are incompatible. Should the two be mixed, would there be an explosion?
I would soon find out. That Honda Civic was cool. You could hock a loogie in the engine and it would run for days. If not, perhaps a double-hock would do it. I’m not up on my hock physics or hock chemistry.
But what about this? What about this dog? What does he have to say for himself, little doggie? Look how cute he is. And look at this: his little paw.
“What are you doing here?” I said to the dog.
“Woof!”
“What?”
“Woof.”
“What is this ‘woof’? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Woof, woof!”
“What is your name? Say it.”
“Woof.”
“What is this woof? Are you insane? Speak English!”
“Hello, Trabadare? How are you feeling today?”
“What?”
I jumped up, screaming at the top of my lungs. It gave me quite a start.
“What? What did you just say?”
“Woof!”
“No, don’t say that. Don’t say ‘woof’. I heard you. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Hello, Trabadare.’”
“You speak English?”
“Woof.”
“No, you speak English. Admit it!”
“You told me to speak English, did you not?”
“I say loads of things every day. I don’t ever expect anyone to do them!”
“Well, there you have it.”
“Now that it has been established that you are in fact insane, from a linguistic perspective, how are you going to help me get this Porsche: and by that I mean Honda Civic?”
“Porsche?”
“Yes.”
“Woof.”
“No, no ‘woof.’ I meant to say Honda Civic. How are you going to get me from this Geo Metro to my ten-year-old Honda Civic.”
“I don’t know. Maybe if I ‘woof,’ I can…”
“No, no more woofing. You’ve woofed your way into a catastrophe. Let’s not forget what happened to the doggie treaties.”
“Don’t you mean, doggy treats?”
“Yes, I know. Treaties sounds cuter.”
“Sounds like a Tom Clancy/John Girsham novel.”
“Ah, you like John Grisham as well?”
“Look, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Woof.”
“Look, I said stop woofing. This is serious. I’m sixteen and I haven’t gone steady before. This Honda Civic could be my last chance. If I don’t go steady before 18, it’s too late. Off to war.”
“We’re going to war? Woof.”
“We will be once they find all of those joke tweets I made about China.”
“That was you?”
“You’re on Twitter too? How did you? So that’s who left the saliva on my keyboard!”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“You’d better not woof!”
“Rrrruff!”
“Don’t do that, either. Now, I need a Honda Civic. Ten years old. In this driveway. This Geo Metro is about to be mother’s favorite potted plant.”
“You’re sixteen?”
“Yes, and don’t say that I seem immature for my age. I have certain particular issues which lend themselves to a certain understanding of the world which may not be in keeping with-“
“Okay, hold on a minute. Just wait, woof, okay?”
“What? Do you know now? Did you figure it out?”
“No. You’re going to be 18 soon.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what kind of work you’re going to do? Learn a trade?”
“No.”
“You could join the Doggie Corps.”
“Doggie Corps? What would I do that? I’m not a dog, a woofer.”
An old golden retriever sat on my porch.