Casting Dog

April 06, 2004

Everyone was so uncomfortable in the distressed leather furniture. There was a tiny fridge with a glass front. They had all filled out the essential information on the clip boards with the sharpened pencils supplied. Lulu Lemon track suits colour coordinated and never used for working out. Mall slut cleavage and urinal cake perfume. All that was missing were the neon beer signs and black lit murals of hip hop stars we lost in the 90’s. Those were in the next room. Thongs crawled up backsides and no one could admit their discomfort. Those who were truly sexy could not speak of such practicalities. The dog knew. The dog lazed against the ottoman with a C shaped spine and with her face down to the breeze coming in through the cat door -- the cat was busy with a "Ford Truck" spot over in studio B. The breeze cleansed her palette for another run at fortune telling. She had a pretty comprehensive read on every crotch in the room. She knew who was ovulating, who was thinking of last night’s episode of “Fifth Wheel” (the obligatory hot tub, camera incentive, booze & date rape sequence), who had used the course toilet paper in the public lavatory at next door’s Tim Horton's and had shied away from the pain of a comprehensive cleansing. The men had a pretty interesting tang to them. One had, for some unknown reason, recently scrubbed his entire genital region with some sort of raw beef. The dog was confused but appreciative of such olfactory teasers. One over muscled and overconfident oaf had made sure to over spray his nether regions with “Axe”. Even the dog could sense irony in this pathetic overture. She could tell who had waxed and who had shaved. She had already determined a year ago that none would show up with natural bush. The dog knew who would be selected for the spot. Just ask the dog in the green room. She’d done the social profiles within minutes. No need for genital sensory perception. She could smell fear, self consciousness, window dressing, posing, low self esteem, blind consumerism, delusions of grandeur or any low class ploy. Its all there in the crotch. Not any young man or woman can be in a Royal Bank commercial but all these would be fine for the Molson Canadian “Great Rock Adventure 2004” promotion. The dog's job was done. Thank Christ she was in show business and didn’t end up like those poor workaday schmucks at the airport. Hash stench is so one dimensional.