Howard: Dog costumes and french horns

The community musical for the summer was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I had been chosen to play Lord Scrumptious, the candy maker. It wasn’t the part I tried out for, but there was one thing I really enjoyed about it, and that was the children.

After the “Toot

Sweet” dance, the children all came in dressed as dogs. They were so cute in their costumes. Since I was the main focus of the scene, even though the dogs were supposed to chase everyone, they all especially liked to bark at me. I always ended up with such a large group of dog-costumed children barking at me that I couldn’t run away like everyone else. I feared I would accidentally trip over one of them.

Eventually, the curtains closed, but before they did, many of the smallest children would stand up and run to me. I’m pretty sure they were seeking praise, and I always patted the floppy ears on top of their heads and whispered that they did a good job. During practice, the director called out, “All dogs must stay on all four paws until the curtain closes!”

But they didn’t listen. The whole barking lot of the littlest ones would jump up and race to see who could get to me first. The director tried to compensate by closing the curtains faster. This posed its own problem. In the next scene, the costumed children were supposed to chase the spies across in front of the curtain. But many of them didn’t want to proceed with that assignment until they had had their heads patted and were complimented on the good job they did.

I tried to pat the heads of my little canine crowd as quickly as I could before hurrying them into position for their next scene. Inevitably, there were a few who were late joining the pack to bark their way across the stage.

One particular night, a little five-year-old boy named Gus was quite a bit behind the others. They were almost halfway across the stage when he came out the side door and started woofing his way across in front of the curtain. He was hurrying as fast as he could to catch up, and the orchestra and the audience watched in horror as his floppy hound-dog-eared hat fell down over his eyes.

Gus didn’t want to lose any time by stopping to fix it, so he kept going, barking loudly. But his course diverged from a straight line, and he curved toward the orchestra pit. The orchestra members dropped their instruments and grabbed him. The audience gasped as Gus tumbled over the edge. The orchestra members were able to break Gus’s fall, and he wasn’t hurt. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the French horn that was dropped and then crushed in the more critical rush to save Gus. The violinist pulled Gus’s hat back so it didn’t cover his eyes, and they hoisted him back onto the stage where he bayed his way on across the stage to the audience’s applause.

After those scenes, Gus and I were the only two in the dressing room. He was sitting dejectedly on the bench.

“What’s wrong, Gus?” I asked. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No. But the director is really mad at me.

She was waiting for me when I came off the stage.”

“What did she say?” He hung his head. “She said I can’t wear my hat anymore.”

“She just doesn’t want you to get hurt,” I said.

“But the hat is the best part of the costume,” he replied.

I patted the hound dog ears on top of his head. “The best part of the costume is you, Gus. You are a horn-smashing good hound dog.”

He smiled. “I guess I am. The director said something about me being horn smashing, too.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: Daris Howard, awardwinning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com, to buy his books.