Dogs of Orninica Read online

  So, trusting their brothers, the farmers took out bank loans to buy these much hyped chemical concoctions. They poured these poisons onto the land that was left, and suddenly they and their children's children were tied to the tit of the corporate master. The land quickly lost its vitality, and more and more poisons were carted in and poured over the nation's food to keep the harvest coming, and the debt collector at bay.

  Slowly, the old ways began to fade from memory as everyone struggled to keep their debt in line. More and more middlemen entered the fray as the last remaining small-holder farmers gradually gave in to the urge (or the court order) to sell to the persuasive developers and corporate agribusiness groups.

  These unsustainable farming practices were just the start. Soon even the almighty economy, to which we all kneel and pray, would also come crashing down under the weight of its mounting pressure. The debt grew so fast that our fathers were now putting off paying it back until a few generations after their lifetimes. They continued to give away the future in exchange for the fleeting life of a king in his castle with his things.

  "And what of the future?" we pried.

  "That's God's domain", they answered, before shooing you away so they could attend to more important matters.

  I watched these events unfold in my childhood and I gradually went through the 5 stages of grief for all that was lost. Then one day, probably while watching a willowy tree swaying in the wind or something equally trite, I came to a conscious decision.

  I wouldn't follow in my father's footsteps, wasting my life away chasing an unattainable checklist of so-called important things. Luxury, affluence, esteem, financial security; these are all selfish and misleading concepts. The very antithesis of life. They ignore the very self-evident truth that life is extremely temporary. Everyone in this man-forsaken country seems to live life as if immortality is a long-accepted concept, and death is just some song and dance concocted in storybooks to scare our children with. It seems we're adamant on accumulating enough wealth, shiny possessions and important-sounding titles for a time long past our inevitable expiration.

  Instead, I've led a simple life, consuming only the bare essentials needed to survive, and saving only enough to make it through the next winter. I work part time from home, for a few trusted clients, making just enough to stay off the tax-man's radar and out of debt. I grow my own food on my own land and built my own humble little home on a shoestring budget, far away from civilization with it's unending list of strangling building codes and zoning regulations.

  I wish self-important hypocrite celebrity activists like Harvey Fidelbrook would leave the comfort of their towering mansions and crystal yachts for long enough to experience real life. This fool is actually deluded enough to declare he's changing the world with his manipulative melodramatic movies that cost a hundred million oonos of utter waste to produce. Fidelbrook is nothing but a brainless corporate puppet, programmed to emote when the scene calls for it, and even then, his inflated ego roadblocks any acting ability he may have once had. He could have a roaring career as a two-faced politician if he weren't so deluded in his certainty that acting is somehow important work.

  I understand that dogs like Fidelbrook have never had to work for a living, let-alone be forced to choose between paying the rent or eating. I know it's a lot to expect such sheltered dogs to be responsible for their careless words when they've never been burdened by any kind of responsibility in their privileged lives. But I just wish he'd know when to shut the fuck up. His careless comments, demanding the poor work harder, couldn't have been more ignorant, and I'm truly embarrassed that by some sick cosmic irony, this blow-hard St. Bernard is considered to be our most respected and celebrated public figure.

  In the much-maligned Nureongi utopia of the far East, our distant relations run free, their tails as intact as their dignity. There, a dog's life is simple. He goes out into the forest and comes back with the day's hunt. The food is piled in the village square, and everyone eats. Everyone has a place, no dog left to starve and freeze on the cold streets every winter as in our sacred Orninica. If I had been born a Nureongi, I would be proud.

  When the freakish logger-bots reach the shores of Nureongi, I just hope they fight back. If anyone still has fight left in them, if anyone still has something worth defending, it's certainly the Nureongi. I hope they tear those bots apart before their lush, fertile lands are stripped bare, and the last free dogs on the earth are enslaved forever.

  If self-proclaimed activist Harvey Fidelbrook actually had a morsel of compassion in him, he would be wholly concerned with the plight of the Nureongi, in their most vulnerable hour. He would protest their subjugation with intense zest, and rally his whole fan-base to take to the streets in their support. But Harvey is no defender of the powerless. His only concern is the pampering of his colossal ego. No, to expect any real action from an air-headed role player like Mr. Fidelbrook would be too much. There's no little golden statue given out for speaking the truth.

  So continue, Fidelbrook, to recite your carefully written lines, prepared for you by your room of groveling writers, and stop pretending that you're some kind of majestic crusader for peace. It's plainly obvious to anyone that you don't even get out of bed for a penny less than your outrageous asking price.

  I'm probably being too hard on old Harvey. When it comes down to it, he's really a symptom rather than the disease. He might be better at playing the game than most, but he's a still just another lowly slave begging for table scraps from the dogs with the real power.

  But I suppose the power-elite that run the world are really only as powerful as any common schoolyard bully demanding a little pup hand over his lunch money or face the consequences. I wonder though, what if that little pup, puffing on his asthma inhaler, eyes darting around, hoping to find solace in his amused classmates, what if he took the lunch money, held it up in front of the bully's grinning face, lit a lighter and burned it. I wonder if the consequences would really be worse than giving in to his tormentor's demands.

  The plain truth of the matter is that we are nothing. Our knowledge is minuscule, our understanding of even the most basic and fundamental concepts is completely and utterly broken. Yet we presume to be all knowing sages raining our great wisdoms down on the rest of the citizenry.

  We did not come to exist in this strange reality because we have to meet some kind of higher purpose. There’s no magical goal we must strive towards to finally reach our rightful place in the world. We aren’t here to find meaning, to reach prestigious milestones or to achieve a long list of successful ventures. We exist simply to exist. And that should be enough for any sentient creature anywhere in the universe.

  For a long while, all of those things I listed were good fun and games, pleasant distractions we used to pass the time on rainy days. But somewhere along the line, we began to lose sight of reality; we started to see the silly distractions as more firm and solid than our actuality. This bewildering world we’ve been born to is truly a grand spectacle of fleeting enchantment, yet we stubbornly hurry through this unique gift of a life, brushing off its vast wonders, and focus all our efforts on attaining some kind of vague opalescence in some other, better place. Whether that place be in this life or in some other life we imagine might follow this one, I can't tell.

  Why can't this be the better place we seek? Whichever place you're currently occupying while reading this silly little rant of mine. If you stopped working so hurriedly to leave it behind in favor of a building with a doorman, or a neighborhood with a park, if you didn't spend every waking moment trying to move up in the world, and instead just opened your eyes to whatever random space you currently find yourself inhabiting, if you focused on its unique beauty. You could enhance this beauty. You could plant seeds and sit back and watch while they sprout and bloom and cover whatever unsightliness it is that keeps you from getting off that bullet train to the top until it's too late and nothingness is the only stop left.

  We keep doing odd
things that make very little sense, just because our parents kept doing these same odd things. We never stop to question why we're continuing these strange rituals, they just seem necessary to us somehow. A few of these things are trivial and easily overlooked, but so many of them are destructive on a global scale. We're aware of this, and yet we continue the ritual.

  If we're challenged, we complain loudly that our proud traditions are being threatened. We use this word a lot, 'tradition'. As if it implies some kind of sacred tenet that can never be challenged or scrutinized in any way. We stuff all kinds of morally repugnant acts into this word and somehow they are justified in our minds, because our parents were just as repugnant. It would be unthinkable to rise above our parents, to become better than they were; more free, more logical, more healthy, more compassionate, more happy, less fucked in the head.

  And then the traditions that actually had weight to them, those that had us living in peaceful harmony with our natural world, as any leaf hanging on any tree anywhere in the macrocosm, those traditions we throw out with the dirty dishwater. No profit.

  If I could go back in time somehow, I would whisper in my great grandfather's ear and tell him to start a tradition to wipe all tradition clean with every generation. Tradition would become taboo and society would progress logically. Maybe then we'd be able to let go of our compulsive disorder to rise above everyone else, and society could finally progress unhindered by the greed of the few.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Actor

  Harvey Fidelbrook is no one's puppet. Harvey Fidelbrook is no fool! The anonymous coward posting these attacks against me all over the Internet is completely misguided about who I am and what I stand for. I'm currently on location, shooting a deathly serious biopic about the plight of the Soup monks here in the impoverished Rrado mountains. I play Brother Buster Goodog, the heroic holy man that led a one-hundred day hunger strike in protest of our government's brutal and ongoing trade sanctions and blockade against the Autonomous Tribes of Nureongi. I'm making a difference. I'm teaching the world to be more compassionate. What are you doing?

  This is important work that I do. No armchair revolutionary-nobody can ever hope to judge my countless achievements, and I'm willing to bet you every one of my yachts that I've accomplished more acts of importance this month than you have in your entire life.

  Harvey Fidelbrook effects change on a global scale!

  Fans, I'm sorry for the negative vibes, but I can't just sit back and let spineless little dogs shit all over my legacy. I've worked too hard to allow this conspiracy against my kind and giving nature to continue. I think I've kept quiet for long enough.

  I invite Mr. Anonymous Revolutionary to dog-up and join me on a fact finding mission to the appalling shantytowns of Nureongi. That's right, you heard it here exclusively on Harvey Fidelbrook's Rainbow Blog; I am going to be the first Orninican to travel to Nureongi in decades, as my close personal friend, the President has given me special permission to enter the no fly zone in my jet. Come and see for yourself Mr. Anonymous. Harvey Fidelbrook understands the plight of the impoverished and downtrodden. Harvey Fidelbrook can seal the fissures that separate us from our isolated Nureongi brothers.

  So whoever you are, contact my business manager and she'll make the arrangements. You can witness with your own eyes the important works I perform when I'm away from a movie set. Grasp the love in front of you and let the eternal light energy burn its imprint on your tortured soul.

  I guess everyone has heard by now, I got nominated for my work on last year's gritty epic, 'The Fighter'. It feels amazing to once again be recognized for such an important, groundbreaking role. For those that are new to my blog, I had to gain 50 kg for that part. Well, I just had to lose 70 kg to play Brother Buster, so it's been a real big effort. My body is a finely tuned machine. My team have me on an all-liquid diet. Nothing but carrot juice and corn syrup, baby.

  To get into the character, I've spent a month living the life of a Rrado monk. Total abstinence. It's been fucking hard work but you've got to be dedicated to your craft if you want to really inhabit the character's skin. Sorry, ladies.

  Acting isn't some useless 9-5 job where you never grow or expand your mind. Acting is a delicate craft that takes a lifetime of suffering and deprivation to master.

  I am every character that I perform as. I feel everything they feel, suffer just as they suffer. I am Brother Buster. I cry myself to sleep every night thinking of all the hungry little yellow bastards in Nureongi. I tell you, just last night, room service was phoning to ask if I was okay because I was sobbing so loudly. I made it clear to her that I wasn't okay, and I would never be okay as long as there was woe in the hearts of little pups all over the world.

  A lot of my peers like to romanticize the craft of acting. They make it sound almost like a party. I'm here to tell you, it's no party. I'm just going to come out and say it; what we do is as important as the work any life-saving doctor or fireman does. Probably more so, since we reach a global audience. Just think of all the blank impressionable minds my films have influenced to do good.

  I stand on a hot set all day, surrounded by hot lights, wearing an itchy hot costume, working my tail off to expose important issues to a worldwide audience that numbers in the millions.

  If it weren't for films like 'The Fighter', would anyone understand the utter misery the penniless and brain-damaged former Pitbull League champion Spike Mox experienced after washing out of the game? Would they know the quiet longing for a better life of the homeless grass-hooch addict I played in the multiple-award winning 'Desolation Bones'? Do you know how many dogs have come up to me at signings and told me they've stopped making fun of the mentally challenged after seeing my gut-wrenching performance as Gus in 'Simple Dreamer', or as Eddie in the heart-warming comedy 'Special Ed'?

  None of these important issues would have gotten exposed to the world without the hard work of actors. And yes, we're rewarded for that work financially. I'm struggling to think of a vocation that gives more back to society than acting. Is it so unreasonable for a classically trained, multi-talented and hard-working artist to be rewarded for his dauntless efforts to steer the public consciousness and bring a little culture to the masses? No, sir.

  I am not ashamed of my success in this world. As my fans all know, I came from nothing, pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and built my illustrious body of work brick by brick. My first pay check wasn't even worth wiping with, but I persisted, like a courageous little worker bee chasing his foolish dream of a mansion made of honeycomb.

  My parents were simple stockbrokers with only a pittance to their names. My trust fund was a joke compared to my classmates at the Barksdale Academy, and often I was forced to dine apart from my inner circle to save a penny. My humble beginnings are what gave me the drive to better myself, to perfect my craft and to make a difference in the world that would be felt for generations.

  No one can claim Harvey Fidelbrook hasn't worked hard all his life to reach the top. I deserve everything I've worked for and I refuse to apologize for it.

  There's been a lot of interest from the media in my latest caninatarian project, the purchase of tropical island Nona. I have big plans for this place, including an exclusive casino eco-resort that will be staffed by the impoverished Nona natives. Every dog on the island will have the opportunity to work at the resort and better their family's standing in life forever, just like I did when I became an actor all those years ago.

  This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for these poor simple corn-farmers to make something of their lives, and I hope that every one of them seizes the opportunity. We will even pay to fly to the mainland any Nona native that for whatever reason chooses not to take the job offered to him.

  The five-star resort will house up to ten-thousand guests at a time, and feature a championship golf course, an assortment of 5-star gourmet restaurants, a spa and wellness center, a wine tasting club, a sailing club, polo and croquet fields and a state-of-the
-art theme park for your pups with rides based on the unstoppable animated franchise I lend my voice to as the beloved title character in 'Oh No! It's Jelly the Ghost!'

  Only green technologies that are respectful of the delicate natural environment will be used to build the accommodations, which will range from beach huts and holiday apartments that actually touch the waves along the shoreline, to log cabins in the mountains, and a luxury full-service hotel in between. Don't worry, the premium beach huts will be built just as big and comfortable as a spacious penthouse, so you won't feel at all cramped. Each of them will come with their own doorkeeper, maid and private chef, or you can bring your own and save the difference.

  The resort will also home one of the features I'm most excited about, the largest amphitheater in the world, crafted out of ecologically conscious faux stone that will be airlifted in from 8000 km away block by block.

  I will personally be there on opening week next June to direct and star in a production of the wondrous classic musical 'Bring on the Island Fever'. As I write, the bulldozers are prepping the site and the very first Nonaon has been hired to oversee catering for the construction crew. I'm told the excitement on the island among the natives is intoxicating, as they prepare to seize a better future for their families than their meager subsistence farming existence can ever allow.

  We're even setting up a school where the very best Orninican teachers will prepare the young islanders for the new world of endless opportunity ahead of them. Really great stuff. I'm not supposed to talk about it yet, but my business partners have also acquired a neighboring uninhabited rock-island to use for staff-quarters in the future. And of course, just a few knots away is my own private Fidelbrook Island. I'll be picking a couple of lucky young fans from the crowd after the show every night to join me for drinks at my old homestead.