Free The Dog Says How by Kevin Kling Page A

stilts. And that’s how I became part of the Heart of The Beast Puppet and Mask Theatre Company and the “Circle of Water Circus.”
    One morning in May we all met in a church to move supplies to a farm outside of Alma, Wisconsin. There we would build the circus. I looked about the room at my fellow performers. They looked like people from another time. “Hippies,” we had called them. I thought the last one had died of the disco fever in 1978. But here they were, probably the largest gathering of their kind in the area. Except for one man, dressed in a suit on a hot day. He sat directly across from me, hunched over, smoking, his “Type A” leg shaking violently. Did he have to come? These hippies were one thing, but this man scared me.
    I discovered he was married to the trombone player, who seemed very kind. Maybe she knew how to calm him with kind words, a song, or a cookie if he got agitated. Still, I would keep a watchful eye on the man with the shaky leg.
    We spent the morning loading gear, and then we had our first meal. I was starved. Then out came what I call the “terrible Ts”: tofu, tahini, tabouli, and tamari. When we finished I was starved. What, a vegetarian circus? My God, we’ll die.
    We were told to start loading equipment and I noticed the man with the shaky leg loading a Weber bar-b-que grill. I imagined he was going to cook up bar-b-que along the river—pork shoulder and seasoned ribs, steaks and chops and brats. He turned to me and said, “Just in case we see any wild monkey.” I didn’t care, and I realized suddenly I would have to befriend the scary man.
    And I did . . . on the farm. During the day, we built puppets and rehearsed the show. At night we took bike rides to the local tavern trying to stretch out our twenty-five dollars. It was after one night at the tavern that the shaky-legged man and I found ourselves walking along the dirt road back to the farm. My bike had a flat tire so we were pushing the bikes. He told me he and his wife, the trombone player, were expecting a baby. They were going to name her Alma if it was a girl, after the town in Wisconsin. Actually, her name would be Alma Marina, taken from the beautiful waters and high bluffs. He hoped they would have a girl, because if it was a boy, he would be called Nelson Cheese Factory, in honor of the local industry.
    One day it was announced we had a boat. Well, sort of. It was a houseboat from Lake Minnetonka, and there was some question as to its sea worthiness. Navigating a lake is one thing, but river currents and eddies and barge traffic is another. One solution was to hire a captain to reduce our risk. We put it to a vote and narrowly agreed to hire the captain and buy the houseboat. Those of us who voted for the boat would be reminded of this time and again.
    We celebrated that night by firing up the Weber. Thirty bratwursts hit the flames and thirty brats were gone. Somewhat of a miracle considering there were only four claimed meat eaters. I think in the Bacchanalian frenzy there was some backsliding, but who could blame them with the news of a boat.
    Our captain arrived shortly. He was rough and tough, hard as nails, a Vietnam vet. Every other word was something like my grandpa said when a tractor fell on his toe. This swabby could get us through, no doubt. We got the houseboat. Before we left he said he hoped it would be no inconvenience but during the trip he would be making the change from a man to a woman. He’d never felt comfortable as a man and now he was making the change. I knew I started to love this group when no one batted an eye.
    Fine with us, let’s hit the river.
    We performed in Brainerd, St. Cloud, the Twin Cities, La Crosse, Wisconsin, and Clinton, Iowa. Every couple weeks the Captain would head back to the Twin Cities for counseling or injections—or charm school. Charm school was the worst because for a week he wouldn’t open a door for himself or steer the boat. They had turned him into a