“How did it feel?”

“It hurt, a lot,” Peter said.

“Being a dog hurt?” Charles asked.

“No, being a dog didn’t hurt. It was the turnin and the turnin back, y’ know?”

Charles tried to imagine what changing into a dog might feel like but he just didn’t have the faintest idea besides ‘it hurt’.

“Well,” Charles asked hesitantly, “are you sure you was a dog?”

Peter sniffed and tried to hold back the tears he’d just barely got under control. “Yeah. Momma said I was a mut wearing a nightshirt. She ran to fetch pappa and when she was back with him, they found me just as I got turn to a man again; scratchin and tearing on the floor.”

“Oh. Maybe some mut got in your room and attacked you but y’ just don’t remember it?”

“A mut wearing my shirt?” Peter said, pulling at the long shirt.

“I suppose y’ right. Don’t seem likely. How’d y’ do it, though?”

Peter rubbed at his knees with his hands. “I just— I just kinda wished it.”

“Wished to be a mut?”

“Nah, wished just to be a dog. Reckon I didn’t think much about what it might look like.”

“I reckon I’d rather wish I was somethin else. Or I’d rather wish I knew where the best gold veins are. But certainly no dog.”

Peter got up and walked into the road. As he stood there, he prodded a protruding rock with one toe and tried again to not cry.

Charles stood up too from the stump they’d been sitting on. “I ain’t saying y’ wrong for wishin to be a dog. It just ain’t what I’d wish, I reckon.”

Peter sniffed and sat down abruptly making a plume of fine dust.

Charles looked around for anyone who might see them. “So why y’ still wearing just a nightshirt?”

Peter returned to prodding the rock, now with a finger. “Momma sent me out. She said I had mange or a demon so I was not welcome no more. She was burnin my clothes when I left.”

“Y’ itchen?” Charles asked wearily.

“Not no more. Just at first after changin.”

“What did y’ Pappa say when he hears y’ a dog?”

“Said he’d put me down with his ol riffle if I done it again.”

“Do it again, Peter? Would ya?”

Peter looked up from where he’d nearly gotten the stone loose from the compacted dirt. “I don’t rightly know. Haven’t tried.”

“You remember when I went back East?”

Peter nodded and returned to fixating on the rock.

Charles glanced around once more and sat on the road with Peter. “There were posters for a circus sideshow. They were chargin twenty-five cents for admission to see some freak lady with a beard.”

“She had a beard?”

“I take it so.”

“That’s all? And they were getting a quarter dollar for seeing her?”

“Yep.”

“That’s plumb crazy. I’ve seen a mustache on a woman. It ain’t nothin worth that kinda money to see.”

“I agree, but there was a line of folk paying for a show,” Charles said.

“So what’s your point?”

“People might pay to see y’ turn into a dog.”

“I don’t reckon so. And like I say, it hurt to do.”

Charles rested his chin on his knuckles. “Would you do it for two dollars?”

Peter, who’d collected himself and no longer felt on the brink of tears, had never had 2 dollars at once; or all together over his whole life. “I don’t know,” he finally replied.

“We get ten people to pay twenty-five cents, we could have over two dollars.”

“I get the math; it just hurts more than getting bee stung in the bottom of y’ foot.”

Charles cringed and rubbed at his boot. “How bout five dollars?”

Peter imagined 5 whole dollars. “That could get me room and a meal for a couple weeks, I suppose.”

“You’d need to buy yourself some clothes too.”

“In no time I’d be on the street again,” he said, getting the rock free of its place in the road and palming it.

“Ten dollars?” Charles ventured.

“There ain’t fifty people with a dime to spend in this whole town,” Peter said and chucked the rock down the road.

“Y’ right. But there is in Boulder.”

“Boulder? We can’t go to Boulder. Ain’t got no way there.”

“My uncle is leaving to Boulder this very mornin. We just climb on top the ore and we’ll be there by sundown.”

The two shielded their eyes from a small dust devil whipping across the road from one field to the next.

Charles wiped at his brow— the kerchief streaked brown from sweat and dirt. “We can earn ten dollars tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, then spat some sand from his lip. “I don’t want pappa shootin me if I get to be a dog again.”

Standing up, Charles reached down to Peter. “We’ll be far from your pappa.”

Peter took his hand and stood up. “Fine. But we gotta make ten dollars so I can purchase some trousers and boots.”

Charles screwed up his face as he looked Peter over. “You is indecent as is. We’ll find some ol’ trousers for you and then catch that ride to Boulder.”

Photochrom print of Boulder, Colorado, US. circa 1900 courtesy US Library of Commerce

“I hain't never seen so many buildins in my life,” Peter said as the wagon rounded past a few young trees onto Pearl Street.

Charles chuckled. “Ain’t seen nothin till y’ been to Boston.”

“You want off here?” asked the man driving the horses. “I’m goin up this road further.”

“Thank you kindly, uncle.”

The wagon came to a slow stop and the two filth-covered teens jumped off from the top, landing with clouds of dust.

“If you want a hitch back, best find me here in town in the mornin. Y’ hear?”

“Yes sir,” Peter and Charles intoned together.

Peter looked around at the signs, buildings, and people. Just within spitting distance, Peter found that there was a mass worth of folk passing by and going about their business. He stepped backward onto Charles’ boots.

“It’s fine,” Charles said soothingly. “I’ll do all the talkin.”

“I’m fine. I’m just a-gettin out their way.”

Charles gently pushed Peter forward and tugged his foot back until Peter realized his circumstance and stepped forward with an apology.

Keeping his hand on Peter’s shoulder, Charles led them off the road onto a flagstone walkway.

The sign over the door read, “DRY GOODS”. Peter read the smaller letters painted on the wall out loud: “now lightbulbs”.

Charles stopped scanning the street to see what Peter had read. “Y’ sure that what that reads?”

Peter nodded. “This store sells light bulbs.”

“Well, we hain't need those anyhow. We need some place that say ‘saloon’.”

Peter spotted large lettering a few doors down saying “SALOON”. A bit further, another and another stating the same thing. “That way,” he said.

Charles grinned and set off with Peter close behind.

“Step right up to see the, um, great, um, dog man!” Charles shouted, trying on the showman’s demeanor.

The general din of the saloon waned slightly as a few looked angrily at him.

Trying again, Charles gestured at Peter. “For twenty-five cents, you can see this mere boy turn into a dog.”

“Piss off!” a shout replied.

Charles sucked his teeth and cleared his throat. “Twenty cents.”

Peter cowered towards the door as vulgar insults flung their way followed by a rock-hard piece of bread.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Charles.”

“A dime to see a man turn into a beast!” Peter yelled.

A large, finely dressed man with a holstered sidearm stood up and was beginning to point and make some promises of violence when he was suddenly struck speechless. At the door of the saloon, where a small man had stood a moment before, was now a hairy person no larger than a child on all fours. It howled in pain and fell to its side; its bones cracking and popping into new shapes.

Charles gasped and ran to the side of the man now brandishing the polished six-shooter.

“What in the nation is that?” a shuddering voice asked from behind Charles.

Peter, now fully dog and beginning to right himself, stopped upon seeing the shiny revolver pointed toward him.

“Well,” Charles started and stopped. “Well, this is The Great Dog Man!” he said as he stepped forward and between Peter and the crowd.

“Dog Man?” a skinny prospector asked.

“The Great Dog Man” Charles clarified.

“Is he got a demon in him?” the man with the sidearm asked.

“No demon. No, sir. He’s just able to turn into a dog.”

“That ain’t natural,” someone said.

“I thought we was suppose to pay to see that,” the prospector said.

“You were, sir,” Charles said as he looked back at Peter who stayed lying very still, trying to be small and hide as much in the baggy shirt and trousers as he could. “But this time only, it’s a show first, pay after.”

The prospector looked at Charles dumbfounded.

“I mean, instead of paying before seeing it, you pay twenty-five cents now that you’ve seen it.”

A couple people murmured in the otherwise quiet saloon. The large man holstered his revolver and counted pennies from the table next to him. Others began to hesitantly rummage through pockets or count coins from their card games.

Besides the handful of skeptics that refused to pay, the rest of the patrons came one by one to hand Charles the “admission” price.

As more money was placed into Charles’ palm, the more excited he became and the less Peter was terrified of the crowd. When the last wary customer had stepped away, a quarter dollar poorer, Charles looked down at Peter and said, “Now, turn back.”

Peter’s tail abruptly stopped its subtle wag and he whined.

“Come on, Peter. We got money, so now it’s time to change back.”

The crowd stood in silence watching Charles give commands to the dog.

Peter laid down and tried to mentally prepare for the torment of turning back. Again, bones popped and cracked. Hair that had pushed out from sun freckled skin seemingly slid back into where it had come from. It only took a moment for the whimpering and howling that had started to turn wholly into sobs and humanly moans.

Charles and Peter found themselves seated at a small table near the center of the room surrounded by curious onlookers. Two pints of beer sat on the table but neither Charles nor Peter drank alcohol on account of their families being teetotalers.

Charles jumped an inch in his seat when a hand brushed his shoulder.

“Hello, boys,” a finely dressed woman said as she came to stand next to the table. “I hear I missed a show earlier.”

“You did, Mam.” Charles said through grinning teeth.

“Don’t call me Mam. Call me Madam Emma.”

“Madam Emma,” Charles said as he stood. “Pleased to meet you.”

Emma examined Charles. “So you’re the one who turned into a mut?” she asked Charles.

“No, Madam, Peter changed into the dog.”

She reached cautiously towards Peter and stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “That’s strange. Normally dogs and men are jumping on me and shoving their faces in my crotch.”

Peter and Charles blushed.

“Well behaved for a mut,” she said.

“Yes, Mam— I mean Madam. Well, I mean no, Madam. Peter is not a mut. I’ve known him all my life and he’s the kindest, gentlest soul you’ve ever met. He’s a fine, Christian man.”

“Oh. So how about you?” Emma asked. “Are you a fine, Christian man or would you find it agreeable to put your face in my crotch?”

“Uh— yes.” Charles stammered.

“I’m not sure what you’re answering ‘yes’ to, but how bout we talk about it upstairs?” she said and placed her hand on his which trembled softly grasping the pint glass in front of him.

The door creaked and Peter sat up abruptly. “Charles?”

“Peter?” he responded and shut the door behind him. “The man tidying up downstairs said he put you in this room.”

“Where were you?”

Charles fumbled in the dark to remove his outerwear. “I, umm, spent some time with Madam Emma.”

“You left me— alone,” Peter said barely audibly.

Charles hesitated at the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Everyone stared at me. They just stared. Like they was 'fraid of me.”

Charles tried to pull the cover back but Peter was laying on top of them. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Don’t do it again,” Peter said through tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t— please don’t leave me alone again.”

“I won’t. I promise. I’m sorry, Peter.”

Charles laid down on top of the covers next to Peter who shuddered occasionally and cried softly for a few minutes.

“Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“I know what you did with Madam Emma. I hain’t stupid.”

“Yeah. I reckon you’re the cleverest person I know.”

After some time, Peter’s silence was replaced by hard snoring. Charles sat up and worked the covers out from under Peter until both of them were under the sheets.

Charles counted and recounted the 1 dollar, 35 cents they had remaining. “Well, it ain’t how much I thought we’d have,” he said.

Peter counted over Charles’ shoulder. “We ought-a have four dollars, abouts, minus forty-five cents for the room.”

“And some amount that Madam Emma took as payment.”

Peter thought for a few seconds. “Two dollars and forty-five cents?”

“Yeah. Two dollars. The forty-five cents was for her room.”

“Y’ paid for her room?”

“It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do,” Charles said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Y’ right. It probably is. But that’s not enough left over for me to purchase boots or the like.”

Charles stacked the coins into a neat pile on his kerchief, closed it, and put the whole bundle in his pocket.

“What are we going to do?” Peter asked, his voice bleeding concern.

Charles turned in the chair and looked up at Peter. “Don’t you worry. I reckon it’ll work out. God has blessed us with food and shelter today. Praise be to The Lord.”

Peter smiled. “Y’ don’t have faith in The Lord. Y’ just tryin to make me feel better.”

Charles placed his hand over his heart. “That is exactly what I’m tryin do. But it is clear that The Almighty has given you the miracle of— well, what it may be called in The Bible when someone changes into an animal.”

“I don’t recall none like that. A talkin donkey, but no one changing wholly into an animal.”

“Well, I still say it’s a miracle and that God will provide. Just you wait.”

“You boys might not need to wait long,” said Madam Emma as she strolled from the door to their table. “Town folk are talkin 'bout your transformation.”

Charles sat up straight in his chair. “What they saying 'bout it?”

“Preacher says it’s a demon but the rest of the city truly wants to see the spectacle.”

“How many?” Peter asked.

“Well, seems like the whole city— so thousands is my guess.”

Charles let out a slow whistle between his teeth.

Emma leaned down and put a hand on each of Peter’s shoulders and turned him to face her. “That little show last night sure got them excited.”

Peter fought hard to maintain eye contact. “I reckon so.”

“Will they pay twenty-five cents?” Charles asked abruptly.

“Oh sure, most would,” she said with a smirk and twisted her head to see Charles. “But you should charge a dollar a head.”

Peter stole a glance down and met her eyes when she turned back to him. “A dollar?” he asked.

“A dollar, I said.”

Charles leaned forward. “But what if folk don’t got a dollar?”

“You might be surprised how many folk got two dollars to spend. You don’t want every dirt spitter for ten miles coming to your next show. You gotta price yourself for the audience you want, Peter. You understand?”

“Um— I reckon I do?” Peter said.

“Good, darlin, because I’m also gonna take a cut.”

Charles leaned even further forward trying to join what felt like an intimate, private conversation between Madam Emma and Peter. “Why do you get a cut?”

“Well, because I’m the one who’s secured you a venue, muscle, and a guaranteed audience.”

Peter was too caught up in what Emma was saying to take another glance down her blouse when she looked at Charles. “You’d do that?” Peter asked.

“Yes, darlin, I did do that already.” She stroked his cheek gently and straightened to stand next to the table. “The show is at six this evening. Be at the courthouse by five.”

“How much is your cut?” Charles asked.

“Fifty cents a head is for you boys. The other fifty is for Mr. James, Mr. Frank and his store, and of course, myself.”

Charles stood up. “That ain’t fair. We didn’t agree to no split like that.”

“Preacher was lookin to have you boys strung by your necks for blasphemy or some such. If it weren’t for me, that just might have been your evenin' show instead of what I got put together.”

“How much—” Peter started. “How many gonna pay a dollar?”

“By my count, no less than one hundred.”

Peter and Charles looked at each other.

“That’s, um, fifty dollars?” Charles stated as a question.

“Yes.” Peter and Emma replied.

“Oh.”

“At the least,” Emma added.

Peter stood up and reached out to shake her hand. “We’ll be there, Madam.”

Behind Mr. Frank’s store, surrounded by buildings on all four sides, the private showing had to turn down late comers for lack of room. Nearly 150 people gathered around leaving a small space for Charles, Peter, Madam Emma, and Mr. James who maintained the order with his loud, authoritative voice plus a club the size of a log.

Charles cleared his throat and started, “Welcome, um, all!” His eyes darted to Emma for support but she merely gestured for him to get one with it.

“You’ve all come to see The Great Dog Man.”

“C’mon son, we ain’t got all night,” a man heckled from somewhere. Mr. James waved his club in the general direction.

“Um, yeah. Well—” Charles said to the crowd.

Peter tugged at Charles’ sleeve. “I’m ready.”

Madam Emma sidestepped to get a better view around the bulk of Mr. James.

Crack. Pop. Snap. Peter tried his hardest to not let out cries of pain but it was far too excruciating and he yelped and wined.

The crowd gasped with each new sound that came from his transformation. Men and women throughout the crowd fainted or covered their faces. When Peter had finished changing, the smell of vomit permeated the air and a dozen or more people had fled from the enclosed storage yard.

Peter tested his limbs one at a time till they felt strong, no longer pained, and attempted to stand on all four paws.

Another gasp from the crowd as Peter fell indelicately onto his side.

“You’re stuck, darling,” Emma said. She kneeled down beside Peter and worked the trousers off his hindquarters which freed both rear legs to straighten. “Better, darling?”

Peter nodded which to all who saw it felt a very un-dog-like thing to do.

“How 'bout that shirt? Would you enjoy that off too?”

Peter bowed his head and Emma tugged the shirt down past his shoulders and down to his paws where he could step out of the sleeves.

Peter, testing his situation, gave a small and not slobbery lick to Madam Emma’s hand to which she gave a little scratch under his chin in return.

“I’d like to pet the, uh—” a woman said, raising her hand slightly.

“Mam, you’d like to pet The Great Dog Man?” Charles asked.

She shyly nodded.

Peter smiled in a fashion that wasn’t entirely dog or human but was oddly easy to know was a smile, nonetheless.

“Fifty cents?” Charles stated.

The woman pulled out a purse and produced 5 coins which she displayed towards Charles.

“Yes, mam. Come right up.”

“Pay it to this fine gentleman,” Emma said, pointing to Mr. James.

The woman cautiously worked her way past the two rows of seats between her seat and Peter. She proffered the coins —which Mr. James rapidly counted and stowed away— and stood examining Peter.

“Mam, you may pet him now,” Charles said.

“I— I know. I’m just not sure how.”

“Peter, would you like scratches behind the ear?”

Peter nodded which still felt eerie to Charles.

“Shucks,” she said and began slowly reaching. She stopped shy of his face by well over a foot.

“Mam?” Charles asked.

“Will it bite?”

Charles smiled and reassured her, “I’ve known Peter my whole life. He’s never bitten anyone.”

The woman leaned down and ran her fingers behind Peter’s ear once.

His doggy smile widened and he leaned into her hand.

One at a time, dozens more in the audience came forward to pay an additional 50 cents to pet Peter. He received chin scratches, ear scratches, belly rubs, and a few firm but kindly pats.

Peter considered how some people just seemed to have a knack for good petting.

Although many had left, leaving the storage yard at less than a third of what had been at the start, several stayed to watch what else might happen.

“Anyone more takers?” Charles asked.

No one said or moved.

“Well, then I reckon it’s time for Peter to turn back,” Charles said.

Peter wined and looked quizzically at Charles.

“Y’ gotta turn back.”

Peter shook his head in a decidedly “no” gesture.

“Is he ain’t gonna change back?” one of the remaining men in the audience asked loudly.

“He is, he’s gotta,” Charles replied. “Just take him a minute.”

Madam Emma crouched down to eye level with Peter. “You don’t wanna, darling, do y’?”

Peter, with his sad puppy-dog eyes, looked into hers.

“He wants to stay a dog, Charles. If that’s his wish, you can’t make him.”

Charles got down to his knees. “Peter?”

The loud man who was now standing in the front row sucked his teeth. “I reckon I paid to see him change back again, too.”

Madam Emma stood and faced the man. “Well, you see there that that dog has no clothes. If he change back, he’d be as naked as the day he was born. You pay to see that?”

The remaining folk left quickly to avoid appearing improprietous.

“Peter, don’t you want to be my friend?” Charles asked.

Peter whined softly and nodded.

“But you wanna stay a dog?”

Peter nodded.

Charles shifted his weight off his knees and sat in the dirt. “I don’t rightly know what to think 'bout that.”

Peter laid down, his chin resting on the back of his paws outstretched in front of him.

“Shucks, Peter,” he said and mustered a smile. “I reckon you’d still be my best friend.”

Peter perked up.

“And you won’t need purchase boots or a shirt,” Madam Emma added. “Ever.”

Peter smiled.

Charles slowly reached over to Peter’s face, hesitating just an inch from him; Peter leaned forward into it.

“One-hundred and seventy-three dollars,” Madam Emma confirmed as she finished the second counting of monies.

“That’s, uh, fifty and, um—” Charles trailed off.

“Eighty-six dollars and fifty cents.”

Peter nodded.

“You know, when this money runs out, you still got a show.” Emma said.

“Oh?” Charles asked.

“The Cleverest Dog in The World!” she exclaimed, waving her hand as though she were reading it off a banner. “Ain’t nobody need to know you’re The Great Dog Man, darling.”

Peter barked happily and made a full turn excitedly.

“I reckon that’s the show then,” Charles said. “And I’ll be your showman.”

Peter leaned against Charles’ leg and Charles pet his head.

“And how 'bout I be your business agent,” Emma said to Peter.

Peter again barked in agreement.

“That’s settled, then,” Charles said. “We’re a travelling show now, like Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey”

“Do you have a room for tonight?” she asked.

“No, we hain’t rented one yet.”

“How bout you join me in mine, then.”

Charles blushed and smiled shyly. “I don’t know, Madam.”

“Emma. You can drop the ‘Madam’. Just Emma, Charles.”

Charles’ smile widened. “Yes, Emma.”

Emma laughed. “I hope that’s a yes to joining me.”

Charles and Emma stood up and moved towards the stairs but stopped when Peter whined.

“Oh, yeah. Emma, I can’t leave him alone. Sorry.”

“You can come too, Peter,” Emma said. “Would you like the foot of the bed?”

Peter bounded up the stairs following closely behind his two giggling friends.