The Reginald Cycle

A Play in Five Acts on the Subject of Dogs, their Droppings, their Masters, and the Mysteries of the Walk

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Act I. The Indignity
Enter Reginald,  a dog of impeccable standards

Right. So, this is my story. My trauma. Let me make sure you understand what’s happening here.

I spent — and I cannot stress this enough — forty-five minutes surveying this park. Forty-five minutes. I sniffed the oak. I sniffed the bench. I sniffed that suspicious patch near the bin that smelled vaguely of Labrador and regret. I rejected the first six locations on aesthetic grounds. The seventh had poor sightlines. The eighth was too near a Yorkshire Terrier I have personal issues with.

And then, finally, I found it. The spot. A small rise of grass with excellent broadcast range. A communication tower of olfactory excellence. A message to every dog within a half-mile radius announcing, in no uncertain terms: Reginald was here, Reginald is thriving, and Reginald has eaten something with chicken in it.

A masterpiece. A statement. My Sistine Chapel.

And what does this man do. This man. My alleged guardian. The one who feeds me and claims to love me.

He produces a small plastic bag. From his pocket. He had it ready. He came prepared. This was premeditated.

He scoops it up. My art. My correspondence. My carefully workshopped press release to the canine community. He scoops it up with the casual indifference of a man collecting a stray crisp packet, ties the bag in a neat little knot—a bow, he’s putting a bow on it—and walks twelve paces to drop it in a bin.

Why?

Why would you do this? Why would anyone do this? The whole point was for it to remain. That was the entire purpose of the project. I do not produce these for your collection.

He must be unwell. Mentally. There’s no other explanation. I shall keep an eye on him.

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Act II. The Tragedy of Reginald, Hound of Sorrows
A soliloquy, in the manner of the Bard

Hark! What fresh madness doth mine eyes behold?
Two score of minutes—nay, perchance threescore—
Have I, good Reginald, most noble hound,
Surveyed this verdant field with solemn nose,
Rejecting every common patch of green
As doth a king refuse a peasant's crown.

The oak—too public. Aye, a vulgar choice.
The hedge—frequented by that base-born Spaniel
Whose very scent doth make my hackles rise.
The bench—too near the path where children tread.
Nay, nay, a thousand times, good earth, nay nay!

But soft! What knoll through yonder grass appears?
It is the spot, and Reginald its bard!
A rise of turf, by morning sunlight kiss'd,
With breeze enough to carry forth my news
To every cur and bitch from here to Dover:
"Lo, Reginald hath pass'd this way, and dined,
And dined, methinks, on something rich with fowl."

I squat. I tremble with artistic fire.
I deliver unto earth my magnum opus.
A pungent sonnet writ in nature's ink,
A press release of most ferocious bouquet,
A monument to mine own splendid bowels.

And then — O horror! Horror upon horror!
Mine own dear master, he whom I have trusted,
He who hath fed me, brush'd me, scratch'd mine ears,
Produceth from his cloak a sheath of plastic!
He had it ready. Aye, 'twas premeditate!
This deed was plotted ere we left the house!

He stoops. He scoops. He gathers up my art,
My carefully wrought epistle to the world,
And ties it with a bow, a bow, I say!
As though 'twere some sweet posy for his love,
And bears it to a bin, and casts it in,
And walks away as if 'twere nothing done.

O treacherous man! O most ungrateful biped!
Wherefore? Wherefore this lunacy most foul?
The whole intent, the purpose, the design,
Was that it stay, and speak, and sing, and reek!
I did not toil for thy collection, sir!
I am no curator of thine archive vile!

Something is rotten in the state of Kennel.
He is unwell. His wits have ta'en their leave.
I shall observe him close, and mark him well,
For if he cracks, who then shall fill my bowl?

Exit, pursued by guilt, and also a squirrel.

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Act III. Reginald’s Reply to Bartholomew
A Pomeranian of Ill Repute, addressed at the corner of Elm and Vine, with great dignity, in strict iambic pentameter

Thou dost address me, Bartholomew? Thou?
Thou puff of fur, thou walking dandelion,
Thou yapping ornament of cushion'd laps,
Thou creature scarce distinguished from a hat,
Dost thou presume to challenge Reginald?

I breathed thy mark upon the lamppost there.
A weak thing. Thin. Devoid of character.
It spake of kibble, kibble, by the gods,
And some faint note of anxious disposition.
My nose did weep to read such poor a verse.

Now mark thou mine, good sir, upon the oak:
A bold bouquet, with notes of roasted hen,
A finish long, with hints of cheese and pride,
Sign'd boldly with the flourish of a king.
'Tis literature, where thine is but a grunt.

Thou sayest thou hast roam'd from Hampstead Heath?
I have known gardens greater than thy world.
I have stood post 'gainst postmen twice thy size.
I have pursued the wily tennis ball
Through bramble, bush, and one unhappy pond,
And brought her home, though sodden, to mine hearth.

And what hast thou achieved, thou tufted mite?
Thou hast been carried. Carried, sir, in arms.
Thy paws have scarce known honest English mud.
Thy ribbon is the colour of defeat.

Yet hold. I shall not stoop to further scorn.
A hound of breeding knoweth when to cease.
Go, Bartholomew. Return unto thy mistress.
Tell her thou met'st a gentleman this morn
Who spared thee, though he need not have done so.

And should we meet again upon this corner,
Pray, sniff thou first the kerb, and know thy place,
For Reginald hath mark'd it. Reginald reigns.
He turns. He lifts a leg. He signs his name.

Exit, with tail erect, and honor intact.

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Act IV. Bartholomew’s Rebuttal
Delivered at considerable volume, in iambic pentameter, though the meter doth strain beneath his rage

A pause. A trembling. Then —

YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! Forgive me, I compose.
The fury hath o'erta'en my finer tongue.
Begin again. Ahem. Ahem, I say.

Thou pompous, slobbering, ill-shaven brute!
Thou walking carpet! Thou great bag of drool!
Thou think'st thyself a poet of the kerb?
Thy mark upon the oak, which thou dost praise,
I smelt it, sir, and nearly lost my lunch.
'Twas crude. 'Twas loud. 'Twas absent any nuance.
A bellow, where a whisper would suffice.
Thou writ'st in capitals, good Reginald,
Whilst I compose in delicate italics.

Thou mockest that I have been borne in arms?
Aye, borne, sir, as a prince is borne in state!
Whilst thou dost trudge behind thy master's heel
Like some poor labourer unto the mines,
I ride in velvet, viewing all below.
The world is mine to gaze upon, not trudge.
Thy "honest English mud" is mud, good sir.
I shall not weep that I have miss'd the joy
Of having twigs extracted from mine arse.

And speak not to me of the tennis ball!
I have refused such trifles all my days.
To fetch is to admit one is a servant.
I do not fetch. The ball is brought to me,
And I regard it coolly, and decline.
That is nobility. Thou know'st it not.

Thou call'st me ornament? Thou call'st me hat?
I am the finest hat that e'er drew breath!
Children do weep with joy upon my sight!
Old women press their faces to my fur
And whisper secrets I shall take to grave!
What dost thou earn? A pat. A gruff "good boy."
I am ador'd. Thou art merely tolerated.

And as for postmen, pah! I bark at kings.
I bark at shadows, lorries, leaves, and wind.
I bark at mine own image in the glass
And win, sir. Every time. The glass retreats.
My courage is not measured by my size
But by the density of my conviction,
Which is, I say it plainly, absolute.

Now hear me, Reginald, thou lumbering oaf:
The lamppost is not thine. The kerb is not thine.
The corner of this Elm and Vine is mine,
And I have mark'd it thrice this very morn
In places thy great nose shall never find,
For they are low, sir. Low. As I am low.
And lowness hath its tactical advantage.

Go, then. Go home. Eat thy enormous dinner.
Sleep thy enormous sleep upon thy rug.
Dream thy enormous dreams of squirrels lost.
But know, when next we meet upon this street,
That Bartholomew yielded not one inch,
And shall not yield, though thou wert twice thy size,
He is, at this point, lifted by his mistress.

UNHAND ME, MADAM! I AM NOT YET FINISHED!
THE HOUND HATH MUCH TO ANSWER FOR! UNHAND ME, I SAY, FOUL WITCH!

Exit, borne aloft, still yapping, into a handbag.

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Act V. Mortimer, a Basset Hound of Advanced Years, Speaks
From beneath the bench at the corner of Elm and Vine, in iambic pentameter, slow and low

A long sigh. A longer sigh. He shifts his weight.

Mm. Aye. I saw it. Saw the whole damn thing.
Been under this here bench since half past eight,
And shall remain till someone drops a chip.
Do not disturb me. I am merely speaking.

Two fools. Two perfect fools, the pair of them.
The big one with his sonnets to the oak,
The small one with his fury at the curb,
And neither, neither, sir, hath understood
The first true thing about the life of dogs.

I have lived twelve long years upon this earth.
Mine ears have dragged through every kind of mud.
I have known three good masters and one bad.
I have buried bones I shall not live to find.
I have loved a spaniel once, in '21,
And mourn her still, though softly, in the dusk.

And in those years, I tell thee, I have learn'd
That all this marking, all this grand display,
This writing on the lampposts of the world,
'Tis vanity. 'Tis wind. 'Tis nothing, sir.
The rain shall come. The rain shall always come.
And what thou wrot'st at dawn is gone by dusk,
And some new hound shall write atop thy words,
And some new hound atop his words, and so
Until the lamppost rusts and falls to earth.

Young Reginald believes himself a king.
He is a dog. A good dog, mind. But still.
Young Bartholomew believes himself adored.
He is. For now. Until the novelty
Doth fade, and he grows grey about the snout,
And finds himself, like me, beneath a bench,
Reflecting on the brevity of fuss.

The man who scoop'd the mess? He is not mad.
He is, in truth, the wisest of us all.
He knoweth that the message doth not matter.
He knoweth that the spot shall be forgotten.
He knoweth that the only thing that lasts
Is that he walk'd his dog upon a morning,
And that the dog was happy, and came home.

That is the whole of it. The walk. The coming home.
The bowl. The rug. The hand upon the head.
All else is bark, and bark is only bark,
And bark dissolves like breath upon the glass.

So let them quarrel. Let them mark the curb.
Let Reginald compose his great epistles.
Let Bartholomew yap from out his handbag.
I shall lie here. I shall await the chip.
And when it comes, as all good things do come
To those who wait with patience and low expectations,
I shall consume it slowly, and give thanks.
Another sigh. He lowers his head onto his paws.
Now go. Mine audience is at an end.
The bench is mine. The shade is mine. The peace
Is mine, and hard-won, and I shall not share it.
He closes one eye. The other watches, just in case of chip.

Exeunt all, save Mortimer, who abides.
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— FINIS —