Dog's Life: Lifestyle
At Tennessee’s Dollywood, there’s something for everyone, even the family dog
Visiting eastern Tennessee and the Great Smoky Mountains this summer? If so, be on the lookout for Dollywood, the Pigeon Forge, Tenn., amusement park named for country music star Dolly Parton. It has something for everyone, even the family dog. Though only service animals are permitted inside the park, your pet can wait for you in comfort at Doggywood, a climate-controlled indoor day-care facility.
With both kennel runs (4 x 6 feet, $12) or cottages ($30, with comfortable beds and faux fireplaces) in a rustic cabin setting, Doggywood provides your dog with a place to spend a relaxing day while you enjoy the roller coasters and live entertainment. You can even take time out to exercise your dog in the dog-walking area next to the facility without leaving the park. These accommodations are daytime only (no overnights), and space is limited—call early to make a reservation.
Dog's Life: Lifestyle
In Rabbit Hash, Ky., the top dog is …well … a dog
Rabbit Hash, a small hamlet on the banks of the Ohio River, is home to Kentucky’s oldest continuously operated general store, and the country’s only dog mayor: Junior, a 12-year-old black Lab who assumed office in 2004. He is, in fact, Rabbit Hash’s second canine mayor; the first was Goofy, who took office in 1998 and served until his death in 2001. In the election, Junior faced a pig, a donkey and a fellow canine. Votes cost $1 each, and the hamlet’s citizens could vote as many times as they wished—the election was a fundraiser for historic preservation.
Junior roams freely around the 30 acres he shares with canine family members and Jane Cochran and her husband Randy. “He really has no duties as mayor” and likes it that way, says Cochran. “He has no other political ambitions.¨
Still, Junior makes public appearances and uses his office to promote good causes; he is spokespet for a number of charities, including the Northern Kentucky Women’s Crisis Center’s pet protection program. Junior is also lending his name to a line of hot sauces sold at the general store.
Cochran says Junior is enjoying his time in the spotlight. “When you get out his kerchief to wear to events, he gets very excited.”
UPDATE: Following Mayor Junior’s regrettable demise in May 2008, Rabbit Hash elected a new mayor, Lucy Lou, a red and white Border Collie, who was victorious in a candidate field that included 10 dogs, one cat, one opossum, one jackass, and one human. RIP, Mayor Junior (1995—2008).
Culture: Science & History
A small orphaned Terrier was the first dog to fly over the North Pole
The annals of polar exploration are filled with tales of canine heroes who earned their fame by blazing trails and tracking through the wilderness. But one of the most beloved polar characters on four paws in the 1920s was a fierce little black-and-white Fox Terrier named Titina, who gained her glory by sitting on her master’s lap.
Titina was the inseparable companion of one of the tragic figures of Arctic exploration, Umberto Nobile, the Italian inventor and airship pilot who flew over the top of the world in the dirigible Norge in 1926. At first revered as an Italian national hero, and then reviled, Nobile would be abandoned by almost all the world, except for his most loyal crew member, a faithful companion who stood only 10 inches high, weighed about 12 pounds and once barked down a polar bear.
Umberto Nobile said Titina found him in 1925 as he walked the streets of Rome preparing for his inaugural trans-polar flight. She was a starving little puppy, wandering lost and alone, only a few months old. The skinny orphan stood on her hind legs, and “with her fore paws beat the air beseechingly” until he patted her on the head. A boy passing by was whistling a popular tune of the time, “La Titina,” and so she became his Titina. The homeless dog had found her home, and wherever Nobile went, she would always follow. “The man lived a life of chance and of daring,” one journalist wrote, “and the dog also.”
Life with Nobile would take Titina literally to the end of the Earth, a notable achievement, especially for a dog who hated to fly. But as much as she disliked flying, she simply hated being separated from her master even more. Nobile claimed he had no intention of taking Titina on board the historic flight across the North Pole in 1926, but Titina would not have it any other way. Titina—“wild with joy” and wearing an Italian sash of green, red and white around her neck—was pressed against Nobile’s chest as thousands cheered their departure from Rome. As the airship headed north, Titina stepped into the annals of polar history.
Nobile was both the designer and chief pilot of the Norge, while the commander of the expedition was the Norwegian adventurer, Roald Amundsen. Amundsen, to put it politely, was furious that Nobile had brought Titina along because the conditions on board the airship were so incredibly crowded.
The crew of 16 men and one dog were crammed into a tiny living compartment about six feet square that hung beneath the giant bag of hydrogen. There was literally no room in the gondola for anyone to sit down (except Titina, who lay flat on a stack of clothes and supplies). Antonio Quattrini, an Italian journalist on board, said the only way he could take notes was to crouch down; however, that proved hazardous because Titina “has taken a ferocious dislike to my notebook. Whenever she sees it in my hands she wants to tear it to bits.” But Quattrini loved the little Terrier nonetheless—calling her an outrageous flirt—and wrote her official biography for the New York Times. In Quattrini’s words, Titina was “a dog marked by destiny, a dog of greatest character.”
As the world followed the Norge’s polar journey, fascination with Titina grew. One dispatch written “in answer to the queries of a great many persons, particularly women” eager to hear news of Nobile’s dog, reported: “Over the Pole she wore clothes—a red woolen jersey—and during the greatest part of the flight she slept, covered by Colonel Nobile’s sleeping bag ….”
The flight of the Norge made aviation history, and Nobile and Titina became international celebrities. She accompanied him on their world tour, greeting and posing with the likes of Mussolini, the royal family of Norway, New York Mayor Jimmy Walker, Rudolph Valentino and even the president of the United States. Nobile so loved the little dog that he refused to be photographed unless Titina was with him. He seemingly went nowhere without his pet, including the Metropolitan Opera—where Titina was forced to wait downstairs until the performance was over—and the White House—where Titina peed on the carpet during their meeting with President Calvin Coolidge. (Apparently Titina’s indiscretion loosened up “Silent Cal,” because one attendant said afterward he had never seen the President so “good-humored and chatty.”)
Given the success of the Norge flight, Mussolini made Nobile a general and commanded him to build another airship, the Italia. Instead of promoting fascism as Mussolini intended, however, the Italia would become synonymous with disaster. It crashed in a storm over the frozen wastes of the Arctic in 1928, and half of the crew was killed. Titina and General Nobile, who broke his leg in the crash, were among the survivors.
In the wake of the catastrophe, Nobile’s reputation and character were also shattered. Not only did many blame him personally for the crash, but most importantly, he was charged with abandoning his men; he had allowed himself and Titina to be rescued first, leaving the rest of the survivors behind on the drifting ice pack for weeks. Disgraced and disowned by his native country, he was forced to resign his commission.
By the time Nobile died in 1978 at age 93, he had spent 50 years trying to salvage his tarnished reputation, writing six books trying to explain the Italia disaster. His last, The Red Tent, became a Hollywood film starring Sean Connery, and featured a little Terrier as Titina, the only member of Nobile’s crew who never abandoned him.
North Carolina student takes inspiration from A Dog’s Life
Last Christmas, 11-year-old Mark Federman received A Dog’s Life: Autobiography of a Stray, by Ann M. Martin, as a gift. His foster mother, Cristina Skillin-Federman, thought he’d like it because “he really loves animals.”
Fast forward to this year, when, as part of NPR’s “In Character” series, fifth-graders at his school (Isaac Dickson Elementary in Ashville, N.C.) wrote about imaginary characters they most admired, and recorded their essays at the local public radio station. When it came time for Mark to select his imaginary character, he knew exactly who to chose: Squirrel, the narrator of A Dog’s Life. www.scholastic.com/dogslife/ As a puppy, Squirrel had been separated from her mother and brother; over the years, she had known longing and abandonment as well as comfort and kindness, and in the book, she tells how she found her way.
Mark entered the North Carolina social service system four years ago, and in that time, had been in nine foster homes. And, like Squirrel’s, Mark’s story has a happy ending. The Federmans have adopted both Mark and his younger brother, and are in the process of adopting his older brother as well.
Read more about it and listen to Mark read his essay.
Dog's Life: Travel
California’s coastal paradise
Given that it was the first county in the U.S. to ban GMOs (genetically modified organisms), has more organic grape acreage than anyplace else in the world and some of the world’s tallest trees—to name a just a few of its natural wonders—it’s no surprise that Mendocino County in northern California is one of the most dog-friendly spots on Earth.
In most places, the only hotels that allow dogs are at one extreme or the other in terms of amenities. Not so in Mendocino County, where you can chose among cozy B&Bs, luxury resorts and everything in between, including a wide variety of vacation rentals that welcome dogs with open arms—many offer dog blankets, towels for sandy paws, bowls, organic and locally made treats, and more in their special canine welcome kits.
Long car trips with a pent-up pooch can be trying, but Mendocino County is only 100 miles north of San Francisco, a straight shot up Highway 101. It took 35 minutes door-to-door from my house in the East Bay to Hopland, the epicenter of Mendocino’s increasingly popular, but still uncrowded, wine country. Wine tasting mit pooch is an unexpected pleasure. The rule here is to ask first, but since most of the wineries in the county are small and family-owned, tasting is still often gratis and pets are generally considered part of the family.
A few miles farther north is Ukiah, county seat and home of numerous fun shopping opportunities, including the four-paws-up Mendocino Barkery, which features organic treats and food as well as sporty pet accessories and necessities. Pick up a picnic at Sushi Time, the new extension to the popular and authentic Japanese restaurant, Oco Time, and head to Lake Mendocino for a nice long walk. On Thursday nights, locals in the know bring their dogs to Tierra, an art gallery and tasting room that pours select local wines in their garden.
Get up early the next day and head west toward the Pacific Ocean. If you select Route 128, you’ll also pass quite a few wineries. Once at the coast, go north to the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens and stroll its 47 lush acres; the gardens front directly on the ocean and are meccas for both whale- and bird-watchers. Dogs (on leash) and picnickers are welcome.
Most of the coastal properties are dog-friendly. I scored a room at the Stanford Inn by the Sea, another pet paradise. The inn is right on the edge of Mendocino Village, and since owners Joan and Jeff Stanford are animal lovers, the rambling property is home to dogs, cats, horses and llamas, among other creatures. Their in-house vegetarian restaurant, Ravens, features an indoor section where guests are welcome to dine with pets, directly outside of the main dining room. “We have always traveled with our dogs,” says Jeff Stanford, “Over the years, we have hosted a variety of nonhuman visitors, including dogs and cats, of course, but also iguanas, parrots, Vietnamese pot-belly pigs and a tortoise.” Stanford Inn is warm and inviting, with the comfortable atmosphere of a rich friend’s well-appointed country home, right down to details like a freshly built fire in each room and friendly resident cats and dogs lounging in front of the large main hearth in the lobby.
There are also plenty of options for outdoor activities as well. Catch-a-Canoe and Bicycles Too, right up from the inn on Big River, welcomes dogs on most of their larger boats and provides dog lifejackets. The Big River Conservation Project, an unprecedented public/private partnership, has linked more than 7,334 acres of estuary and surrounding forestland, creating a haven for birds, 60,000 acres of connected wildlife habitat and over 100 miles of trails. On-leash dogs are permitted (maximum leash length is six feet), except in specifically marked areas.
Most of the Mendocino’s state parks have the six-foot-leash policy but if off-leash is what you need, hit Noyo Harbor Beach in Fort Bragg. There, thanks to cooperation between the City of Fort Bragg and the Mendocino Dog Owners Group (MCDOG), your best friend can romp and roll in the sand unencumbered.
Canine animation 101
We need to be dogmatic here.
Jean-Luc Godard once said that any discussion of cinema must begin with D.W. Griffith. Good enough. Any article on the animated dog must start with Pluto.
He was the gentle pup who started a revolution. For film historians, he’s remembered as a breakthrough in character animation, the first cartoon personality actually to register thoughts and share inner feelings. But for dog partisans, he is (or should be) the canonical cartoon canine, the first animated character to move and breathe like an actual dog.
During Pluto’s long heyday in the 1930s and early 1940s, he redefined the way cartoon animals could be portrayed. His famous predecessors, whether Mickey Mouse, Felix the Cat or Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, were never meant to represent actual creatures. Their behavior and situational gags had nothing to do with the way mice, cats or rabbits actually behaved. But Pluto not only moved like a dog—four paws on the ground, his only sounds barks and growls, his main preoccupations sniffing, scratching and exploring—he actually seemed to think and react like a dog.
To watch Pluto battle a magnetized plate in Donald and Pluto or contemplate a gaggle of chicks in Pluto’s Quinpuplets is to see an animal go from dumb curiosity and mild surprise to anger and panic, and to understand all the while what is going on in the dog’s head.
Even more than that, Pluto made the cartoon world safe for dogs. Before Pluto, dogs kept getting the short end of the brush. In a feline-friendly world led by Felix the Cat, Krazy Kat and all their many clones, then turned upside down by Mickey Mouse and all his imitators, the animated dog was the stigmatized Other—doomed to play either the bullying villain or the bland two-legged sidekick when he wasn’t banished to bit parts as a nondescript member of the barnyard repertory company. As a personality, the canine ranked somewhere between the cow, the pig and the horse.
Not that animators didn’t try to make him a star. As early as 1928, with the arrival of talkies and Mickey Mouse mania, rival studios recognized that they needed strong characters to compete, and turned to dogs as a logical alternative to the overused celebrity cat of the silent era. So, for instance, the Fleischer studio, already famous for Koko the Clown, decided to upgrade Koko’s sidekick Bimbo, a generic cartoon puppy, and star him in a series of his own. Nothing worked. Then Fleischer started over with another kind of dog—a sexy French poodle with long ears, huge dewlap jowls and canine teeth that were joined to the bosomy body of a femme fatale. Damned odd and damned ugly. Only when Fleischer animator Grim Natwick started losing the dog parts, turning the ears into earrings, making the mouth girlish and giving her a button nose did a classic emerge: animation’s first bombshell, Betty Boop.
If anything, the dog trials at Disney got even weirder. In the wake of Mickey’s stardom, the studio had been creating friends to flesh out Mickey’s barnyard universe. And in 1932, they experimented with a cartoon hound named Dippy Dawg. Dippy started as a country hick buried under whiskers and spectacles who ate peanuts and laughed a distinctive hiccup guffaw. Weak and (except for the laugh) nondescript as a dog, Dippy was eventually redesigned by master animator Art Babbitt, who worked from a more compelling model: Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy.
Jo-Jo was a famous Barnum and Bailey circus freak attraction whose keepers thought he looked like a Basset. And, as historian Mark Langer was the first to notice, Dippy became a Jo-Jo caricature. He acquired Jo-Jo’s two widely spaced buck teeth, his harelip and his hang-drop jaw, which, combined with ex-circus clown Pinto Colvig’s chortling voice, turned him into a bashful, guffawing dimwit. Thus emerged Goofy: Dog as sideshow mutant.
It was into this world that Pluto evolved. He was the brainchild of Disney animator Norm Ferguson, and Ferguson’s first great success at Disney. The master of broad staging and comic facial expression, Ferguson would later draw several of Disney’s most indelible characters—the Big Bad Wolf in The Three Little Pigs, the hag witch in Snow White and Gideon the cat in Pinocchio. Sharp-eyed Plutologists who watch early Pluto shorts like Just Dogs (1932) and Mickey’s Pal Pluto (1933) can, in fact, see in Pluto’s furrowed eyebrows, leering glances and wicked grins the harbingers for several of the Wolfs and Witch’s most famous routines.
Ferguson first brought Pluto into the world as a zealous Bloodhound in a 1930 Mickey Mouse short called The Chain Gang, and the dog soon became, along with Minnie, the Mouse’s most important sidekick. But Pluto was at his best when left to his own devices. The sad truth is that Mickey was a rather dull-witted dog owner. Well-meaning but unobservant and excruciatingly paternalistic, Mickey never seemed to know how to play with Pluto or give him opportunities to show his stuff. Pluto truly shone only when he was by himself, a solo act tangling with the inanimate.
The textbook classic came in Playful Pluto (1934), where he is stuck to a piece of flypaper and we get to see all the ways he assesses his predicament. In Mickey’s Grand Opera (1936), he is even funnier, playing off a magician’s hat that keeps spewing out rabbits, doves and flowers. And then, in a sequence in Bone Trouble (1940) worthy of Harpo Marx, Pluto contemplates himself in a funhouse hall of mirrors.
Tex Avery’s Droopy was less a reaction to Pluto than a reconceptualization of how a dog could be funny. A sad-eyed Basset with the shock of red hair and long dishrag ears, Droopy was as improbable a cartoon hero as an IRS accountant. Dog lovers are already indebted to Avery for his Bulldogs. They were comic villains, it is true, but villains who set the gold standard for canine menace. They gave new meaning to delight as they terrorized cats and canaries. Anyone who has heard the Bulldog in Bad Luck Blackie go into his mellow chuckle as he contemplates the extermination of a precious kitty or seen him as big as Godzilla in King Size Canary has felt the delight of guilt-free thuggery.
But Droopy was infinitely stranger. There was something otherworldly about him: Dog as fate. He was the relentless, Kafkaesque tracker who, seemingly without effort, knew where you were going before you stepped it down. Underlying the bored deadpan delivery and his direct-to-audience asides (“Hello, all you happy taxpayers.”), Droopy had a tenacity unrivaled in cartoon shorts. Unlike Pluto, he arrived fully formed in his first and arguably best cartoon, Dumb-Hounded (1943), where the formula was set. Droopy was the Tortoise who beat the Hare—in this case Woolfie, the drooling con artist on the lam. Woolfie races all over the planet to escape the police, only to find Droopy inevitably waiting.
Droopy was always more a cult figure than superstar, and he held the fort for cartoon dogs tired of being man’s best friend and the perennial eager beavers. If Pluto became the first superstar recognizable as a dog, Droopy gave dogs license to be as inscrutable and finicky as any cat, and much smarter.
Heart on sleeve, dog on tie
In the syntax of men’s suits, the tie is an exclamation point! Fashion may prescribe its width, politics code its colors—still, the tie affords a narrow window of self-expression. Or, perhaps, not so narrow: “A tie is like a canvas,” says Gerald Anderson, executive director of the Neckwear Association of America; “When you have a wide tie, you have more to work with.”
These medium-width, rayon and silk examples date from the late 1940s or early ’50s. The rust-toned palette was a favorite of the time, and as for the subject matter—“Were dogs popular!” exclaims haberdasher/historian Jon Lundberg. Specifically, hunting dogs were most likely to appear (as well as game birds, sport fish and horses)—all relating to the enthusiastic return to civilian leisure that followed World War II (a time that also saw the launch of a profusion of men’s hunting and fishing magazines, such as Argosy, True and Outdoorsman.)
If a gentleman can’t wear his heart on his sleeve, at least he can wear his dog on his tie. Besides hunting dogs, other breeds can be found, more rarely, on vintage ties—occasionally beautiful, hand-painted portraits of particular breeds.
Slices of stylish, wearable nostalgia, vintage ties (mostly from the 1930s to the ’60s) are still abundant and affordable, with sources ranging from flea markets to websites like Rusty Zipper Vintage Clothing. Wearing one, you can be a complete swing-era dandy, add a touch of swank to everyday work wear or, like collector James Hamann (1200+ ties), simply knot one on, with a ’50s fedora, to go walk the dog.
The evolution of an era
Ten years ago, The Bark set out to chronicle a growing societal movement, one we came to call the modern dog culture. Though we started the magazine as part of our advocacy for off-leash dog parks, we didn’t limit ourselves to that topic. And, as we tackled other dog-related subjects we noticed the emergence of a new way of living with dogs that enthralled and fascinated us. Taking “Dog Is My Co-Pilot” as our motto because it said so perfectly what we felt to be true, we began our exploration of this phenomenon.
From the start, we filled the pages of The Bark with smart writing, insightful commentary, great fiction and personal essays, expert advice, humor, poetry, art, and much more. In short, we created a magazine that had everything we wanted to read, and its canine-centricity inspired the best from our contributors, and attracted thousands of like-minded readers. We have long taken pride in creating a publication that not only reflects the voice of its time but that also showcases the esteem we feel for dogs—its a payment of sorts on the debt we feel is owed them.
Dogs have been our best friends for millennia, but this relationship has undergone a remarkable transformation during the past few years as their role in our lives is redefined and expanded. Long our helpmates and trusted companions—valued for their “worthiness” by hunters, shepherds and herdsmen as well as by the aristocracy with its pampered pups—dogs nonetheless occupied a place that was distinct and separate from that claimed by humans. The relationship was primarily viewed in terms of the degree of utility and value that dogs had to us.
Today, dogs are more fully integrated into the fabric of our daily lives. Though their capacity to help us is perhaps even more relevant now as we discover the full range of their abilities, there is something else in play, a different kind of co-species togetherness that goes beyond the functional. It is almost a re-enactment of the dawn of our two species, when proto-human and proto-dog helped one other along their evolutionary pathways.
Dog lovers are tending to the emotional needs of their dogs, enriching their minds, exercising their bodies, providing them with social stimulation, feeding them nutritious foods—in short, they are nurturing and caring for their dogs as true and equal family members. Even though we recognize and celebrate the “otherness” of dogs, we are also gratified to see that the distance between our two species is being reduced. This, in turn, makes us better able to treat dogs (and all animals) with compassion and respect.
So, we thought, what better way to showcase what we mean by dog culture—and to celebrate our 10th anniversary—than by presenting an array of our “Editors’ Picks,” articles and stories that reflect the best examples from our vast collection. Check here for weekly updates, and stay tuned—we’ll be telling you the stories behind the stories and providing other flavorful and tantalizing insights.
A Flying Icon Spins Gold
For everyone who’s spent afternoons wrestling slobber-laden Frisbees from a Golden Retriever, tried to get an Airedale to chase a flying object or gone through a closetful of unrecognizably mangled plastic discs, it’s time to salute an American icon. This year, Frisbee—the pastime of dogs and the sport of college students everywhere—celebrates 50 years. Well, actually, people have been throwing disc-shaped objects around for millennia, back to the ancient Greeks. But it took a man, a company and the American sense of commercialism to bring a flying disc to the masses.
Plenty of urban myths address the origins of the Frisbee. You hear about Yale students tossing pie tins made by the Frisbie Baking Co. around campus in the early part of last century. But, when it gets down to it, it was a man named Walter Frederick Morrison (Fred to those in the Frisbee world) who realized that the large popcorn-tin lid that he was throwing back and forth at a Thanksgiving Day family picnic back in 1937 could be something special.
Special enough to begin manufacturing “Flyin’ Cake Pans” that he and his wife, Lucile Eleanor Nay, offered for 25 cents on Santa Monica Beach. And when those cake pans started selling, Morrison and his wife took it a step further and produced the first plastic disc in the ’40s, which they took to county fairs to demonstrate the fun of flight. And people ate it up. “We started demonstrating our plastic discs at the county fairs, and we just killed them; everyone wanted one and we couldn’t make them fast enough,” says the now 87-year-old Morrison.
Capitalizing on the popular culture’s fascination with UFOs, he decided to reinvent his crowd-pleasing disc. “There were flying saucers being reported everywhere at that time, and we just took advantage of what the media was reporting,” said Morrison, who latched on to the craze, molded his flying disc in the shape of a UFO and named it the “Pluto Platter.” In 1955, it was something on which kids would spend their full week’s allowance of 75 cents at the local five-and-dime.
And then, Wham-O. Literally. Along came the Wham-O company, which invited Morrison to its plant to discuss joining forces. Morrison agreed, and Wham-O began manufacturing the flying disc on January 23, 1957. It turned out, however, that in the marketplace, people were calling the flying object the Frisbee (influenced by those pie tins made by the Frisbie Baking Company); just a few months later, Wham-O renamed and trademarked its product the Frisbee.
As popular as Frisbee quickly became and has been over the years, the product (Morrison finds it aggravating to hear the Frisbee called a toy; “Do you call a baseball a toy?” he asks) may not have caught on in the way it has with dog lovers without the antics of Alex Stein and his Whippet, Ashley.
It was August 1974 and the Dodgers were playing the Reds at Dodger Stadium. At the bottom of the eighth inning, 19-year-old Alex grabbed his dog—and his moment. He hopped the field fence and took center stage in front of the packed stands (and TV cameras, which were broadcasting the game to the nation). It just took a few Frisbee throws at speeds of 35 mph, with Ashley leaping nine feet into the air to catch the disc, before the ball game was stopped and Joe Garagiola, the stadium announcer, began calling the Frisbee-throwing action.
The police soon escorted Alex off the field, but not before the crowd cheered its approval. Alex would soon be invited to perform with Ashley at national events (they performed at the pre-game show of Super Bowl XI) and Ashley Whippet became famous (he even performed for Amy Carter at the White House). Alex went on to help organize the annual Frisbee Dog World Championship, which Ashley won the first three years.
When it comes to dogs and flying discs, Fred Morrison likes to promote the phrase “dogs jump for joy as Frisbees reach the completion of their flight.” Fred’s dog was a German Shepherd, and, when asked about his dog-playing days, he recalled: “We’d throw our discs, and he’d catch ’em and try and throw ’em back. And every time he’d flip his head, the Frisbee would get caught up on his fang. He was never a successful Frisbee flipper.”
In the 50 years since he invented the Frisbee, Morrison has kept busy. He wrote a book recently, Flat Flip Flies Straight! True Origins of the Frisbee, with co-writer Phil Kennedy (who, by the way, has a collection of some 1,200 flying discs). But, he says, at 87, “my flipping days are just about over.” You’d think he might be a bit of a local celeb in the town in central Utah where he now lives, but he says he’s not. “They think I’m a multimillionaire, which I’m not. Though the Frisbees provided me with a comfortable life.” Reminiscing over the history of his Pluto Platter, he says, “What’s evolved is just amazing. I just sit back in wonderment.”
Happy 50th birthday, Frisbee! And congratulations, Fred.
A real-life, couch-sleeping counterpart
Few larger-than-life types in history can claim to have inspired a character in a movie or television show. Of course, there’s Citizen Kane and Charles Foster Kane, a fictional tycoon based on publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst; the character of Hollis Mulwray in Chinatown was said to have been loosely inspired by famous Los Angeles water boss William Mulholland. And then there’s Puggo of Cartoon Network’s Squirrel Boy; Puggo is a portly, one-eyed, turban-wearing dog who sports a cape that flaps even as he remains unflappable in the face of a crisis. Making occasional appearances on Squirrel Boy as the star of a TV show that the two main characters—Andy (a boy) and Rodney (a squirrel)—never miss, Puggo is mysterious, aloof, in control and wise. Deeply wise.
And what of Puggo’s real-life counterpart? Is he some heroic figure now lost to time? Perhaps a noble canine from legend? Nope. He barks, naps and piddles today. His name is Jerome, and he is currently yapping his curly tail off at some unseen foe out the front window, unaware that a character he inspired can now be seen on television screens across the land, and that he should behave with a tad more decorum.
How the dog on your couch can inspire a dog on the screen can happen in many different ways, and fur-and-bone Jerome’s journey to color-and-line Puggo happened like this: My husband, Chris, the story editor for Squirrel Boy, mentioned that we had a one-eyed pug at an early meeting during the show’s development. (Jerome’s ocular oddity has a simple explanation—he was born that way.) It should be added here that Chris is quite attached to Jerome, and Jerome to Chris, and they both think the world of each other. I should also add that it is not unusual to spend a good deal of time discussing your pets at office meetings when you work on a cartoon featuring an animal protagonist. In fact, it’s practically a requisite of the job. No one groans and silently prays, Don’t start with the dog stories again, please; often they grab a pencil and start drawing.
Chris told Everett Peck, the creator of the show, and Raymie Muzquiz, the show’s supervising director, about our peculiar little guy, and soon Everett and Raymie were sketching squat, roly-poly puglets with just one eye. Of course, the art of Squirrel Boy is delightfully askew, so the illustrated pug’s eye appeared in the center of his face (think of a cuddlier Cyclops); Puggo also sported a jaunty cape and a tall turban, two sartorial choices our real pug has never made. Not that I’ve ever asked Jerome if he wanted to wear a cape and turban, but after those bunny ears a few Easters ago, it’s best that we never speak of dress-up opportunities again.
So how has Jerome reacted to being the inspiration for a cartoon canine? Quite coolly. Less than a week after the show’s premiere, he had his teeth and nose done like any self-respecting Tinseltown climber. Of course, it was a basic canine dental cleaning, and he had surgery on his stenotic nares to help air intake (a surgery recommended by our vet that helps brachycephalic—or, if you prefer, smooshy-faced—dogs breathe better), but I thought the timing was suspicious.
Mostly, I want to make sure this doesn’t all go to his wrinkly head. When we sit down to watch Squirrel Boy and Jerome curls up in his usual spot, I’m quietly observing. We can see the “Hollywood” sign from our living room, and I’m well aware that our pug can keep one eye on his television alter ego and one eye on the iconic symbol that has jump-started a million dreams of superstardom. Well, I guess he can’t keep one eye on both, really, but all I’m saying is that if he gets an agent or personal astrologer anytime soon, we’ll have to talk.
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