The Commiseratorium

by Diane Wald

A long time ago, I had three dogs, named Vera, Chuck, and Dave, after the grandchildren in that Beatles’ song. Vera was an Afghan Hound who looked like an indie movie seductress. Chuck was a beagle, but he didn’t howl much, thank goodness. I always suspected he wanted to be a tightrope-walking dog, but I couldn’t get him to try it. Dave had gone to Harvard with his previous owner. He was dark grey, tall and serious, a very mixed breed gentleman with huge brown eyes, tufts of fur growing out of his ears, and a pot belly, who preferred bedding down on piles of books to napping on any other kind of mattress.

I also used to have a mynah bird who acted out scenes from popular movies. Okay, you know that’s not true—I was just testing you. The truth is that it’s me. I’m the one who likes to act out scenes from movies, especially colossal efforts like Ben Hur and The Godfather. I’m not sure why I do it. I can remember my grandfather’s Pontiac having a hood ornament in the shape of a flying lady that resembled Kate Winslet at the prow of the Titanic. That might have something to do with it.

I used to gather my dogs together in my living room at the end of a hard day and tell them all my troubles. I called it The Commiseratorium, and I would sip a cup of green tea or sometimes a glass of vodka, and they would each enjoy a chew-toy, or, on Friday nights, an actual treat made from some disgusting thing that dogs like to eat. I found them to be far more compassionate and discerning than any of my other friends. “Chuck,” I might say, for example, “Gayle was very thoughtless today. She hurt my feelings.” Chuck would put down his chew-toy, rise from his favorite spot on the carpet, and place his sweet head on my lap. Both Vera and Dave had similar reactions when required. Of course I offered to hear any complaints or observations the dogs wanted to share, but they did so only infrequently, and usually it was something we could dispense of with a few pats and a promise that I would improve.

One day I had an especially troubling story to tell my dogs, but I was unable to get into the mood to do it until I had improvised the role of Scully in The X-Files. I asked Dave to play Mulder, which he was happy to do, and we parried each other’s questions until Chuck yawned and I knew we should get down to business.

“Listen, you guys,” I started, (Vera didn’t mind that I included her in “guys”)… and just then the phone rang. It was my friend Francine, so I knew it would not be a short call. I’d known Francine for years, and truly liked her, but she also drove me batty. Francine complained constantly about her complexion, hair, weight, and general state of health more than anyone else I knew. I told the dogs that I’d summon them back in when I could.  

Francine had been to the doctor, which was not an unusual occurrence. Dr. Sangre told her, she reported, that unless she started a strict regimen of exercise immediately, she would probably have a heart attack sooner than later. Francine was about to join the local gym, so that she could become one of those trophy-winning lady weightlifters. Did I want to join her? I demurred, citing my various phobias about germs, crowds, noise, sweat, and a couple of other items. 

“Francine,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I really have to go. There’s someone at the door.” I hung up even as I heard her saying that I could just put her on hold and go see who it was. I knew who it was: nobody. I called in the dogs, who took their usual places.

I needed a little warmup before reentering The Commiseratorium, so I decided to act out some of the dialogue Marisa Tomei so brilliantly articulated in My Cousin Vinny. I know, I know, that’s not exactly a blockbuster, but it’s one of my favorites. I set the scene just a tiny bit so that the dogs would understand that this was Mona Lisa Vito imagining what a deer might think about Vinny’s hunting attire.  

“Now I ask ya,” I said, with genuine passion, “would you give a fuck what kind of pants the son of a bitch who shot you was wearing?”

Vera thought I should put a little more gusto into the Jersey accent, but I didn’t want to overdo it. The boys were delighted and panted for more, but I wanted to return to my earlier effort to share my most recent tale of woe with the group.

“You guys,” I began again, “this is what’s been bothering me all day. I bought a bag of avocados on sale yesterday, and the first one I opened up was all brown inside.” I waited for appropriate reactions like rage or disgust, but all that happened was that my dear Dave got up from his pile of old poetry anthologies and walked slowly out of the room. Vera and Chuck were just staring at me. I thought perhaps I’d selected the wrong movie to serve as an appetizer. 

“Okay,” I said. “I’m getting the sense that you think I’m too petty. You think I shouldn’t be upset about something of that caliber, but my god, you guys, it was terrible.” I felt all sweaty, as if I might not be able to do any more movie reenactments for a while. Vera had gone back to sleep, but good old Chuck came up and put his head on my lap.

“I’m glad somebody understands,” I said, caressing his broad brow. He pulled his head back and discharged a long and deafening howl, then walked into the kitchen. While he was howling, Vera had gone upstairs.

I was alone. I thought about how useful their counsel was. I thought about calling Francine back but decided against it. 

I had a lot to be grateful for.

Bio:
Diane Wald is a poet and novelist who has published five chapbooks, four full-length poetry collections, two novels, and more than 250 poems in literary magazines. Her most recent books are The Warhol Pillows (poetry), Gillyflower (novel), and My Famous Brain (novel). Her next novel, The Bayrose Files, is forthcoming from Regal House Publishing.