But let’s let my dad tell you himself.
Well, you looked like a cop
By Rev Dr Russell G Ruffino
Aged 76 3/4
The dog had been barking for quite a while, but I didn’t pay much attention. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself some dinner and watched “Millionario”. I was at my desk again, and the dog was still barking. The dog had been barking for almost two hours. Now I did pay attention, and I thought that maybe the poor dog was in some kind of distress. I decided to check it out. I didn’t have to go far at all. There was the dog locked in a car only a few yards from my front door. The windows of the car were open a few inches, so the dog was all right. He did not like being shut up in the car. I thought I should do something. I decided to look for a poliziotto. It was around nine o’clock, but I figured I might spot a police car patroling the streets.
I walked down the Corso toward Via del Duomo, and I saw up ahead a group of people gathered and it looked like something special was going on. There might be a poliziotto there. Sure enough, there was a smartly uniformed member of the carabinieri . I approached him and began to tell him about the imprisoned dog. Suddenly, people were shouting out me to get out of the way. A woman came up behind me and said, “He is not a poliziotto. We’re making a film here.” I had walked into a movie set. I stepped back, and watched the “poliziotto” play the scene. Then I spotted a couple other poliziotti at the edge of the crowd. Actually, the first poliziotto did look like an actor—his uniform was too perfect. These fellows look more true to form. I approached them, but I asked first, “Are you actors or poliziotti?” At first, they pulled my chain a bit, having seen what I did a little earlier, but they did tell me they were who they looked like. I told them about the dog, but they couldn’t do anything about it. They had been assigned to ensure security for the film company (a German company; the director was speaking German) and they could not leave their post.
So, back to the car and the unhappy dog. Maybe he was hungry. Up to the apartment. Grabbed some dog biscuits. The dog—kind of a small border collie—gobbled them up, as I dropped them through the partly opened window. No more barking. I was glad the dog seemed somewhat content, but I confess that as I walked away I thought that maybe after the dog had something to eat, he might take a healthy dump in the car. The spilorcio disgraziato who left him there deserved it. I looked out my window just before I went to bed. The car was gone. I wonder if the director will keep me in the scene. My exchange with the “poliziotto” might make it look more authentic.
