Dogs in the City: From Scraps to Steaks

Copyright © 2013 Avril Patterson-Fecker, avrilfecker@gmail.com

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-6699-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6701-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6700-5 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923557

iUniverse rev. date: 03/12/2013

Contents

Preface –

Chapter One –

In which our Hero, the Worldly McMurray, Is Taught Something about the World

Chapter Two –

McMurray Strikes Out on His Own

Chapter Three –

Our Hero Learns it Takes all Kinds

Chapter Four –

In Which We Meet Our Heroine, the Fabulous Miss Fifi

Chapter Five –

Our Tale Unfolds

Chapter Six –

To Forgive is Human?

Chapter Seven –

Mrs. VanCandor, Take a Bow Wow Wow!

Chapter Eight –

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Chapter Nine –

It’s a Dog’s Life

Chapter Ten –

Moving Up and Moving On

Preface –

In any given country or potentate, there is a ruler; be it king or queen, prime minister or president. He or she exercises rule, imposing or enforcing laws, seeing to the health and well-being of those over whom they rule. But on the Island of Manhattan, no such single man or woman holds such sway, though many seem to think they do. That the Island’s two-legged inhabitants presume to have control over the goings-on there, presume to be the masters of their domain, would be terrible arrogance – if these humans weren’t so charming and quaint. Manhattan’s bipedal residents are free to think they control their destiny, but their ability to do so – to think that such an outlandish supposition is true – is solely due to the grace and charity of those who really run Manhattan: the creatures commonly referred to as man’s best friend.

Oh, you sir, or ma’am on the other end of the leash, if you only knew. If you only knew.

Chapter One –

In which our Hero, the Worldly McMurray, Is Taught Something about the World

McMurray stretched his sturdy limbs and let out a contented half-sigh, half-growl. Oh, but the sun felt so good. He lay drowsily on the ground, basking in the heat of the sunlit sidewalk. Although he preferred to rest on his side, he soon rolled onto his back so as to allow the warm, morning breeze to tickle his ample belly hairs. Then, as he always did after a good rest, he extended his four legs and turned over until he was standing on them, and shook out his full, reddish-brown coat of hair.

"Now, that was a nice little catnap," McMurray chuckled to himself.

Catnap. What a funny thing for McMurray to take pleasure in. After all, McMurray was a dog. And not just any dog – McMurray was a dog’s dog. If McMurray’s pedigree were to be officially labeled, (and it had been in so far as a mutt’s can be), he would be deemed a Labrador-German shepherd mix. But a good deal of other breeds had been added to his lineage throughout the years, including Irish setter, which explained his name. It was the terrier in McMurray which was responsible for his relatively small stature.

Just as humans sometimes blame their relatives for what they perceive to be their less than desirable traits, McMurray possessed characteristics which he found less than appealing. He couldn’t resist frequently stopping to admire the reflection of his wavy, lustrous coat in store windows, and the way his shaggy tail curled ever so delicately at the tip. But whenever he did he was reminded of how he hated his pointy ears. Then again, he conceded, he did have excellent hearing. And his black nose, while often too wet and shiny for his taste, did provide him with a more heightened sense of smell than others possessed. It was McMurray’s stature which he resented most – that bit of terrier in him which had given him shorter legs than a dog as sophisticated as he should possess. They weren’t overly short, per se, but sometimes when he saw a purebred German shepherd walk by, tall and regal, he recognized his ears, and wished he had also inherited those long, lean legs.

The stockier legs McMurray did inherit had served him well during his nearly eight years in the world. While he saw other dogs his age being wheeled down the sidewalk in manmade contraptions designed to compensate for bad hips and weak backs, McMurray still had a bounce in his step – and a growl at the ready. He’d been on his own for a long time, and in those years he had heard and seen it all.

McMurray was born on the streets, so to speak, although literally speaking he was born in a basement. His mother did an admirable job of fending for him and his five siblings. She had carved out a nice little corner of the world for them in the crowded cellar of a brownstone on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The homeowners, during a mad spat of redecorating, had tossed a treasure trove of unwanted items down there, most of which were in good condition – rolled up carpets, boxes of old curtains, outdated children’s toys. That basement held everything a pup needed to stay warm and entertained. There was even a leaky pipe which provided plenty of drinking water.

McMurray’s mother was able to come and go as she pleased, having figured out how to push open and then reclose an old basement window that led to a discrete, concrete staircase – which in turn led to the narrow alley between their building and the next. In this alley, a great deal of perfectly tasty garbage was stored for pick-up in rather flimsy containers.

It bears repeating that this was the Upper West Side of Manhattan. While in places its population represented humans from varied walks of life, the brownstones on the street where McMurray was born housed not multiple families, but single, privileged ones. These families had very nice things, and ate very fine food. Luckily, they didn’t eat a lot of it.

Once McMurray and his siblings were weaned, their mother, who was overprotective and not comfortable allowing her pups to venture outside just yet, would journey up to the alley and return bearing discarded food from some of Manhattan’s best restaurants. At a very young age, McMurray developed a taste for medium rare filet mignon, pecan crusted brook trout, and pasta carbonara. Every Friday night, the people whose basement McMurray and his family inhabited dined on high-quality Chinese take-out. And every Saturday morning, McMurray enjoyed his favorite dish – moo shuu pork. Luckily, their host family didn’t seem to believe in leftovers.

As her pups grew, McMurray’s mother had to face the fact that she couldn’t keep them in the basement forever. As spacious as it was, there wasn’t much light down there, and her offspring were getting curious about the world outside. Even though they knew they shouldn’t make a sound, for fear of getting evicted, sometimes they couldn’t contain their youthful barks when she returned from the alley. They yapped at her excitedly, begging to learn what lay beyond the chalky brick walls which contained them.

McMurray’s mother was also getting antsy. Since she had given birth to her pups, she had confined herself to the basement and the alley above. She was afraid that if she ventured further, something might happen to her and she would be separated from her boys. She was, after all, a runaway. The people with whom she’d been living, who owned her, had no interest in taking care of a litter of puppies. Before she took up residence with them, she’d lived with a woman her new owners called grandma, but whom McMurray’s mother knew as Nanny. Nanny called McMurray’s mother Honey – the new people referred to her as that dog.

"I can’t believe Grandma made us promise to take care of that dog without telling us she’s pregnant!" the female shouted.

That’s our out then. We promised we’d take care of one mutt, not a litter of ‘em. As soon as they’re born, we’ll drop ‘em off at the shelter, the male told her.

But the cost! The female was always talking about how much things cost.

Grandma left us a lot of money for that dog. There’s plenty to cover the vet bills and we’ll still have some cash left over for us. The male always found a way to pay for things.

McMurray’s mother knew her situation was dire. Even taking her puppies out of