The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog, and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O’Hagan

Gish had a very relaxing air of artistic fastidiousness, and Marilyn took it in naturally. They spoke of acting classes and Ms Gish said she was delighted to
be back on stage, at the Belasco.
‘Your dog has a very kind face,’ she added.
‘I guess he’s not a bad little soldier,’ said Marilyn. ‘I would
say he’s feeling a little overawed by tonight.’
‘It’s nice to have a friend,’ said Ms Gish. Then she pressed
her lips over a piece of tissue and turned to Marilyn. ‘When
you were very young, Miss Monroe, did you have a best
friend?’ Marilyn paused only for a second to register both
her surprise at the question and her general satisfaction that
such a question could be asked in a place like this. Marilyn
had a gift for immediate intimacy.
‘Yes I did,’ she said. ‘Her name was Alice Tuttle.’ ‘That’s what I find as I get older: the little girls of one’s
past step forward to keep you company. In my dressing room
at the theatre I often find I’m thinking about them. Isn’t
that strange? Only the other day I found a picture of a girl
like that – haven’t seen her in fifty years – and I put it on the
mirror in the dressing room.’
‘I bet you are a swell friend,’ said Marilyn.
We allow the human story always to take centre stage:
that is what makes a dog the perfect friend. And yet I
was thinking of the wild dogs that wandered the streets of
ancient Rome, the ones remembered by the philosophers for
haunting the city in the dead of night. They were Celtic
hounds who came from the mountains, keeping to their own
kind, threading through the pillars, licking dust from the
mosaics and circling the Forum to bark at the mysteries of
civilisation.
Friendship. It depends on a suspension of the instinct
merely to propagate oneself. One must leave parts of oneself
dormant in order to succeed as a good friend. I never wanted
to be the sort of animal who inveigles others and nuzzles his
way to a summit of affection. Being a good friend requires
a willingness, on occasion, to appear to subvert the cause,
being critical when clarity and progress demand it. My career
as Marilyn’s pet was pursued with a degree of moral vigour:
in that universe of flattery I tried to sing my own notes, not
very successfully, but I think she got my meaning through a
long concatenation of looks and yaps.
Before we took off, a fan called Charlie, whom she knew
very well, asked the doorman to take a quick picture of him
and Marilyn, and she was happy to do it, taking his arm.
‘Gee. Your hands are cold this evening, Charlie. How long
you been standing out here?’
‘Two hours.’ He shrugged. ‘Less than that. I went to see
Exodus at Warner’s on 47th Street.’
‘Preminger,’ said Marilyn.
‘And Dalton Trumbo.’ Together they walked the few
steps to her waiting car. ‘Can you believe it, Trumbo writing
again?’
‘They blacklisted him, right?’
‘Oh, yeah. Big time. Maybe things are easing off.’ ‘Mmmm, I doubt it,’ said Marilyn. ‘Not while Khrushchev
is still banging the table with his shoe. What did you think
of the picture?’
‘A bit talky,’ he said. ‘Cobb’s good.’
‘Lee Cobb?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Arthur knew him.’
‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘He was in his play.’
‘He named names. They always get forgiven in the end.’ ‘Who does?’
‘Men.’
‘Oh get lost,’ said Charlie, wrinkling his nose. Charlie
was one of those smart kids it makes you feel nice to like.
‘The picture tries to be fair to everybody, which is always a
mistake in drama, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I guess so,’ she said.
Charlie was one of the Monroe Six. This was a group
of kids who hung around in front of Marilyn’s apartment
building and who used to wait in the lobby in the days when
she lived at the Waldorf. She often saw them as she made
her way to appointments and she would always smile for
them and sign autographs. They looked after her