An Interview with Luna, My (Technically Liz's) Boston Terrier: Part I

Luna has been living with my girlfriend and me -- rent free -- for nearly four years.


Me: Luna, you had a fairly inauspicious start. We purchased you from an Amish family who lived on a farm and gave us their word you weren't the product of a puppy mill. Despite your seemingly healthy appearance, we were given a $25 discount on your total price because you didn't have all of your shots. Do you ever feel self-conscious about your background?
Luna: That's an interesting question, Mr. Jared. If you're asking me whether I ever feel less worthy as a pet because I don't have a prestigious American Kennel Club registration number, then absolutely not. I know who I am, and I'm proud of it, goddamn it. I think the question you really should be asking, Mr. Jared, is, "How do you feel about the people who adopted you, and are you happy with your current home?"

Me: Fair enough, Luna. How do you feel about Liz and me, and are you happy with your current living situation?
Luna: To be honest with you, Mr. Jared, I still harbor some resentment about the way in which you and Ms. Liz went about adopting Buna*. Being ripped away from the warmth of my mother Nancy and my brothers and sisters in the middle of the night without warning no doubt left me with some deep-seated psychological issues. Those issues have manifested themselves in a number of ways, such as: following you two everywhere you go (including the bathroom), occasionally snacking on the contents of the cats' litter box, collapsing my crate as a puppy and Buna's blatant aversion of all people with brown skin. However, given your limited means and poor planning, I do believe you and Ms. Liz are doing the best you can. Besides, any time I start to feel angry about my situation, I wait until you take me outside. Then, when I'm done my business, I wait til you bend down to pick up that steaming pile of Buna shit, and I kick grass right in your face.

Me: OK, I'm not sure how being adopted at night made you a racist, but we'll just move on. So is it safe to say that the overall adoption process is the number one thing you hold against Liz and me?
Luna: Oh no, Mr. Jared, that doesn't even come close to the anger I have about my surgery. I mean you took my ovaries out without even asking me. How do you know I didn't want to have babies? Did you ever think to ask Buna about such a permanent decision? Goddammit, fuck you, Mr. Jared! And fuck Bob Barker, too.

Me: Wait a minute, why Bob Barker?
Luna: Because as much as I love "The Price is Right," that asshole had a lot of nerve going around telling everybody to get their pets neutered and sprayed. If it wasn't for that pervert, there's no way that sadistic, medieval practice would be nearly as popular today, and Buna would probably have a liter of pups suckling on my teat right now. Get your pets neutered and spayed ... fuck that. It's the humans that need to be neutered and spayed. Have you ever been to the Midwest, Mr. Jared?

Me: Well, I once had a long layover at the Minneapolis airport, and it was quite lovely. Anyway, Liz seems to think that you love going to "school" at Karen's K-9, but I'm not so sure. Every time I pick you up, you smell like piss and sleep for day's on end. What goes on over there?
Luna: Oh yeah, well, I think Ms. Liz means well, I really do. But here's the thing: It's very difficult for humans to understand what goes on over at Karen's. Much like prison, there's a unspoken but clearly defined hierarchy, and a complex network of allegiances among the different breeds. When Buna first showed up at Karen's, there were very few Bostons, so things were very difficult form me. I had to give the Retrievers my treats in exchange for protection from the Rottweilers, the Labs my dries to keep me safe from the German Shepherd contingent, and the Pit bulls everything else because, well, because they're Pit bulls. It was very traumatic for a young and impressionable, Buna. I mean, imagine what was going through my head when, on my second day of "school," a Bull Mastiff cornered me in the yard and said: "You have two choices, little dog: You can suck my dick ... or you can suck my sick and like it. What's it gonna be?"

Me: My God, Luna. What did you do? Never mind, don't answer that. Do you want us to find you a new daycare?
Luna: It wouldn't matter, Mr. Jared. Once you spend a day at Karen's, you're never the same again.

*Note: Throughout the course of the interview, Luna alternated between answering questions in the first person and referring to herself as Buna.

Dear Richard Dreyfuss

(Note: Below is the actual text of a letter I sent to the famous American actor Richard Stephen Dreyfuss.)

Dear Mr. Dreyfuss:

I'm a big fan of your work -- particularly your performance in What About Bob? and your guest-starring role on the show Weeds -- but that's not what this shit is about. When I was around 16 years old, I was involved in a very strange incident. At this point, Mr. Dreyfuss, you may be asking yourself, "Why should I care about something that happened to some lunatic who just so happens to enjoy the diversity of my acting range?" Because you were involved in this incident as well, Mr. Dreyfus ... albeit indirectly. With this letter, I hope to bring closure to something that's been weighing heavily on my conscience for years. I'll try to keep this as brief as possible and only include most vital information because I'm sure you're a very busy man.

Here's the setting: Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom, a glorious amusement park located in the otherwise unremarkable Allentown, PA.

Here's the back-story: A few friends and I are waiting in line for the Enterprise. That's the ride where a series of cars hang from a large horizontal wheel -- picture a Ferris Wheel that's parallel with the ground. When the ride begins, the wheel spins like a bastard in a clockwise direction. As if that isn't enough, during the ride, this giant hydraulic arm that's attached to the wheel's spoke starts extending the wheel vertically to create this Ferris-Wheel-on-crack experience and, for the rest of the ride, you're not only spinning like a bastard, but you're also upside down. Or maybe it was the swings we were waiting for. But that's not important.

While in line, I spot a man off in the waiting area who's a dead ringer for none other than Richard Stephen Dreyfuss. So, of course, the first thing I do is blurt out, "Holy shit, it's Richard Dreyfuss!" Then my friends see him, and it's all over. For the next ten minutes, we're spouting off line after line of memorable Richard Dreyfuss quotes: "You think he's gone? He's not gone. That's the whole point! He's never gone!" and "This was no boat accident!" and "Well, they're not moon burns, goddammit." Now, this is where shit gets weird, Mr. Dreyfuss. After the laughter and quote fest dies down a bit, I hear a distinct sound of a someone crying hysterically. I turn around and, a few places behind me in line, there's this preteen girl bawling dramatically while a few of her friends try to console her. She eventually makes eye contact with me, points in my direction and screams, "You're soooo mean!" This lunatic continues to alternate between screaming at me and weeping pathetically until a worker notices and decides to come over to see what's going on. The worker, a teenage boy with some type of Eastern European accent, asks what the problem is. That's when this blubbering freak explains reveals the crime that I've committed: "That guy (pointing at me) called my dad Richard Dreyfuss!" Then the waterworks start up again. Unsure what to do about my transgression, the foreign teen goes to "talk to his boss." After a few moments, the worker returns with a slightly older (bad, wispy mustache), slightly less foreign version of himself who tells my friends and I we aren't allowed to ride the Enterprise and that, "if we don't leave right now, we'll be kicked out of the entire park."

Do I think it's insane that a paying customer was kicked off of a ride for pointing out the obvious fact that some guy bore an uncanny resemblance to the Great American Actor, Richard Dreyfuss? You're goddamn right I do. But, Mr. Dreyfuss, what bothers me the most is how I handled the situation. I can't even count the number of times I've yearned to go back in time to the fateful moment I was asked to leave the Enterprise. Rather than quietly acquiescing to the wispy-stached worker's demand, I would've went over to that insolent, sniveling little bitch and set her straight by saying:

"Jaws, American Graffiti, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Tin Men, What About Bob?, Mr. Holland's Opus. Should I keep going, princess? How dare you act like I insulted your father by pointing out the resemblance he bears to an American Icon. The only thing your father has going for him is his physical likeness to Richard Dreyfuss, a man whose otherworldly talent allowed him to flat out transform himself into Dick Cheney in W. You have no reason to weep, you foolish little girl. Each and every time your mother spreads her legs for your father, I'm sure she fantasizes he's the real Richard Dreyfuss -- not some forgettable impostor. The next time anyone says your father looks like Richard Dreyfuss, the only response you should have is: 'I wish my father was Richard Dreyfuss.'"

Instead I walked away and allowed that misinformed child to go on believing that comparing someone to Richard Dreyfuss is a grave insult rather than a distinguished honor. For that, Mr. Dreyfuss, I will never forgive myself. I hope after reading this letter, Mr. Dreyfuss, you will somehow find it in your heart to forgive me. However, I will completely understand if you never want me to watch any of your movies ever again ... just let me know.


A fan seeking closure,
Jared Bilski