David Muschell
Shooting the Dog: A Play in One Act
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John: Hey, fella. Yeah. How ya
doin’? You ready to be shot, huh? Yeah.
Good boy. Now, lay down. Good boy. Irene: How’s that? John: Good.
Thanks. The stars are
beginning. See? Irene: Mmm-hmm.
Wouldn’t you like a glass? John: Naw.
We’ve packed them all. Irene: Speaking of that. John: I’ll get back to it. Just taking a break. Irene: I still can’t believe they did it. Just closed the department down. John: Boom. Irene: Let all of you go. John: Let us go. That’s a nice way of saying it. “We’re going to let you go...Let my people go! I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me
go!” It’s economics. Look, shut up, shut up, shut up. Irene: I’m sorry. John: It’s OK.
Hey, anyway, the rent on this place is too high to be this far out
from the city. Let’s see if we can
own something in our next life. Irene: Sure.
Moving back to town...Maybe we can buy a bathroom. A bathroom with bunkbeds. John: And a TV. Irene: And a stove. John: Refrigerator. Irene: All the walls: cabinets. John: It’ll be all the rage. Roll out of bed into the shower. Sit on the john while the eggs are
cooking, watching Katie Couric before work.
We’ll invent a sofa john! Fold
it out in the evening, lift it up in the morning— Irene: You lift it up. John: Maybe a double-seated thing! The family that shits together— Irene: Please! John: They’ll name it after me: The John-John. Irene: And you’ll get up to use it in the middle
of the night, and I’ll be on the floor. John: Could you turn up the music? Irene: Lazy. John: Hey, big fella. How ya been doing?
Yeah. Irene: You’re going
to get all dirty rolling around with him like that. John, you’re playing too rough. John: I’m going to have to shoot him, you know. Irene: Are you still talking that? YOU shut up. John: No.
I’m serious. We can’t take him
with us. Irene: You should have never got that dog. John: I wanted a dog. I wanted to live in the country and have a dog. Irene: I know.
I’m sorry. John: Don’t keep saying that! Irene: Well, I am, dammit. And you don’t have to keep saying you’re
going to shoot the dog. You sound
like some—some— John: Some what? Irene: You were lucky to find another job so
quickly. John: Lucky as hell. Irene: You ready to get back to work? There’s three or four more boxes to pack
before we’re through. John: You see, I just can’t leave him at the
pound. That’s not right. I just go out with the gun. He looks at me with that dog smile, sits, wags
his tail, and waits. One shot. It’s over. He doesn’t even feel it.
Leaving him at the pound, he’ll get confused. He’ll pace around and wonder...wonder what
I’m doing to him, where I am, why this stranger is waiting to gas him. Irene: Do dogs wonder? John: Hell, yes. So I kill him, bury him, say something over him. He can forgive that. Irene: You’re being ridiculous. John: No, I’m not. Irene: You can’t kill him. John: I can. Irene: No, because I won’t let you. John: They won’t let us have him at the new
apartment. Irene: Your parents— John: CanNOT take care of him. And I WILL not go to them like some— Irene: Some what? John: He’s my dog. Irene: Well, you’re not going to shoot him and
that’s that. He’s my dog, too. I’m getting damn tired of this, John. “My house, my dog, my job, my wife—” John: My life. Irene: Our. John: MY job. That’s gone. There’s a
new one. I’VE got to move. Are you going to come with me? Irene: Things will be OK. John: Be right back. Irene: Where are you going? John: I go to my namesake. You will know me by the sound of the
flush. Irene: Hello there, boy. No, I’m not going to play with you. Now, sit, and I’ll pet you. Good boy.
You put that thing back. John: Have you ever felt like it was just too
embarrassing to stay alive. Just too
damn embarrassing. Irene: You’re not making any sense. John: No.
I mean it. Life...it’s what
doesn’t make sense. Way back
when...just a kid...I said, “I’ll be a fireman, a cowboy, an railroad
engineer!” What did you say you would
be? Irene: Way back when? John: Way back when. Irene: A nurse...a teacher...a mommy. John: Somewhere down the line we were able to
switch it around: You could be the
cowboy. I could be the nurse. That was OK. Then we get here and what do we do? Work at some job. Hours
and hours and hours. Just something to
get money. After hours and hours and
hours, they come up and say, “We’re sorry, but we’ve got to let you go. You and you and you...you’re low on the
list. We have to cut.” And then YOU’VE got to turn around to
Uncle Bud and say, “I got laid off.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” You’ve
got to fill out the application:
“Last employment...reason for leaving: Laid off.” Sort of the
roughage of the job market. THEY—they
ought to go around with you: “Uncle
Bud, we’re sure sorry about embarrassing your nephew this way. He’s a fine fellow, and it’s all our
fault.” You know, I can see why
people commit suicide. They get
embarrassed about living...And it’s so damned easy. You take something like this.
Make one or two little finger movements, and it’s all over. That tastes awful. Irene: Don’t do that! Don’t ever do that! John: I won’t have to if you hit me like that
again. Irene: I’m sorry. No, I’m not. Don’t you
dare do that again! John: Why not? Irene: It’s so...so inconsiderate! You don’t see. They laid me off, too.
Damn your male ego. John: The music’s stopped. Irene: Yes. John: I think it’s time to do it. Irene: No. John: Yes. Irene: Idiot. John: Move. Irene: All right. John: There. Irene: Good-bye. John: What? Irene: Good-bye. John: He’s a sack of fur. A sack of fur we feed and play with. Irene: You hunt. John: We pretend to hunt. Irene: I can talk to him. He likes me. John: He likes me, too! Damn!
He’s been your surrogate child. Irene: Our. John: Because you didn’t want a real one. Irene: We couldn’t afford it. John: That’s not it. Irene: It would change our lives too much. You said it was all right with you. John: I don’t think a baby can have just one
person wanting it. Irene: You never told me that you felt— John: It might have made you do it just for
me. I was hoping you’d say—you’d
change. Irene: So you got the dog. John: But you wouldn’t let him come inside. Irene: You know why. John: Hairs everywhere. Irene: We live in the country. He should be outside. John: You still make me keep him in the pen. Irene: He jumps up on people...bothers the
neighbors. John: He’s friendly. Irene: What are you saying? John: You don’t want me to shoot him? Irene: No. John: Do you really care? Irene: I don’t want you to shoot anything. John: Do you really care? Irene: Yes. John: You
picked the apartment. Irene: We picked it. John: No pets allowed. Irene: None of them do. John: No pets or children. Irene: That’s the way they all are. John: Not all. Irene: You didn’t say anything. John: Didn’t you realize? Irene: Why do you do this? John: What? Irene: Hold in what you really want...make me
feel guilty later... John: I want what you want. Irene: Hell! John: Hell. Irene: You wanted the country. John: Yes. Irene: You wanted the dog. John: Yes. Irene: All right. I’ll shoot him...All right.
I couldn’t do it. John: The ground is bleeding. Irene: All right. Do you really want to have a baby? John: Well, I really don’t know what they would
say on the new job when I started swelling up. Irene: Be serious. I mean it. Do you? John: Do you? Irene: I asked you first. John: Well, you are right...It would completely change
our lives. I mean, it drives me crazy
when Bill and Maureen come over with their little Daniel. “It’s time for the Baby Show! WATCH as he toddles innocently about
grabbing everything in sight.
Yah! There goes the flower
vase! SEE John and Irene scramble
about putting everything on a higher shelf.
LISTEN as Maureen goes on and on and on about what Daniel did at the
breakfast table, in the bathtub, at the grocery store, in the car!” I love the girl, but it wears when the
conversation deals with which disposable diaper was on sale this week. “SEE four adults devote total attention to
a two-year-old. ‘Don’t Daniel. Put
that down, Daniel. No, Daniel. Good, Daniel.’ LISTEN to Maureen give us more lessons in Baby Talk!” Irene: That drives me crazy! “Did Danums mess his wittle diappies?” John: He is their total life at this point, and
it has to be the same way if not worse when they’re at home. “Yes, it’s the Baby Show! Ah, the smell of the urine, the roar of
the unfed.” Irene: So YOU don’t really want a child. John: I didn’t say that. Think about a couple of years down the
road. Daniel will be growing
up...learning...saying more than three words at a time. Actually communicating. Wanting to go out and play with
Dad...Bringing a little Valentine home to Mom. Bill and Maureen are sacrificing during these first couple of
years...starting with his birth when he was just this big blob of needs and
going through this period when he gets into everything and falls down every
five seconds...but soon he’s going to be fun. He’ll almost be a real human. Irene: Then it’s school clothes and little league
practice and going to church— John: We don’t go to church. Irene: Now. John: Yeah, I guess we would. Irene: Grandparents would go crazy wanting to
visit—wanting us to visit them. And
think of him wanting to borrow the car or get one of his own...and then
college! We can’t afford it. John: Hold it, Irene. He’s not going to pop out and immediately demand tuition. Irene: I know.
John: I went to church all the time when I was a
kid. Irene: Me, too. John: Ever Sunday morning: eating a special breakfast, polishing
shoes, a hot bath, getting all dressed up, then going into the big, warm
church, and trying not to fall asleep.
I’d go through the hymnal and see who wrote which songs when... Irene: What kind of special breakfast? John: Well, my father cooked Sunday breakfast,
so we’d have pancakes or hash browns or waffles with scrambled eggs and
cheese and toast and cocoa. Irene: No wonder you’d get sleepy after all that. John: Then there’d be Sunday dinner with the
grandparents. Irene: My grandmother always cooked a big ham,
except for Thanksgiving and Christmas...So you DO want a baby. John: I don’t know...that’s my answer...Now, do
YOU? Irene: I’ve avoided talking about this...I’ve
always been able to say, “When this gets settled, we’ll talk more about
it. Or when we’re through with this
payment, we’ll see what we think.” I
have thought about it—thought and thought...I just don’t think that, well,
that I could give a child the kind of love it needs. John: Come on, Irene. Irene: No.
Now, don’t interrupt me if you want to know how I feel. A baby needs a loving, caring mother, and
I just don’t think I have what it takes.
I can’t even love the dog after two years, and sometimes it takes all
I have to love you. John: Thanks a lot. Irene: I don’t mean it that way. John: Hey, I know I’m not the easiest person to
live with. Irene: It’s me!
This is what I’m trying to tell you dammit! It’s me. I’m missing
something—some ingredient that lets me love without having to think about
it. Other people seem to have
whatever it is. They can raise
families and have loving relationships...With me...It was even hard to have
friends—real friends—I never felt like I was giving enough and sometimes I
didn’t want to. I was suspicious on
dates, and I’m sure I turned off a lot of nice you men with me coldness. John: You were never really cold with me. Irene: I didn’t have time to be. You made me laugh too much. You wanted to know so much about me...and
that made me want to know so much about you. John: Now, this is more like it. Irene: But I am cold...I mean, there is a cold
place inside me that doesn’t trust, doesn’t want to reveal, doesn’t want to
be weak. John: How can revealing make you weak? Irene: Oh, you know. You tell someone about yourself—something personal—and they’ll
start to act so superior, like “I know something secret about you now. I’ve got the upper hand.” John: Everyone’s not like that. Irene: Yes, they are. Even you. John: Me? Irene: Yes.
When you get this “Look, I KNOW you.
You can’t handle this...or...You’re going to act this way, I know”
attitude. It can burn me up. But no one REALLY knows me...not all the
way. John: Must be lonely. Irene: Yes. John: I’m sorry. Irene: Why? John: That you think I’m a know-it-all about
you. Irene: Hell. John: Hell.
You aren’t cold. Irene: Yes. John: It’s hard for me to love, too. Irene: How? John: Why do you think I wanted a dog? Irene: Because you’re still a boy. John: Because dogs can love so
unconditionally. You feed them, play
with them, pet them: they love you. I don’t have to worry: “Does he love me or not?” It’s there in his eyes, his wagging tail,
his eagerness. And...when you know
you’re loved so...it’s easier to love back. Irene: He doesn’t love me. John: He likes you. Irene: So...did you get him because...you needed
more love? John: We all need more love. Irene: I mean...because I wasn’t— John: Oh, come on, now, Irene, don’t get back to
that “being cold” junk again. I got
him because...well, because... Irene: Because why? John: With no moon out the stars stand out like
glitter up there in the black. Come
on, let’s move away from the houselight and look at them a minute. You won’t see them like this in the
city. You ought to see them,
Irene. They’re crystal out there. Irene: Because why? John: Because I needed him! I don’t know. I need that smaller heart...that smaller soul...maybe it makes
me feel bigger. I don’t know! Irene: John, I don’t want to have a baby. John: ALL RIGHT! Irene: John...we’ll keep the dog. John: How? Irene: We’ll stay here. You know Mr. Andrews would like to have us stay. John: It’s a thirty mile commute to the new job. Irene: That’s all right. It’ll be worth it. We’ll just get up a few minutes earlier
and eat supper a few minutes later. John: What about our deposit? Can we get it back? Irene: I don’t know. We can try. John: Dammit, Irene. Irene: I’m sorry about choosing that
apartment...very sorry. It—will you
forgive me? John: Hell. Irene: I...I want to get a job, too. John: Doing what? Irene: I don’t know. Would that be OK with you? John: What kind of thing would you look for? Irene: I was a waitress when I was in school. John: No! Irene: Teacher’s aide, grocery store clerk, department
store—Just because you’ve never seen me work, I’m not helpless! John: I
know. I know. Irene: I wish I could tell you some dramatic
story: I was abused as a child,
beaten, assaulted—that’s why I don’t want children...I was adopted from a
war-torn country where I almost starved...My ovaries are the size of pinto
beans, and I would die from pregnancy...Maybe I will change...there’s still
time...learn to love better... John: All right. Irene: All right? John: All right to it all. I’m over a barrel...I’m going to bed. Come on.
If we’re going to eat breakfast tomorrow, we’ve got a couple of boxes
to unpack. Irene: Yes. John: You coming, honey? Irene: Yes. Return to David Muschell’s Faculty
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