Oreo asked the couple what they were fixing that required the special temperature that Joe had mentioned. But of course: braised dog biscuits. The Does said that dog biscuits were the perfect food for small campers. They had all the vitamins and minerals for the adult midget minimum daily requirement, they were lightweight, easy to pack and carry, and they were tasty. Braising over a hot charcoal fire brought out their subtle flavor.
Oreo made a mental note to tell Louise. But why this preoccupation with dogs? she wondered. Dog whistles, dog biscuits.
“You see things from their point of view…,” said Flo.
“… down amidst all this do-do,” said Moe, lifting his leg high as he walked over the grass.
That night
On her afternoon walk, Oreo had discovered the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin, where private yachts, speedboats, and houseboats were moored. She thought it would look pretty at night and was headed there when she heard music. Somewhere near the boat basin a rock group was working out. As she walked along the esplanade toward the boats, the music seemed to come from above her. Several people were going up the steps that led from the esplanade to an undomed rotunda, the upper perimeter of which served as a traffic circle for cars entering or leaving the West Side Highway at Seventy-ninth Street. The rotunda itself was a pedestrian underpass of the highway exit; its archways encircled a large central fountain. Earlier that day, Oreo had watched children and dogs playing in the fountain under black and white signs that read:
NO
PERSONS
ANIMALS
PERMITTED
IN WATER
That afternoon, strollers had sauntered coolly through the frescade of overlapping shadows cast by the archways. Now, for some reason, no one was allowed access to the rotunda from the esplanade.
Oreo and several other people backtracked through the park and went to the upper perimeter of the rotunda, darting through the circling traffic to get to the narrow ledge that formed the base of the waist-high upper wall. They looked down on a rothschild of rich people (dancing), round tables (sprouting beach umbrellas), and rock groups (playing at opposite arcs of the stone circle).
None of the onlookers seemed to know what was going on, so Oreo crossed the traffic circle, ducked under the chain draped across the steps leading to the rotunda, and joined the party. No one questioned her as she wandered around tasting canapés and reading place cards. A few movie and television personalities walked by and pretended to know her when she pretended to know them.
She was about to leave when a boy of about eighteen — tall, thin, and supercilious in his black tie and white dinner jacket, with a nose as pointy and put-upon as an ice cream cone — asked her to dance. They were essentially dancing by themselves, one occasionally glancing at the other to see whether the other saw what a good dancer the glancer was.
Finally Oreo said, “I've been to so many benefits lately, I can’t keep track.”
“Tay-Sachs.”
“Christine Clark.”
“No, dear, that’s the name of the disease this little party’s in aid of.”
“Never heard of it,” said Oreo.
“Of course not. It’s virtually exclusive to Jews — Ashkenazim.”
“Nu, I’m half Jewish.”
“Half a loaf is better than none.”
“And sickle-cell anemia to you.”
“Never heard of it,” he said.
“Of course not. It’s virtually exclusive to blacks — gesundheit.”
“Some people have all the luck.”
“Well, mine has obviously run out — I met you. But half a wit is better than none.”
They stopped dancing and got down to the real business of seeing who could top whom. It went on for about fifteen minutes, his tit for her tat, and vice-verbal, until they both got tired and conceded the match was a draw.
Oreo never discovered her opponent’s name, but she was happy for the chance she’d had to flex her snot-nosed-kid muscles. She headed back to the campsite, comforted by the knowledge that the Jewish half of her had kept her from getting sickle-cell anemia and the black half had warded off Tay-Sachs disease.
Back at the campsite
Oreo said good night to the Does, fifty baby steps away, and snuggled under her rock ledge on newspapers she had chosen for the purpose. She had picked ad pages with a high percentage of white space, not only because their good-taste quotient was likely to be high, but also because it would cut down on the amount of newsprint that could come off on her dress.
She slept fitfully, awakened during the wee hours by the cat-purrs that the Does affected for snores, the thuds and howls of muggers and muggees, the simpering of police in drag. Some time later, Oreo heard what must have been the reputedly beauteous band of female rapists who, according to the underside of Oreo’s bottom sheet, had been terrorizing Riverside Park for three weeks. At about 4 A.M. they dragged yet another victim into some nearby bushes (“If you can’t get it up, we take it off”). Before the ravishingly ravishing ravishers ravished him, the man offered several limp excuses. It was all Oreo could do to keep from cracking up over his piteous protests that he was too afraid that he would not be able to get a hard-on to get a hard-on, that he wasn’t usually like this, and could he come back on Tuesday instead. “Now, let’s not run off half-cocked,” said the obvious leader of the band. The man offered to substitute sucking for fucking. The leader castigated him. “Hell, no! My dog could do that. Besides; we’re not in this for pleasure. We’re out to teach you fathering mother-jumpers a lesson. Now, which is it — up or off?” Oreo turned over and went back to sleep.
The next morning
Oreo washed, brushed her teeth, and fluffed out her afro in the park john, then ate the delicatessen leftovers. Moe and Flo were still sleeping. Three minikin feet were sticking through the flap of their teeny tent. Oreo assumed that the other foot was inside. Joe’s feet were nowhere to be seen. He must be off playing somewhere, she guessed.
Oreo picked up her walking stick and went for a stroll to wake herself up and prepare for the new day. She had been walking for only a few minutes, when she heard yelps and whimpering in the bushes to her right. She thought at first that it might be the rape victim of the night before, but these noises were less animalistic than his had been. She crept silently in the direction of the sounds of distress. She parted the bushes. Her irises contracted in disbelief. There was little Joe Doe, laughing and playing happily with a dog. He had an eccentric sense of humor. The human-sounding yelps and whimpers came from a sad-faced Chihuahua. Joe had tied the dog to two sprung saplings and was about to chop the retaining rope with his boy scout ax. Oreo rushed over and grabbed the ax from him. She hated to see the little brat having fun. She untied the grateful Chihuahua, who went nickering away on spidery legs, making a detour around — or, rather, through — the two halves of the corpse of a Pekingese. Oreo thought it was a Pekingese. It was either that or oat smut. Without a word, Oreo grabbed Joe by the wrist and dragged him after her.
“Where are we going, gypsy?”
Oreo did not answer.
“I hate dogs. And dog whistles. And dog biscuits.”
Oreo did not answer.
“Why do I have to have midgets for parents? Even if they were regular-size short people, it would be okay. But, no, they have to go and be midgets — and short midgets at that! I’m only eight and already I’m taller than they are. It’s not fair!”
Oreo did not answer.
“They make me sick with their rhymes. I have to have some fun!”