Sparky J. M. Strother I'm a dog! I can't believe it. I'd pinch myself, but my thumbs are gone. This just can't be happening – must be a bad dream. Except it doesn't feel like a dream. Where am I? This isn't my house. Doesn't smell right. Smell right! What am I saying? Woof! “OK, baby, I'm coming.” I leap away from the bed and whirl round. Legs descend from the bed. Nice legs. I follow them up to gaze at the sleepy figure gathering her wits on the edge of the bed. Ah, Chihuahua! Wait a minute, I know her. That's the nice looker three doors down. I've spoken to her a while she was walking her dog. Let's see, he was an English Setter, or something like that. No, a Spaniel. Yeah, that's it... a Springer Spaniel. And he was, oh my God, he was neutered! I quickly look down to check on the equipment. She cuffs me lightly on the ear. “Now stop that. That's disgusting.” Lady, you have no idea. “Come on boy, you need to go out?” Well, yeah, come to think of it. She slips on a robe. I dash down the steps like some fool pup. Almost instinctively I pause to give the food dish a whiff before scrambling to the back door. By the time she gets to the kitchen I can hardly contain myself, jumping up and down, sniffing frantically at the bottom of the door. “Hold on, I'm coming.” She unlocks the door, a simple thumb lock, and holds the screen door open while trying to stand out of sight of the neighbors. I bolt from the door like an arrow. Funny thing is, I don't even need to go very bad. I quickly slow to a trot and lower my nose for interesting scents. The bladder can wait. Hey, do I smell cat. I dash off down that scent only to be waylaid by the recent passing of squirrel. I follow this to a tree and look up it hopefully. No dice. It must of jumped into the yard next door. I finally decide to take a leak back by the fence. A spot here smells just right for the job. I stretch out and suddenly feel ashamed of myself. I'm peeing like a girl. I can't believe she had me neutered! Despondent, I look up and gaze through the fence slats. There's Mrs. McGiviney standing on her porch looking down the hill into the yard. She's got a smug smile on her face. My hackles raise. She did it. I just know it. She's to blame. It slowly comes back to me. I had spent all day Saturday ripping that God awful creeper off my fence. The damned stuff was encroaching and starting to choke out my roses. I finally decided it was time for it to go. Then Mrs. McGiviney came home, barreling up her driveway like a bat out of Hell. At the sight of the bare fence she slammed on the brakes. She damned near jumped out of the car, cussing like a sailor. She let me have it up one side and down the other about how I had ruined her privacy. And before she stormed inside I remembered her shouting, “You son-of-a-bitch!” There was something evil in the look of her eye. I had shrugged it off, but evidently she'd meant it. The kids in the neighborhood always said she was a witch. So, play nasty with me, will you. We'll see who has the last laugh. Within a week she'll cry Uncle, or I'm a Jack Russell. Poor Mrs. McGiviney. She's having a bad week. What, with the cat in the tree, the ruined azaleas, the stench of urine in her air conditioner, she's getting very annoyed. And annoying. But she can't pin anything on me. By Thursday the cops are getting pretty fed up with her crazy accusations. Ah, Friday. My favorite day of the week. You know, dogs are very social creatures. Ask a dog a favor and he'll probably oblige. And there are plenty of dogs in my neighborhood. And they all have friends. I think Mrs. McGiviney could smell it before she even pulled into the drive. Just about every free range dog in town had paid her a visit. The stench from the front yard is unbelievable. There is one special pile waiting for her on her back door stoop. I can hear her screaming from inside the house. I wag my tail. Sometimes it just feels good to be a dog. The cops get there just as Ellen pulls in. “What's going on?” I hear her ask. Then, “But he's inside.” A cop tries the back door. That was a near thing. It was pretty easy to unlock the thumb lock. But man, was it hard to lock it again. I had finally managed it with my teeth, just barely. “It's locked,” the cop tells his partner. Ellen unlocks the door and I come bounding out, glad to see everyone, but desperate to relieve myself. I make a great show of how badly I needed to be let out. Mrs. McGiviney is standing at the fence, screaming that I'm a vicious dog that needs to be put down. A cop goes over and tells her to put a cork in it. “The dog's been locked inside all day.” When she demands the stool on her stoop be DNA tested against me the cop just about looses it. Besides writing her up for filing a false police report he informs her that if she calls one more time about Sparky they will have her committed. I catch her eye and we exchange meaningful looks. Then I see her give. Yes! The next morning I wake up in my own bed. I'm not a dog anymore! And I'm seeing a lot of Ellen Murphy lately. Her dog, Sparky, seems to have taken a shine to me.