CHAPTER 1
In which our Hero, theWorldly McMurray, Is TaughtSomething about the World
McMurray stretched his sturdy limbs and let out acontented half-sigh, half-growl. Oh, but the sun felt sogood. He lay drowsily on the ground, basking in the heat ofthe sunlit sidewalk. Although he preferred to rest on his side,he soon rolled onto his back so as to allow the warm, morningbreeze to tickle his ample belly hairs. Then, as he always didafter a good rest, he extended his four legs and turned overuntil he was standing on them, and shook out his full, reddish-browncoat of hair.
"Now, that was a nice little catnap," McMurray chuckledto himself.
Catnap. What a funny thing for McMurray to take pleasurein. After all, McMurray was a dog. And not just any dog – McMurraywas a dog's dog. If McMurray's pedigree were tobe officially labeled, (and it had been in so far as a mutt's canbe), he would be deemed a Labrador-German shepherd mix.But a good deal of other breeds had been added to his lineagethroughout the years, including Irish setter, which explainedhis name. It was the terrier in McMurray which was responsiblefor his relatively small stature.
Just as humans sometimes blame their relatives for whatthey perceive to be their less than desirable traits, McMurraypossessed characteristics which he found less than appealing.He couldn't resist frequently stopping to admire the reflectionof his wavy, lustrous coat in store windows, and the way hisshaggy tail curled ever so delicately at the tip. But wheneverhe did he was reminded of how he hated his pointy ears. Thenagain, he conceded, he did have excellent hearing. And hisblack nose, while often too wet and shiny for his taste, didprovide him with a more heightened sense of smell than otherspossessed. It was McMurray's stature which he resented most – thatbit of terrier in him which had given him shorter legs thana dog as sophisticated as he should possess. They weren't overlyshort, per se, but sometimes when he saw a purebred Germanshepherd walk by, tall and regal, he recognized his ears, andwished he had also inherited those long, lean legs.
The stockier legs McMurray did inherit had served himwell during his nearly eight years in the world. While hesaw other dogs his age being wheeled down the sidewalk inmanmade contraptions designed to compensate for bad hips andweak backs, McMurray still had a bounce in his step – and agrowl at the ready. He'd been on his own for a long time, andin those years he had heard and seen it all.
* * *
McMurray was born on the streets, so to speak, althoughliterally speaking he was born in a basement. His mother didan admirable job of fending for him and his five siblings. Shehad carved out a nice little corner of the world for them in thecrowded cellar of a brownstone on Manhattan's Upper WestSide. The homeowners, during a mad spat of redecorating,had tossed a treasure trove of unwanted items down there,most of which were in good condition – rolled up carpets,boxes of old curtains, outdated children's toys. That basementheld everything a pup needed to stay warm and entertained.There was even a leaky pipe which provided plenty of drinkingwater.
McMurray's mother was able to come and go as she pleased,having figured out how to push open and then reclose an oldbasement window that led to a discrete, concrete staircase – whichin turn led to the narrow alley between their buildingand the next. In this alley, a great deal of perfectly tasty garbagewas stored for pick-up in rather flimsy containers.
It bears repeating that this was the Upper West Side ofManhattan. While in places its population represented humansfrom varied walks of life, the brownstones on the street whereMcMurray was born housed not multiple families, but single,privileged ones. These families had very nice things, and atevery fine food. Luckily, they didn't eat a lot of it.
Once McMurray and his siblings were weaned, their mother,who was overprotective and not comfortable allowing herpups to venture outside just yet, would journey up to the alleyand return bearing discarded food from some of Manhattan'sbest restaurants. At a very young age, McMurray developeda taste for medium rare filet mignon, pecan crusted brooktrout, and pasta carbonara. Every Friday night, the peoplewhose basement McMurray and his family inhabited dined onhigh-quality Chinese take-out. And every Saturday morning,McMurray enjoyed his favorite dish – moo shuu pork. Luckily,their "host" family didn't seem to believe in leftovers.
As her pups grew, McMurray's mother had to face thefact that she couldn't keep them in the basement forever. Asspacious as it was, there wasn't much light down there, and heroffspring were getting curious about the world outside. Eventhough they knew they shouldn't make a sound, for fear ofgetting evicted, sometimes they couldn't contain their youthfulbarks when she returned from the alley. They yapped at herexcitedly, begging to learn what lay beyond the chalky brickwalls which contained them.
McMurray's mother was also getting antsy. Since she hadgiven birth to her pups, she had confined herself to the basementand the alley above. She was afraid that if she ventured further,something might happen to her and she would be separatedfrom her boys. She was, after all, a runaway. The people withwhom she'd been living, who "owned" her, had no interest intaking care of a litter of puppies. Before she took up residencewith them, she'd lived with a woman her new owners called"grandma," but whom McMurray's mother knew as Nanny.Nanny called McMurray's mother Honey – the new peoplereferred to her as "that dog."
"I can't believe Grandma made us promise to take care of thatdog without telling us she's pregnant!" the female shouted.
"That's our out then. We promised we'd take care of onemutt, not a litter of `em. As soon as they're born, we'll drop`em off at the shelter," the male told her.
"But the cost!" The female was always talking about howmuch things cost.
"Grandma left us a lot of money for that dog. There's plentyto cover the vet bills and we'll still have some cash left over forus." The male always found a way to pay for things.
McMurray's mother knew her situation was dire. Eventaking her puppies out of the equation, she had no desire to staywith those people, as she referred to them. Nanny had been kindto her, although she'd become very absentminded toward theend, forgetting to put food in the dog bowl. And Nanny hadgrown very thin, apparently forgetting to feed herself as well.
McMurray's mother had taken to wandering the UpperWest Side at night, after Nanny fell asleep. She learned wherethe best, most accessible food in the neighborhood was – notoutside restaurants, as some might think. The people whoowned restaurants were concerned about their bottom line.Even at the nicer places, they kept the food a while, until itwas about to turn and they had to toss it. Then they locked itin dumpsters out back, to keep the rats at a minimum.
But the people who ate at these restaurants ... they werenot nearly as concerned about money, it seemed. They ate outalmost daily, and then casually tossed their succulent leftoversin trash cans in the alleys between their homes. Some peoplestored the cans in bins which were hard to get to, but otherswere much more careless. McMurray's mother quickly...
