s u m m e r g u i d e 2 0 1 7 2 9 9 A Shaggy Dog y an C nn r shaggy dog story sha g d g st r n: o , relating to, or being a similar humorous story characteri ed by digression hose humor lies in the ointlessness or irrelevance o the lot or unch line a shaggy dog comedy . M y dog, Phoenix, did not make it through the fire. I got out. She did not. Heavy-handed sym- bolism, except that Phoenix, who did not rise from the flames, was not named for the myth but for River Phoenix, the character Mike in My Own Private Idaho. Whichever, ashes to ashes. Like Mike, I was searching for my moth- er, who deserted me and left me to bounce, and not very high, from foster home to fos- ter home until I got my own–a beat-up im- mobile home at the far end of the trailer court, Happy Acres. Trailer parks are not renowned for their grasp of irony. So I was dog-less and homeless. Enter Pastor Pete. Pastor Pete was like no other pastor I knew, not that I knew many (any) pastors. He actually helped people, helped clothe them, helped feed them. He did not criticize single mothers. He did not hate gay men. For all I knew he was one. He did not hate anyone as far as I could see. A Chris- tian who actually was Christian. He had his own church–The Church of Pete–and he told me that he was named after Pe- ter–thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church–Peter. So he felt a calling and founded his church, but it was not on a rock but rather in an abandoned former Woolworth’s. It still had the red stools at the lunch counter. Nonetheless Pastor Pete led a large flock. On the mezzanine. Lois was a member of the flock, and that is how I ended up here. Pastor Pete clothed people, fed people, and sheltered them, and he sheltered me at 1001 Main Street, sub- sidized housing for seniors, Lois’s unit, number 22. Lois’s unit was even unhappier than Happy Acres. It smelled like shot support hose, urine-stained bed linen, stale crack- ers. She went on talking jags, cooked al- though she could no longer see let alone cook, left food to mold in the refrigerator. But her dog made the living situation un- bearable. Scruffy the dog. Day One: Lois thrusts Scruffy into my face, says, “Say hello to Scruffy.” “Hey, Scruff,” I say. “Pet Scruffy.”