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First They Came for the Dogs, But I Was Not a Dog
By Albert Stern

PAGE THREE
The canine demographic on West 107th Street was as starkly differentiated as that of the human residents -- the gentrifiers' dogs seemed largely to be spoiled, lovable nimrods of all sizes, while the locals kept Pit Bulls, Rottweillers, Dobermans, and mongrels that were some conglomeration of the three breeds. Bedecked in chains and leather studded collars, their ears hacked down to nubs, these dogs served as accoutrements in the young locals' tireless cultivation of their personal menace. The hounds were working animals, occupying the same function as a six-shooter on the hip of a Wild West gunslinger.

As the men got older, a woman's influence sometimes softened at least the canine profile, usually via a cute lapdog to complement hubby's Cujo. Case in point was my building super. He owned a behemoth named Wolf, a massive Doberman with the miles-away stare of a soldier who has seen too much, while his wife doted on Floffy, a white toy poodle with a skin condition. In one of life's ready-made ironies, Floffy was a vicious heel nipper, while Wolf was a soulful creature who would commiserate with me every time I came down to do my laundry, nuzzling his head into my lap while I succumbed to the irresistible charms of the gentle giant and fretted over the safety of the future generations.

In and of itself, the idea that one of these monsters might be crying like a helpless puppy six floors below me beggared the imagination. All dogs go to heaven, sure, but hearing one of these inbred thick-necked behemoths genetically engineered to maim having its doggie heart broken left me uncertain about how to feel. It was as if I'd just found out something like, I don't know -- that Stalin was extremely ticklish. But if my heart didn't quite go out to the poor creature, neither did I think there was a point in cursing it at the top of my lungs. Like my neighbors did on that hot summer night.

The din of howling dogs was joined by the chorus of outraged apartment dwellers, their obscenities hurled scattershot at the dog downstairs, the dog owners who couldn't keep their animals quiet, and the people yelling for everyone to shut up. The malice of their invective was unsurprising -- after years of passing by my neighbors on the street and catching repetitious snippets of their conversations, I was convinced that many of them had as little choice in expressing themselves by saying "fuck" as their dogs had in saying "woof." And so the cacophony built, dogs and neighbors screaming at the street and at each other; throughout, I could hear the plaintive "rooooooooooooooooooooooo!" of the dog downstairs.

Then the first bottle broke. It registered as sharply as a slap, and shocked the human voices silent. But only for a second. The shouting started again, but this time intermingled with sounds of laughter. Then the second bottle broke. Then the third and the fourth. And then bottles started to rain down from the open windows toward the front entrance of my building. For over minute, I could hear nothing but shattering glass and rageful human screams, the noise drowning out the canine howling. At least two or three of these screams were deep, guttural, and sustained -- opportunistic eruptions of explosive rage.

When there were no more bottles to be thrown, laughter echoed on West 107th Street, along with the sounds of dog owners admonishing their pets to be quiet and get back to sleep. The dog downstairs was silent.

Groggy from lack of sleep, I emerged from my building the next morning and looked for bloodstains on the sidewalk. I found none, just shattered bottles surrounding the huge turd just outside the vestibule. I barely missed stepping in it. The shit was piled up high in a shapeless heap rather than a tidy sausage shape, and stood like a stele marking the dog's betrayal and terror.

As I returned with a cup of coffee about five minutes later, the morning sun shone on the shards covering the sidewalk after the night's barrage. The light at that angle made the glass sparkle, transforming West 107th between Broadway and Amsterdam into the embodiment of an immigrant like Mrs. Weissman's dream of America the goldeneh medinah, a land where the streets are paved with treasures. Another image was of a German streetscape on the morning after Kristallnacht, only this time the rabble had turned against a dog -- but I was not a dog and I said nothing. The glittering path ended at the shit pile that, in the time I was gone, had been parted in two by a footprint. It was a dead center hit -- the foot must have gone heavy into the pile, and right up to the ankle.

And I thought, good for you, doggie -- you made what you could out of your Kitty Genovese moment. Good luck with the challenges ahead. I certainly let you down, leaving you to the wild animals like that.

I looked up at the buildings lining my block. In the quiet morning hours, the street was de Chirico empty. But inside were my neighbors, without question all up to something.


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