daughter and a job at the bank, and her having a husband and a Pomeranian, if the little dog is still alive.
Ruth already knows the lovers’ fate—she taught the story almost every year—yet every time she nears the story’s end, Chekhov creates anew the hope that this time things will turn out differently, this time “the solution would be found, and then a new and glorious life would begin: and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that what was to be most complicated and difficult for them was only just beginning.”
Sunday
QUEEN FOR A DAY
DOROTHY NOW SHARES A SEMIPRIVATE ROOM with a bulldog recuperating from having eaten a penny, a poodle passing kidney stones, a Mexican hairless with a sinus infection, and a pug in a leg cast. Cages line the green walls. Dorothy’s is stacked atop the bulldog’s—she can smell him trying to pass the penny. Unlike intensive care with only the Chihuahua’s faint breath for company, this ward is alive with barking. Whenever the nurse walks by, all the dogs vie for her attention, but Dorothy knows a trick the others don’t. As the nurse passes her cage, Dorothy wags her tail to beat the band. “Look at you,” the nurse invariably stops and says, “twenty-four hours out of back surgery and doing the shimmy. You go, girl, shake that booty.”
This morning though, a medical student with clammy hands accompanies the nurse. He takes Dorothy from her cage and sits her on a cold steel examining table.
When she wags her tail for him, he’s not impressed. She looks up at the nurse.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, you have to try to walk today.”
The nurse helps her up, supporting Dorothy’s hind-quarters,while the medical student walks to the head of the table and calls, “Dorothy!”
Once again, she wags her tail for him—faster, harder— but wagging her tail doesn’t even elicit a smile.
The nurse gently sets her down. “I’ll be right back.” She shouts into the corridor, “Mauricio, give me a little sausage from your McMuffin.” When she returns she’s holding what to Dorothy’s nose smells like life itself. Dorothy hasn’t eaten in thirty-six hours. Her entire world narrows to that smoky meaty scent. The sausage is passed from the nurse’s long black fingers to the student’s pale ones.
“Try calling her now,” the nurse says.
The pale fingers hold out the crumble of sausage. “Dorothy!”
With the nurse’s help, she’s able to get traction on the table surface: she takes a step, sways.
“One more, baby, one more,” the nurse whispers encouragingly.
Dorothy lurches toward the enticing morsel. She doesn’t quite reach it, but she manages two more steps.
“I’m going to get Dr. Rush,” says the medical student.
He leaves with the sausage. Where is he taking it?
“Aren’t you something,” the nurse says, “I bet you’ll be ready to go dancing by tonight.”
The doctor with the kind blue eyes comes in. Dorothy can smell he now has the sausage. “A hot dog eating a sausage? Sounds a little like cannibalism to me.” He tilts up her snout and shines a pinprick of sun into her eyes. He cups a cold steel bell to her heart and listens. Dorothy follows the traces of meat in the air: the sausage is in his lefthand. Finally, he offers her the morsel, but he holds it just out of reach. She rises to her feet again, this time without the nurse’s help, takes a step, sways, takes another, totters, but keeps going until she reaches the meat.
“You are a miracle wiener,” the doctor says, feeding her the last of the crumbles. She swallows them before she remembers to chew. All that’s left to savor is the juice on the doctor’s fingers. She licks up every last drop, and when the taste is gone, she washes his fingers in gratitude.
“GOOD MORNING, EVERYBODY,” SAYS THE basset-eyed newscaster—freshly shaved, powdered, and clad in a new shirt and tie. To unshaven Alex and barely awake Ruth drinking their morning tea in
Ruth already knows the lovers’ fate—she taught the story almost every year—yet every time she nears the story’s end, Chekhov creates anew the hope that this time things will turn out differently, this time “the solution would be found, and then a new and glorious life would begin: and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that what was to be most complicated and difficult for them was only just beginning.”
Sunday
QUEEN FOR A DAY
DOROTHY NOW SHARES A SEMIPRIVATE ROOM with a bulldog recuperating from having eaten a penny, a poodle passing kidney stones, a Mexican hairless with a sinus infection, and a pug in a leg cast. Cages line the green walls. Dorothy’s is stacked atop the bulldog’s—she can smell him trying to pass the penny. Unlike intensive care with only the Chihuahua’s faint breath for company, this ward is alive with barking. Whenever the nurse walks by, all the dogs vie for her attention, but Dorothy knows a trick the others don’t. As the nurse passes her cage, Dorothy wags her tail to beat the band. “Look at you,” the nurse invariably stops and says, “twenty-four hours out of back surgery and doing the shimmy. You go, girl, shake that booty.”
This morning though, a medical student with clammy hands accompanies the nurse. He takes Dorothy from her cage and sits her on a cold steel examining table.
When she wags her tail for him, he’s not impressed. She looks up at the nurse.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, you have to try to walk today.”
The nurse helps her up, supporting Dorothy’s hind-quarters,while the medical student walks to the head of the table and calls, “Dorothy!”
Once again, she wags her tail for him—faster, harder— but wagging her tail doesn’t even elicit a smile.
The nurse gently sets her down. “I’ll be right back.” She shouts into the corridor, “Mauricio, give me a little sausage from your McMuffin.” When she returns she’s holding what to Dorothy’s nose smells like life itself. Dorothy hasn’t eaten in thirty-six hours. Her entire world narrows to that smoky meaty scent. The sausage is passed from the nurse’s long black fingers to the student’s pale ones.
“Try calling her now,” the nurse says.
The pale fingers hold out the crumble of sausage. “Dorothy!”
With the nurse’s help, she’s able to get traction on the table surface: she takes a step, sways.
“One more, baby, one more,” the nurse whispers encouragingly.
Dorothy lurches toward the enticing morsel. She doesn’t quite reach it, but she manages two more steps.
“I’m going to get Dr. Rush,” says the medical student.
He leaves with the sausage. Where is he taking it?
“Aren’t you something,” the nurse says, “I bet you’ll be ready to go dancing by tonight.”
The doctor with the kind blue eyes comes in. Dorothy can smell he now has the sausage. “A hot dog eating a sausage? Sounds a little like cannibalism to me.” He tilts up her snout and shines a pinprick of sun into her eyes. He cups a cold steel bell to her heart and listens. Dorothy follows the traces of meat in the air: the sausage is in his lefthand. Finally, he offers her the morsel, but he holds it just out of reach. She rises to her feet again, this time without the nurse’s help, takes a step, sways, takes another, totters, but keeps going until she reaches the meat.
“You are a miracle wiener,” the doctor says, feeding her the last of the crumbles. She swallows them before she remembers to chew. All that’s left to savor is the juice on the doctor’s fingers. She licks up every last drop, and when the taste is gone, she washes his fingers in gratitude.
“GOOD MORNING, EVERYBODY,” SAYS THE basset-eyed newscaster—freshly shaved, powdered, and clad in a new shirt and tie. To unshaven Alex and barely awake Ruth drinking their morning tea in
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