Rescue
My favorite show is Rescue 911. None of those phony
orange fireballs for me. I go for real-life TV.
Junkyard Wars, the Prime Minister answering questions,
Maternity Ward and shows about animals on Animal Planet.
The croc hunter holding an irascible spitting cobra gingerly
by the tail. Ooh, he's a big one! And the honey-colored
grizzly bear who went morose and refused to eat,
big booby, suffering from displacement anxiety.
But the episode that creamed my cake was this program
on Animal Precinct about Sheila the tenement dog.
The American Kennel Club hoists a high standard for the
ideal German shepherd. She is stamped with the look of
nobility, well-muscled, fearless and full of life. Her tail
hangs curved like a saber. Her head is cleanly chiseled.
She has dark eyes and pointed ears, she is of incorruptible
character and will not bite the judge. And the coat ––
The coat mustn't have hundreds of blood-sucking ticks
hanging in clusters like grapes, draining the life from her
anemic body. She must leap and prance, not stagger
sideways, woozy-brained mutt, eyes frosted over, a
tick-ridden RinTinTin. Such a mutt was Sheila. Had she
a clever sense of self-parody, she would say, yours
sincerely wasting away. But this is no talking dog story.
Tipped off, ASPCA agents broke into the tenement yard.
Someone with phenomenal patience combed the bloated
beads from Sheila's fur. Plink they dropped one by one
into a surgical pan. Her supine carcass resigned to harvest
hands, a tedious rescue. Recuperated, she removed from
the Bronx to upstate New York, where she is prized by new
owners. They say she's more than frisky, she's comical.
When they brought her into the house, she ran around
licking the furniture like a POW kissing the ground.