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 When I was a kid, around fourteen years old, I walked to and from middle school every day with a couple of other kids from the neighborhood. Our shortcut took us down a particular side alley, and in that alley, behind a four-foot chain-link fence, was a dog named "Patches." What kind of dog was Patches? The loud kind. I don't know from breeds; maybe it was the product of an unholy ugly-bumping between Cerberus and an air horn. Maybe a rottweiler got busy with Fran Drescher. Maybe the fuzzfaced little bastard swallowed a Mr. Microphone. I have no idea. All I know is that any time we got within three blocks of that maniacal mongrel, he let loose with the most vicious, vociferous, and spittle-and-vinegar-laced tirade I've ever heard come out of a dog's yapper. If that fifty-pound mutt could've hopped his mangy ass over the fence, he gave every indication he'd chew each of us a new poop chute, or die trying. Clearly, Patches was a dog sitting up and begging to be pranked on Halloween. We had three things working in our favor: first, Halloween was on a Wednesday that year, which meant we'd be walking down the alley near dusk anyway, without need for some elaborate plan or excuse. Second, Patches was well-known for incessant barking around the neighborhood, so having him yapping his gums for a few minutes while we set up wouldn't attract undue attention. Third, and most importantly, the movie Cujo had come out the year before, putting out-of-control rabid dog attacks firmly on the map. I'd seen the movie myself, and learned afterwards that the crew had a lot of trouble during filming, because the (very realistic) "blood" used during shooting was actually ketchup, and the canine actor playing Cujo kept licking it off his muzzle. With that little insider tip, the stage was set. And you can probably imagine how the plan came together. At lunchtime on Halloween, a couple of us snuck off to the local 7-11 and bought two big bottles of "fancy" Heinz ketchup. No regular ketchup -- or God forbid, "catsup" -- for this prank. This was a top-shelf affair, all the way. At dusk, as usual, we meandered down the alley toward home. And, as usual, Patches the persnickety pooch commenced "ROWF!!!"ing before we were even in sight. Little did he know his own bellyaching would be our cover. We hustled up to the fence, made sure the mutt was barking right up into our faces, unscrewed one bottle cap, and squooooozed an entire bottle of ketchup right onto Patches' kisser. Everywhere, it went -- in his mouth, in his snout, down his chin. Patches' face was positively covered in the tomatoey goodness, and in his surprise, he actually shut the hell up for once. That's when the back porch light came on at Patches' owner's house, and we heard footsteps stomping toward the door, coming to see what the hell was happening. Patches skittered toward the porch, presumably to tattle on the hooligans giving him a hard time. Committed to our plan, we had the second bottle ready and two of us squirted ourselves liberally in the breadbaskets. With bright red ketchup glistening on our hands and bellies under the street light, we hopped the low fence and lay in the yard screaming bloody murder. By the time the jackass owner got to his back door, he had two dying kids writhing in agony on his back lawn, and a waggy-tailed dog on the porch licking bloody gore off his lips. I don't know whether the guy had seen Cujo or not, but he flipped out more or less completely, anyway. He ran toward the dog, shrieked, looked at us, shrieked again, ran away from the dog, and disappeared back inside the house -- whether to pray, pack, or dial 911, I still have no idea. By the time he'd gathered his wits enough to get within ten feet of the dog and come investigate the "victims," we'd hopped back into the alley and run off cackling into the Halloween gloom. And while we still took the alley shortcut for a couple more years, Patches was always tied to a tree after that, away from meddling kids, ghoulish pranks -- and rogue bottles of Heinz 57. | ||||||||||||||||
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