2001

Church of the Sacred Snout

1.

John Redbrown was smiling. It was the first time since he could remember that he didn’t have the urge to scratch. He took out the silver coin that the traveling salesman had presented to him--a lagniappe, embossed with the words In God We Trust, and the face of a man he didn’t recognize—and tossed it into the fountain.

His wife Shirley reached over and took hold of his hand and squeezed. "Did you sleep well last night."

"Like a baby."

Mrs. Redbrown smiled. "Come along," she called to their four children, Spot, Lassie, Spike, and Petey, "or we’ll be late." They crossed the piazza and entered the church and found some empty seats near the bust of Rin Tin Tin.

2.

"Does Mr. Brinkley live in heaven?" Petey Redbrown asked his father.

"Yes Petey, Mr. Brinkley lives in heaven now." And he began to explain. "When you die, it’s like you go on a journey. Like when we went to visit Aunt Jenny, remember? except you don’t go there with me or your mother, you go with an angel."

"What does an angel look like?"

"Why it looks like a dog, of course. A big white Labrador retriever with a big wet black nose and a long wet tongue that shoots out and licks your face when you’re not looking." He reached over and grabbed the boy’s nose between two fingers and squeezed. The boy squirmed, trying to brake free, and giggled.

The choir sang. Prayers were said. Mrs. Canoflofski reported to Mrs. Smith on the progress of her garden. The Gamboni twins escaped for a brief period by crawling underneath the pews, and sat with the Carlille family, but they were recaptured. Mr. Bloofer fell asleep.

The steeple clock acknowledged a rather keening stick-up artist, which in turn signaled the caretaker. He closed the doors; and the deacons took their place beside the minister, three on each side--each of them held a copy of the holy scriptures in one hand, and in the other, an ostentatious gold framed likeness of the all mighty. A garland of small blue flowering periwinkles crowned their heads: dogbane, and they were dressed in nondescript brown pants, "Hawaiian" shirts, and sandals.

Then the dogs were let in--dachshunds, collies, beagles, bloodhounds, whippets, shepherds--all represented in one form or another.

"What the hell’s going on," Mr. Bloofer complained--it was like waking up in the middle of the street, at the running of the bulls, in Pamplona. "Oh," he said. "Dogs."

After a period of acclimation--barking--the canines shifted their attention to the front of the church where a white-smocked amazon-of-a-woman was swinging a brightly polished brass censer filled with miniature sirloin chunks—the dogs gamboled their way over--and just before they reached her, one by one, a retinue of alter-boys fitted in Scoobi-do evening wear appeared, each carrying a royal-red velvet collar; and the dogs were secured, then lined up like chorus girls, and encouraged to howl.

The Monitor read the role call. Six dogs had died that week and 47 had arrive in the world. Carmen Santiago whippet was nominated for sainthood for rescuing a child from a swimming pool. The choir sang. Then, the dogs where led out. Time for the sermon to begin.

3.

At the pulpit of the Church of the Sacred Snout, the Reverend T. Thomas Wilkersham steadied himself with a short prayer; then looked to the heavens for guidance; what he saw was the long sleek snout of Opie, the imposing marble and jade icon of their god--it rose a full 80 meters above the dais, the snout being strategically positioned above the reverend’s head. Wilkersham took a deep cleansing breath, exhaled; briefly glanced to his left and then to his right. His deacons bowed their heads in compliance. Then he confronted his flock..

"What the hell were you thinking!" he began. Has the entire town gone mad? Explain it to me, please. Are you all a bunch of Opie damn idiots" The crowd gasped. " I’m sorry," he apologized , and started over. "Tom." He gestured towards the back of the church. "Stand up and give me your side of the story. Explain to me, and to all that is holy, your motivation. Was it something like temporary insanity? Please say it was."

Tom Hanover stood up, like a six-year-old emptying out a soggy sneaker.

"Well it’s like this," he began. "We just couldn’t take it any more, is all. My two youngest, Reggie and Suzy were covered with bites from head to toe, and my two older boys, Harry and Buck aint much better. If it was just me and the misses it wouldn’t be so much of a problem, but with the children, we just couldn’t stand by and watch them suffer any longer.

"A problem! The holy man bellowed. His voice reverberating through the cathedral. "A problem! Is that the way you see it Tom, as a problem?

Tom bowed his head, and stared at his reflection in his glossy wingtips. It wasn’t a "happy face" that he saw.

The Reverend T. Thomas Wilkersham panned the congregation--like an ak-ak gun follows a fighter jet. His eyes spraying round upon round of acrimony. "Is that the way that you all feel. That its a problem." He lowered his head to the podium and began to weep.

"We don’t like those bugs, and my mother says we don’t have to like them." Spike Redbrown spoke-out.

"Well your mother is wrong," the reverend spat back. "It says in the holy scriptures that fleas are a manifestation of Opie’s love for us all." He raised his head. "Fleas are a holy vessel, and must be accorded proper respect."

Another voice. It was Petey this time. "But they bite, and leave big red welts."

"It says in book three that fleas can be removed from the body, but must not be harmed if at all possible." He was gaining composure. "This can be accomplished in many ways—tweezers for instance. The tweezers must be blessed by an ordained minister." He paused.

"Today, I would like to begin my sermon with a request. There is one among us, and he knows who he is. Who has come into possession of a blasphemous liquid. I would ask that the person in possession of such a substance come forward now and surrender it. There will be no retribution from the church. Do this now and free your conscience." He waited.

John Redbrown palmed the Saint Anubis metal that hung from his neck and began rubbing it between his fingers; then stood up and made his way to the center isle. When he reached the dais he produced a large white plastic bottle and handed it to the minister.

"Shame on you John," Wilkersham whispered. Drawing him closer. And read the label on the bottle: "Hartz’s concentrated flea dip. And you had to involve the hole town in this unholy act. Really John, did you think I wouldn’t find out? May Opie forgive you." The minister stepped back. He spoke to the congregation now. "Opie forgives you," he extolled. "John has sinned, but he has seen the light."

John walked back to his seat.

The Reverend, convinced that the matter had been duly settled, moved on. "I believe I left off last week with: The Canonization of Saint Bernard. But first, on a lighter note, I would like to address a question posed to me by Mary Roofer, one of our youngest devotees." He smiled. "Why are there no cats in heaven." He opened the holy book and began to read. "When the first cats arrived at Heaven's gate, they were greeted by a….