The Rake Magazine

Everyone knows: Wally's Pet World sells the sickest, the oldest, and the mangiest animals. But that doesn't stop George from heading nine counties and eleven hours toward some strip mall into Graysville. He drums a folded bag on his lap with his fingers. The car deviates toward the right side of the crooked road.

"Look, Honey, can you believe this? A five percent discount on anything you can fit into this bag."

"Well, George, I don't think that they mean that," Laura, George's wife, says as she runs ger fingers over the cross hanging from her neck.

"Hey, Honey, I think I know about budgets and figures. I am, after all, head Honcho. Comprende?"

"If we can't find a dog that will fit into the bag, we can always save money by going to the rescue shelter."

"Don't start in with this again."

"It's just that, since the hurricane, there are a lot of special, desperate, and needy—"

"Aren't all dogs, just dogs, Laura?"

"I don't like what you're suggesting, George."

Feeding his tendency to fly over important moments and situations of great concern, George chooses not to respond and simply parks in the furthest spot. The car appears alone, abandoned by everyone, stationed opposite and to the left.

Inside Wally's Pet World, George and Laura survey the aisles. Animals sound off, crying for attention, help, or anything.

George stops and yawns.

As he turns his back, his eyes fix on a golden retriever. The dog mirrors George in many more ways than can be imagined. His eyes seem mischievous; the dark oily pupils dart to and fro, while the whites of the eyes are a golden bubbling brew, not bloodshot, yet still mischievous. The dog's eyes hold George's attention, romancing him like a cheap whore. To cement the sale, the dog tilts his head and winks at George.

"We'll take him!"

"Now, George, let's not be hasty. He's so big. Will he get along with Trooper?"

"Don't get snippy. Golden retrievers are the most popular, well-behaved, and mild mannered of dogs."

"But Trooper is just a child," Laura says as her fingers touch her cross once more.

The dog drops his head, slouching. Then, he makes eye contact with Laura. Finally, the golden retriever stands on his hind legs and places his paws together.

"See, Laura, he's a nice dog. Man's best friend. It's a sign from God. He winked at me and prayed to you."

"By, God!" Laura clasps her cross. "We'll take him."

Back at the manor, all seems well — a Pleasantville. George and Laura enter, past the front door, with the dog. The golden retriever wears a red bow on his head, a white handkerchief around his neck, and the five percent discount bag ripped around his torso.

"Mom, Dad, is the dog ours?"

"Yes, he's all yours, Trooper," George and Laura tell their son.

Trooper runs and rambles down the staircase.

"Trooper, slow down. Safety first." George reaches for an electric knife.

Pausing to collect himself, George sticks his sluggish tongue out the left side of his mouth before wildly cutting, swooping, and hacking the budget bag away from the dog with the electric knife. A thousand scraps lie on the floor. Trooper slips across the pieces, nearly falling on his rump. George ignores the domestic dangers and pushes an unimportant side topic.

"Hey, Trooper, what's your vote on a name for him?"

"I know! Al!"

The dog shakes his head left and right. George firmly slaps and rubs the dog's belly.

"Trooper, I don't think the dog likes that name. How about tossing another name into the hat?"

"Dad, since the dog's hairy, how about Kerry?"

"How about, Tomfoolery? That's a clever name," George says.

The dog nods. Trooper tries embracing the dog but the dog growls.

"I don't want any Tomfoolery! I want Al or Kerry."

"Oh Trooper, listen. If you want to call the dog Al, you can." Laura tries reaching her son for a condolence from her hug machine.

"But that wouldn't be fair, Laura. Trooper already had his vote. In fact, he had two. No, he had his say."

Trooper stomps upstairs, slamming his bedroom door. Laura touches and holds her cross.

"George, maybe we should—"

"The dog is already like a member of the family. We could always make arrangements."

"Arrangements? Nonsense. Doesn't it take time for a child and a dog to grow accustomed to each other? Can't we please try again in the morning?"

"It will all turn out for the best, with faith." George bows his head as he says a soft prayer. Then he slams the front door before chaining the dog to a willow tree.

The sun lights the living room. Trooper sits underneath a safe, secure blanket. Strong string completes the makeshift tent. The TV broadcasts Saturday morning cartoons on one end of the fort. Trooper watches, mesmerized, inches away from the glowing light. The dog busts into the room.

"Hi, Al!" Trooper peeks out from his fort and beams.

The dog bares his razor sharp cuspids at Trooper. Trooper's smile fades. Quickly, he holds down the fort by retreating, folding himself in tight. A high yelp sounds.

"Dad! Help! The dog!"

In the master bedroom, George rolls over in bed, rubbing his eyes. Rising erect, once coherent enough, George manages to stutter with concern, "Trooper, are you okay?"

The dog bolts up the stairway with the agenda of concealing all incriminating evidence. He scats like a rabid rat down the hallway toward the master bedroom. A shredded blanket dangles from his hind paw. Before the dog staggers into the room, the blanket jars on the door's greasy hinge. George calls out again. There is no answer. Free to run amok, the dog hustles to his master's side of the bed, with George's rubbery slippers.

"Hey, Honey. Look at the dog." George nudges Laura next to him.

"Oh, how cute."

The dog flips the slippers to George. He leaps and crashes atop the bed. George and Laura pet the dog. Trooper emerges, noticing a hole in his blanket.

"Oh, Trooper. Do you want breakfast? Are you hungry for some eggs?" asks George.

Trooper holds up the blanket and looks through the hole, saying in an upset voice, "I've had enough of eggs from you. I'm sick of being fed eggs."

George furrows his brow. Distinct lines blend with bushy eyebrows.

"Don't question what you are served." George shakes his finger at Trooper.

"But, Dad."

"No buts about it. Remember, we've been through this conflict before."

"I insist on fixing eggs for everyone." Laura reaches for her cross. "So Trooper, wait downstairs and watch cartoons."

"Okay, Mom. Bye Al."

The dog leaps out of bed, pouncing on Trooper. Trooper collapses to the floor from the ambush. The dog fights, rapidly jumping onto Trooper's curled up body.

"Tomfoolery!" George commands.

The dog halts. Trooper rolls over. On his back, he strikes the dog with a kick. The dog whimpers toward George. Trooper busts a beeline to his bedroom and slams his door. Laura takes the pillow away from her eyes.

"Honey, we need to talk."

"I know, Laura. He's such a nice dog around us, but to Trooper the name Tomfoolery doesn't exist."

"One of them could have been killed."

"For now, we'll keep Tomfoolery locked in our room. Tonight we'll try one last time, or by the grace of God—"

"And, what do you mean by this, George? Are you already thinking about arrangements with Grandpa?"

"Yes."

"Well, I disagree."

"Just let me call Grandpa this afternoon. He may side with you. Don't you agree that this is the prudent thing to do?"

"You know he'll bring up past conflicts with Trooper."

"I promise I won't bring that up."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good afternoon. Dad?"

"George, is that you?"

"George?"

"George."

"Yeah, it's me, Dad."

"George. Son, how's life. Did you buy that dog?"

"Dad, I bought the dog, but there's a problem."

"You got the discount, right?"

"It's not that; it's about Trooper and the dog."

"What's the problem? You voted on a name, right?"

"The dog's name is Tomfoolery."

"Tomfoolery. Now that's a clever name."

"Listen, Dad. The reason I called you is because Trooper and Tomfoolery don't get along. It's like they're at war."

"I recall the same exact conflict I had with Trooper in the past."

"Dad, I promised Laura that I wouldn't start in on the past with you and Trooper."

"It wasn't a simple issue, George. That was some serious war between Trooper and my dog. And you know what came out of that arrangement, don't you?"

"Please, Dad. Don't start in on the past."

"Well, I'll tell you. Arrangements came out of that arrangement."

"Dad, it's not the same issue."

"Have chemicals or weapons of any sorts come into fruition?"

"No."

"How about any physical fights?"

"Dad, I know where this is heading."

"Once there's any sign of weapons, then it's the same thing."

"Well, of course, Dad. If there is any weaponry or any suspicious activity, but so far—"

"Well, you know what my answer is already. It is never prudent at this juncture to wait."

"No, sirree."

"No, sirree indeed. If you ever need to arrange something, then look no further."

"Before I go, are you sure you have enough supplies."

"George, you know money is no object. Bye."

"Bye, Dad."

That night, in the kitchen, Trooper wolfs down his dinner of eggs. Laura watches as he devours every morsel. Yolks and whites are splattered on his face. Laura places her hand over her mouth when George enters with the dog on a leash. Trooper shoots up on top of his chair. He shakes, with snot dribbling from his nose and mouth.

"Dad, I hate that stupid dog."

"Trooper, cool it. The dog may be nicer to you if you call him ‘Tomfoolery!' Come down from the chair. The dog senses fear. Put your hand up to Tomfoolery. He needs to smell you; then he'll behave," George commands.

The dog softly pants.

"No, he'll just bite me."

"Don't fear. I have him contained on a leash. He won't dare attack you."

"Well, what if he does?"

"Then you won't have to live with Tomfoolery anymore. Arrangements have been made."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Trooper bends his quaking knees. He climbs down from the chair slowly. Trooper inches toward the dog. Laura hides her eyes, cupping her warm, wet palms over her eyelids.

"Stop, Trooper. Say, ‘I love you, Tomfoolery.' The dog needs to get acquainted with your voice," George says.

"I l-l-love you, Tomfoolery."

"I wove u," the dog responds.

The parents celebrate their victory.

"Trooper, go up to the doggy. Tomfoolery is a friend and needs to smell you," Laura says, crossing and swaying her fingers.

Trooper lollygags to Tomfoolery. Trooper snuggles the dog and receives warm slobber with the egg on his face. Secretly, George motions to Laura. They walk out, swinging the kitchen door softly. Outside the kitchen, George and Laura eavesdrop, leaning on the flimsy door.

"See, time cures all struggles and conflicts." George taps Laura's shoulder.

"Shh! I want to hear them, George."

Both parents are smitten when Trooper says, "Tomfoolery. Good-boy. Stay."

Laura embraces George. "I don't believe it. We get to keep him after all." George carries Laura off onto the love sofa in the next room.

Deep heavy barking sounds. A cling echoes. Next, a "Ruff, ruff, ruff." Finally, Trooper calls for help. By the time the parents reach the conflict in the kitchen, Trooper stands on the counter top with a humongous cleaver knife. His pants have a hole in his backside.

"Laura, this is the second time that devil has attacked! Never again! In the name of God, he has to go!" George says while grabbing Trooper.

"You're right! Violent!" Laura nods and throws up both her arms.

George places Trooper in his bedroom and tucks him in for the night. Laura waits in the kitchen for the resolution. After some time, George swings open the door. It freezes at a right angle.

"I don't know what else to do?" George says.

"We've tried everything. Now, all we can do is pray for the best," responds Laura.

Two days later, Tomfoolery sleeps on the front porch. Grandpa's gray Rolls Royce pulls up with two gray poles on the hood. On each pole, two tiny flags dance in the disturbing wind. Grandpa waits for the driver to open the car door. George opens the front door to the manor.

"Hey, Dad. Step inside the house. I need a moment alone with Tomfoolery," George says.

"Yeah, sure. I understand."

The door slams shut on the world. George caresses the dog's belly.

Tomfoolery awakes.

"Well, this is it boy. You know it's for your own good," George sobs.

The door busts down. Grandpa drags Trooper out by his ankles. Trooper struggles, throwing a tantrum.

"Dad! Why?" Trooper calls out.

George squints and turns. Tomfoolery wags his tongue out at Trooper. Grandpa hurls Trooper into the back seat. As the ignition fires, Trooper presses his face against the rear door window. His voice cannot be heard through the thick, glossy surface.

The Minnesota Twins mean business in their new commercial. Morneau, Cuddyer, and Mauer wear ultra-cool Twins fan gear. They begin strolling to the soundtrack of Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused." In slow motion, the camera catches each individual, like a shot out of Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. On location, at the under-construction open stadium, it's spring. Air gusts ripple Cuddyer's ringer t-shirt with the "TC" logo. He tosses a ball into the air playfully; then he sticks that tobacco rock ball into his mouth, suggesting the Twins will be outdoors and reckless, without restraints.

Morneau, the heavy hitter, walks with his bat resting on the back of his neck. His two hands grasp each bat end, as though bound to some ancient torture device, illustration the persecution of playing inside the big-topped circus atmosphere of the Dome. Mauer holds his bat like a cane, until he laughs. In one quick swoop, he kicks the barrel and catches the bat — no more crutches to endure for the Minnesota Twins. The franchise will be outdoors soon, and Hell will break loose.

With a fierce glare and clenched teeth, Morneau orders Pete to lay something into him. No one knows anyone by the name of Pete, meaning Morneau screwed his line in the commercial. They air it anyway to convey his tough-guy, testicular fortitude is what the fans have been hankering for.

Each player takes turns knocking home-runs.

Morneuo's blast lands upside First Avenue, proving the team will rock with legendary force in their new ballpark. Never, ever will the Twins be constrained by a demeaning domed novelty garbage pile. Cuddyer cranks one. The ball soars like a missile and decapitates Mary Tyler-Moore's statue, showing the world the franchise will not put up with junk, nor be treated as a bunch of nobodies. The Twins will turn heads or heads will be rolling, or we will be heads and shoulders above the rest and so on. Using both hands, Mauer hurls a damn boulder into the air.

It tumbles awkwardly. He grips his bat while the stone is in the air, and sends the rock out beyond to Mary Jo Copeland's shelter for the homeless. As suspected, Mary Jo is outside Sharing and Caring Hands, and, in the middle of the day, hustling a crack deal to a fiend.

Splat!

The homeless addict is rubbed out of existence by the powerful blast, symbolizing the Twins mean business in their new commercial.

Psychology class, at the Saint Paul campus, ended its session. Two students remained. He opened the door for her. She wore a baggy, off-white dress shirt with a narrow, new-wave neck tie. She approached. As if gentlemen's rules, he opened the door wider. She stopped a few paces from the door.

He extended his arm, as if displaying to her, go first. She tapped her foot, showing as if the nerve. He raised his brow as if he had all day. She folded her arms as if she couldn't take this bull anymore about men thinking women are weak. Ha! He shrugged as if, C'mon, just walk through the damn door. She placed her hand on her chest as if scumbags like you make this world what it is.

He brushed his sleeve, rubbing his eyes as if, Boo-hoo, you poor helpless feminist. Making a hacking sound, she stuck her tongue out as if barfing from chauvinism. He slammed the door as if declaring war. She scowled, shaking her finger as if there are other exits in this room, like windows, so would he hold one open for her, too? He pointed to the window as if to dare her. She made an oinker sound.

He clucked like a chicken. She threw her book bag at him. He mooed like a cow. She gnashed her teeth to a grind. He slapped his own face. She grunted like a Neanderthal. He screamed, "Oh, as if!"

She spun around three times and charged toward the window, while flailing her arms. He said, "Whatever."

She crashed through the top story window, smashing atop the sidewalk. He rushed to the window and said, "Oh, my Lord."

She rolled over and looked directly at him before dying in a dramatic pose as if Christianity is the only Afterlife. He exhaled as if in her Afterlife gateways open automatically, without anyone else there to hold them, at least he hoped.

 
After Hank Handy's audition to become KARM's next television meteorologist, Cotton Leggler held the responsibility of breaking the news to Hank.

Hank the "Handyman" Handy had, without a doubt, the main ingredient of meteorology, his name. Leggler was impressed that Hank didn't create such a catchy name on his own, like so many people did in the business.

Hank's resume highlighted relevant work experience. Hank's accomplishments touted a former magazine modeling career, a Yale doctorate in every discipline they offered, a gig doing weather reports for a top-notch radio show, and an inventor of several sophisticated computer programs specializing in meteorology, but Hank lacked one thing.

Hank Handy had no arms.

Leggler told Hank that without arms and hands, he could not use the clicker to change the green screen.

"I can use my teeth," said Hank.

"But, Mr. Handy, if you have the clicker in your mouth, then how can you speak clearly? Also, without arms and hands, you cannot point at different cities or show a storm's movement on the map. Most of all, how can you hold an umbrella when it's raining outside during the telecast?"

Hank stormed out of the room.

Leggler wanted to run after him and scold him for not ending the audition with a firm hand shake, yet Leggler could not run after Hank. Leggler got the double conundrum. After all, Leggler had no legs.