Free Holy Cow by David Duchovny

didn’t quit it.
    “Apparently, you are having some transference resistance. I should get a pipe. Would you respect me more if I smoked a pipe?” he asked me.
    Tom’s other problem was that the leash made him very nervous and sweaty. Anything around his neck made him nervous, and I understood—his greatest primal fear, one that was in his DNA, passed down from centuries of turkeys that had endured the peculiar American custom of Thanksgiving, was of the chopping block. His neck stretched out long and the blade glinting through the air coming down at light speed, his truncated life flashing before his eyes.
    “Shut up!” Tom barked. I hadn’t realized I’d been saying that last bit out loud.
    “My bad,” I apologized as we approached the automated ticket dispenser. Tom continued to tug at the leash around his neck like Rodney Dangerfield in his heyday. Shalom was getting his jollies treating Tom like a dog, saying things like “Heel” and “Good boy!” Referring to the phone, I relayed Tom the confirmation numbers for our reservations and he pecked at them on the computer screen. It went off without a hitch. All our planning was paying off. Like magic, the printed boarding passes slid slowly out of the mouth of the screen, one, two, three—to us they looked like winning lottery tickets, ’cause that’s what they were.

 
    32
    DOG BITES PIG
    We walked over to the big board where they show the times and gates of all arrivals and departures, and as we looked, we could see the flights to India, to Turkey, and to Israel, all on time. It was too good to be true. We each took one of the passports we had stolen from the farmer’s underwear drawer, and as we were fixing to say our goodbyes and head to our respective gates, we became aware that one of those bomb-sniffing dogs had become very interested in us, especially in Shalom. Shalom wheeled around and said, “Get your nose out of my butt, dude.”
    “That’s all right, mama, don’t fight the law,” said this German shepherd with a thick Rhineland accent, even though he seemed partial to American urban patois, which made him end up sounding like Dirk Nowitzki.
    “What’s your name, sweet thang?” I guess the diaper and disguise were fooling this particular doggy into thinking not only that Shalom was a dog, but that he was female as well.
    “What? Did you just call me ‘mama’?”
    I realized what was going down before Shalom did, and I started urgently shaking my head from side to side, imploring him not to blow our cover while we were so close to victory.
    “I like me a feisty bitch,” the dog growled comically. “Well, all right now. Look at you standing tall on your hindies—you go, girl. Can I holla at ya? Can I holla? Can I holla?”
    I felt for Shalom, doubling down on the indignity of having physically injured his manhood earlier in the day, and now this, a psychic injury to that same ailing masculinity.
    “Did you just call me a bitch, Rin Tin Tin?”
    The dog kept sniffing the air around Shalom like it was the sweetest of perfumes. “Funny story. I am related to the Rinster on my mother’s side. Truth. You ever dated a shepherd? We Germans, well, let’s just say we do our business and we take care of business, our clocks are not the only things that run on time, if you know what I’m saying.”
    “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
    “You want some of this?” The dog now angled his backside close to Shalom’s nose. This was not going to end well. “Can you tell they feed me steak? Go on, have a whiff. I would share with you, meine kleine bitch.”
    This was making me uncomfortable in so many ways.

    “Did you just call me a bitch, Rin Tin Tin?”
    Shalom smacked the dog on the backside. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you tell I’m a pig?”
    The dog froze, stopped breathing, his eyes registering shock, disappointment, and embarrassment all at once.
    “Of course I know you’re a pig. My nose is a highly trained