[The following editorial appears in Hidden Years #22, New Blood #29, Jink #6, and The Rebels #7. --MK]
Hmmm. I have a choice to make.
I can either write about the state of the comic book "industry" at this particular moment, and why it's causing a great many people and businesses, large and small, to grow ulcers and have sleepless nights (so far for yours truly, some sleepless nights, no ulcers, thank the High Ones) - or I can talk about dogs.
If you're wondering, the connection between the two topics seems to be that, at a time like this, when all is chaos and turmoil, a dog will come to you all unbidden and rest its chin on your leg as you sit, morose, in your easy chair, and it will just look at you with eyes that say, "It's all going to be O.K." Dogs' thoughts and feelings are right on the surface like that, very likely because (as George Carlin so perfectly pegged it) they have eyebrows.
I miss my dog at times like this, that smallish, white, aging demon hound from hell. (But Feisty is doing very well, thank you for asking, out in LaLa Land, staking her turf along-side the likes of Lassie and Spuds McKenzie.)
What has contributed to bring this rank sentimentality of my own to the fore is the rediscovery of a book that I remember reading when I was young, that had to do in part with a man and his dog. The title of the book is "The Adventures of Ulysses." It's one of those ubiquitous young-adult tomes from the late 1950s, and was written by Gerald Gottleib and illustrated by Steele Savage (great name, no?).
Everyone knows - or ought to - about Ulysses, the Greek hero and king who went away to fight in the Trojan War and who took twenty years to get back home to his family and who had a ton of fabulous adventures along the way. And finally - battered, shipwrecked, all but unrecognizable to everyone he meets - he gets back to his homeland of Ithaca, where his long-suffering wife has been holding off the advances of dozens of suitors who want Ulysses' title and wealth. The king, disguised as a beggar, returns to his palace, where he meets a servant...
The servant turned and looked at an old hound
that lay feebly panting in the sun. At the sound of the
beggar's voice the old dog pricked up his ears and tried to
wag his tail.
"That's old Argus," the palace servant answered. "He was a
great dog once. But now his good master, King Ulysses, lies dead far away somewhere." He shook his
head. "These are sad days. But go, old man, ask for food in the hall there."
The servant trotted off. The beggar stood with tears in his eyes, watching as the faithful dog
Argus struggled weakly to run to his master one last time - struggled, rose to his feet, panted happily,
and then slumped over dead.
The beggar said nothing. He bent over his
staff and raised an arm, trembling with age, to point
"Is that your dog?"
All my life I've grown up with, lived with one dog or another, watched 'em born, watched 'em
die. So I well remember the first time, reading the section of "The Adventures of Ulysses" that I just
quoted, and bawling my eyes out. That's what dogs will do to you. (And why else would we have made
the elves Wolfriders if not for the fact that wolves are family/pack creatures, and dogs are just wolves
on good behavior.) Time passed, and I forgot the book, until one day not long ago I was browsing a
used book store and spotted the faintly familiar title. I opened the pages and a little voice of recognition
inside me whispered, "Uh oh... you're in trouble now." And it was true. Because when I flipped to the
page where Ulysses comes home and spies old Argus, with the illustration I'd hazily recalled there for
me in perfect clarity... well, I don't lose it too often in public, but there you have it. Just typing the
words from the story into this editorial has got me all misty.
Summer's coming up (as I write this) - generally a crazy time to be in comics. What this summer will look like is anyone's guess.
I miss my dog at times like this. I could use someone to tell me, unconditionally, "It's going to be O.K."
Richard A Pini