In my last post I revealed that I was, for a short time during my late puppy years, homeless. I haven't been able to respond to all the emails asking me about this because (a) I'm a dog and my internet access is limited and (b) I'm 91 years old; these old paws can't type like they used to.
The short answer is, it's a long story, but here's the beginning part of it.
I was born into a litter of four mutts in an alley in Park Slope. My mother herself was of mixed-breed, while my father was a purebred German Shepherd.
He was a strict disciplinarian, quick with a growl but short on patience with my siblings and me. Seemed he was always "working" and "needed his space."
Despite his stern demeanor, my father was a brilliant comedian. He could have been one of the biggest stars of Vaudeville, but for two things: (1) the rampant discrimination towards dogs and; (2) the fact that he couldn't talk. Funny jokes, but zero delivery, right?
Through his diligence, though, he wound up writing for some of the great Borscht belt comedians of his day: Joey Adams, Mort Sahl, Shecky Greene... Of course, no one knows about it - or pretends not to. Last thing Buddy Hackett's going to admit is that most of his comedy was written by a German Shepherd. But whaddya gonna do, right?
Well, what my father did was leave. He resented my siblings and me, thought we were the ones keeping him from his dream, and left my mother to raise four pups on her own.
She did the best she could, my mother. And my father? I never saw him again.
The neighborhood became my surrogate, the restaurants, bars, alleyways, and people of Brooklyn my masters and best friends. Scraps of food from the co-op. Free concerts at the conservatory. Yeah... we survived all right.
And even though I'm enjoying my Golden Years out here in sunny SoCal, those years on the streets of Park Slope are while I'll always be...
-Brooklyn Hayes.
Deep. Glad you see it this way now. Thanks Brooklyn Hayes.
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