Spanking Shakespeare by Jake Wizner

name first,” I said. “Then I’ll decide.”
    My father hesitated and looked at my mother. She took a deep breath, then nodded.
    “Onomatopoeia,” my father said.
    “Forget it. You’re both insane.”
    My parents wore me down in the end by paying me the money and agreeing to move a painting of a naked woman from the living room into my bedroom.
    The worst thing about owning a dog is cleaning up her droppings. My parents had insisted that if I wanted to keep Onomatopoeia (whom I called Pee for short), I had to take care of her. This meant feeding her, walking her, and cleaning up after her.
    “I don’t want to see any dog shit in our backyard,” my dad said.
    “And no letting her shit in the neighbors’ yards, either,” my mom added.
    I saw how other people cleaned up after their dogs. They would take a paper or plastic bag along, scoop up the droppings, and carry their bag of feces to the nearest garbage can. Clearly, this was out of the question.
    I approached Gandhi in his room that night. “Mom told me to tell you that you have to clean up after the dog from now on.”
    He did not even look up from the comic book he was reading. “I’m not cleaning up your dog’s shit,” he said.
    I gritted my teeth. “All right, I’ll pay you.”
    He smiled, but still kept his eyes lowered. “How much?”
    I hesitated. “A dollar a week.”
    He shook his head and laughed. “I’ll do it for a dollar a turd.”
    “Are you crazy? That dog is a shitting machine.”
    Now he looked up for the first time. “Then make a counteroffer.”
    My brother had not yet turned ten, but already he was a cutthroat businessman who had amassed a small fortune through negotiations just like this one. His success hinged on his willingness to perform those tasks that others deemed too unpleasant to perform themselves. And there was absolutely nothing my brother would refuse, provided the price was right.
    “Five dollars a week,” I said.
    My brother sighed. “Shakespeare, have you ever noticed that sometimes Pee’s turds area little bit wet and slimy?”
    I felt my anger rising. “Fine, ten dollars, but I get to punch you every time I pay.”
    My brother pointed to a chart he had made several months earlier after I had beaten him up and begged him not to tell our parents. “Three dollars per punch in the arm, ten dollars in the stomach, twenty dollars in the face.”
    I socked him as hard as I could in the arm and forked over thirteen dollars for the week.
    Pee was my best friend, and with Gandhi responsible for cleaning up her shit, ours was a love with few complications. We played together, ate together, even slept together. One of my great pleasures was to climb into bed with wet feet and then lie back as Pee licked furiously at the water. I would squirm and giggle and let out an occasional shout.
    “Stop molesting the dog,” my father would call from the living room.
    “It’s called a foot massage!” I would shout back. “And the dog loves it.”
    One night my dad got drunk and spilled his beer. “C’mere, dog,” he slurred.
    Pee began to lick the floor. My dad stood propped against a wall and cheered her on.
    “Jesus, Dad, she’s just a puppy,” I said.
    Pee began to stagger around the house, bumping into walls. Then she threw up on the living room floor.
    “Clean up your dog’s mess, Shakespeare,” my dad said.
    “You’re the one who got her drunk.”
    “I’ll do it,” my brother said. “Five dollars.”
    There was nothing Pee wouldn’t eat, but her absolute favorite food was my mother’s brisket. She would sit motionless at my mother’s feet as my mother cooked, staring up at her, and if my mother even glanced in her direction, she would begin to wag her tail furiously.
    “No brisket,” my mother would say. “Your dinner is in your bowl.”
    Pee’s tail would thump and she would wriggle in excitement.
    “Look,” my mother would say, holding out her hands. “No brisket.”
    Pee would jump up and