Free They Do the Same Things Different There by Robert Shearman Page B

it’s fun, even though you know there’s no one up there listening and that no one really cares.
    You try to introduce some of your own skills into the act. For a few strips Snoopy begins to play the harp, with hilarious consequences. For a week or two he becomes a Mormon. The last storyline is seen as a noble failure, and is never repeated.
    Sometimes you forget you’re Madalyn Morgan at all. Sometimes you think you really were born at Daisy Hill Puppy Farm. And when your head itches, and once in a while you’re forced to pull off your mask, you see that that hair of yours has just kept on growing, there’s so much of it now, and you stare at it in the mirror with horror.
    You don’t see why a dog would try so hard to be human. Being human doesn’t look that remarkable to you.
    A kid pretending to be a dog, that’s eccentric. But a kid pretending to be a dog pretending to be a kid? To coin a phrase, that’s barking mad.

    So, you tire of Snoopy and his anthropomorphistic ways. You want to be a real dog.
    You try to tell Charlie Brown. But real dogs don’t have thought balloons. You bark, you wag your tail in urgent manners. Charlie Brown looks very confused, but then, that’s a default setting for Charlie Brown. You find a leash, drop it in front of him on the floor. At last he gets the hint.
    He puts your leash on warily. He’s waiting for the punch line. He’s waiting for your ironic sneer, the little bit of humiliation you’ll make him suffer. “Good grief,” says Charlie Brown. His hands are shaking.
    He takes you out to the park. That’s where most people take their dogs, but he’s never done it before. Now you’re there, he hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.
    In your mouth you pick up a stick, and offer it to him. He takes it suspiciously.
    His hands are still shaking.
    You realize he’s scared of you. Not scared that you’ll bite him, like an ordinary dog might. But that you’ll bully him. That you’ll point at him and laugh. He was once the star of his own comic strip, and the wacky dog took that away from him, and reduced him to a stooge.
    He throws the stick for you.
    And, as Snoopy, so many options come into play. You could bring him back the stick, but have already fashioned it into some exciting piece of woodwork—a model boat, maybe, or a pipe rack. You could bring him instead an entire branch, an entire log, an entire tree. You could just roll your eyes, say “Good grief,” and walk away. That would be the most hurtful.
    You bring him back the stick. And not in your paws, as if you’re a human. And not with a little gift bow on top, in sarcastic overenthusiasm. You bring it back properly, as a loyal dog would.
    He takes the stick from you. He doesn’t trust you. He’s still waiting for the joke.
    There is no joke. And each time he throws it, you bark, and race after it, and bring it back to your master. And each time, Charlie Brown’s face breaks into an ever-larger smile, and the smile is sincere and free, and it’s not a smile for the newspaper readers at home, it’s a smile for you, just for you, his faithful canine pal.

    The supporting cast come back to see you again. Lucy van Pelt says, “What are you doing, you blockhead?”, and then she starts on about wanting to slug you again. Linus tells of how selfish it is that you are putting the needs of one above the livelihood of many, and finds some bit of scripture to emphasize the point. The truth is, the
Peanuts
readership is dwindling fast. No one wants to read about Snoopy if Snoopy’s just an ordinary dog. No one wants to read about a Charlie Brown who’s happy.
    It’s easy to ignore Lucy and Linus, because you’re a dog, and dogs aren’t supposed to understand what humans say.
    And not everyone minds. All the kids at school, the ones who never got names, the ones who never felt valued—they’re free now, they can do whatever they want. Maybe they’ll become proper kids now, with real lives, and real futures,