Talking Dogs: The Life and Times of Beignet Cunningham

Beignet "Bean" Cunningham, aged 4 months

This essay was written for my Creative Nonfiction class at UCA back in November 2023. At the time it was nothing more than a fun, research-based essay written with a snarky tone meant to convey a heartfelt message. Reading it now, half a year after the opening of Bean's Books, it's more a manifesto, a prophecy somehow come true.

This is "Talking Dogs." Or, as I've come to rename it, "The Life and Times of Beignet Cunningham."

I hope you enjoy.

-Marshall Cunningham

***

You’re not gonna believe me. I’m telling you from the start so I don’t have to backtrack later and ruin the flow of things. But I’m dead serious. No one believes me when I first tell them. It’s always after a little convincing they come along, so I’m sure you will too. Okay. You ready? You better be. Once you read it, the cat’s (or dog's) outta the bag.

My dog can talk.

***

Let me explain. Her name’s Beignet Hyneman Cunningham, but just goes by Bean for short. She’s an eleven-year-old Miniature Schnauzer who’s more than a foot tall, less than a foot wide, and about as long as the length from my knuckles down to my shoulder. Her little beard puffs off her snout like a dandelion. Deep shades of gray flow through her floppy button ears down to her wiggling bobtail. Every bit of her is dark, except for her paws and muzzle. It’s like she waltzed (and licked) her way through a field of powdered sugar. Just like a Beignet.

She’s been talking her entire life, but it was on me to learn her language and understand what she was saying. Thankfully, she talks a lot. And I mean a lot. It was nothing but constant grunts and growls and bleats and barks those first few months, when I had just turned eleven and she was just born a puppy, yet the more we grew up together, the more I began to understand. She was my first dog, so I knew I had to put in the effort. First besides Oreo, of course.

We don’t talk about Oreo.

When I come home from class she unleashes ear-piercing yelps of OW! OW! OW! [Translation: HE’S HOME! HE’S HOME!] followed by a drawn-out howl that’s akin to BURuRuRuRuh! [Translation: Why did you leave me here!? You know it’s no fun being alone!]. My brother tells me to shut her up, but that’s because he’s not listening like I am. This commotion always leads her into her second-favorite passion behind talking: spinning. She’ll spin and spin and spin, like a desaturated Tasmanian Devil, and then spin and spin and spin some more, a fast, flashy, panting Gravitron. She never tells me if it makes her dizzy. But her slanted walk always gives it away.

Once the spinning dies down, we head to my room. Not to sit at my desk, not to do homework, not even to sleep. It’s there for a single reason—to house her chew toys. Huh, huh, huh, huh, she wheezes [Translation: I’m ready! *pant* I’m ready!]. There are two she’s currently obsessed with—Mr. Bill the Third (don’t ask about the other two) and Mr. Fox, the toy she got after her stint in the hospital—tossed aside like trash on the floor. She lunges at the pair before I can even get the chance to pick them up and toss them around. MrAaAaAal!! [Translation: Get back! They’re mine!]. Thing is, I’m taller than a foot. She’s not.

I first throw Mr. Bill on the bed, then Mr. Fox, then Bean. She tries to threaten me with a GRAHAHAH! [Translation: Put me down! I’ll bite you! I’m not bluffing this time!]. She’s always bluffing. I toss her down and she tackles the lanky fox by the neck and shakes him with a violent, vicious vigor. With it comes grunts and growls (actual grunts and growls, no meaning attached) like she’s a wolf slinging around the hot, pumping blood gushing from her prey. I look her into eyes, wide and dark. They shift like a wild wind.

She’s not feral, I promise. We checked.

We play back and forth for sometime until we both tire from flipping the toys and pulling them apart thread by thread. It’s at that point we transition into the part I enjoy the most, reading and writing. Bean cuts her eyes and pretends not to like it, but I know she does, maybe even more than shredding Mr. Bill for the third time. She comes over to my side and I lift up the covers for her to go under. She doesn’t have to say anything; she shows, doesn’t tell, a true writer’s dog. Once beneath the blankets, my little Mini Schnauzer gives one last spin before snuggling up to my side with a light-hearted sigh. It’s times like these that’ve penned her as my Reading and Writing Buddy. I wouldn’t have it any other way, honestly. I wouldn’t work well without it. A warm bed. A good book. And a cozy dog at my side.

***

Norman Bridwell thought sitting on top of dogs would be more fun. Of course, that was when he was a child, but dreams like that just don’t go away. It didn’t after attending two different art schools, marrying his wife, Norma, having his daughter, Emily, or even starting his job as a commercial artist, a career that barely brought in enough to keep food on the table. It lingered—or, more appropriately, festered—until he took it upon himself to make something of it. Surely other children would enjoy the idea of riding a dog like an oversized horse. Right? It was certainly silly enough to stir the imagination…right? If so, this gentle giant would need to be friendly. And still very dog-like. And outrageously loved by a girl named after his daughter. But maybe, just maybe, he could also…talk.

Thus, Clifford the Big Red Dog was born. His original jagged lines and uncanny color resulted from Bridwell’s desk bearing a single jar of red paint. He used it in that first sketch, turned it into Scholastic with bated breath, and the rest fell into place. At that time, though, Clifford wasn’t named Clifford, but Tiny. Bridwell thought it hilarious. He starts out as the smallest pup in his litter, almost unable to make it through the winter, only to grow into the largest dog Birdwell Island’s ever seen! It’s thanks only to his owner, Emily Elizabeth. Her unending love for the little puppy allowed him to grow to the height of twenty-five feet. If you can imagine it, that’s roughly twenty-five Beans stacked on top of one another. Even despite all the love I do give her, I doubt that’ll happen. I used to believe it was possible, though, to love something enough to make it grow. But that with Oreo, and like I said earlier, we don’t talk about Oreo.

Anyway, Norma stepped in and convinced her husband to change the name. He yet again drew from his childhood and stole “Clifford” from his imaginary friend, a fitting name for the type of friend the dog would become. He was loving, aboundingly kind, awfully clumsy and misguided at times, but a figure kids across the globe could spend time with and learn from. Canonically, the only person he ever talked with was Emily Elizabeth; yet for those turning his pages and watching his show, they too joined in the conversation.

Clifford became more than just a dog. As of writing this, there have been more than 180 Clifford books published with 134 million sold and translated into 20 different languages. He became the official Scholastic mascot in the 90s, has appeared in over 30 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parades, has three television shows, multiple films, and merchandise like you wouldn’t believe. Simply put, he’s an icon. A symbol. People know that, when they see that big red dog, there’s love just around the corner. It’s a legacy so many people wish to have, and yet it started with a child’s dream about a dog.

***

Bean’s not the only dog in my life. She has her fair share of friends besides me that have kept her company throughout the years. Biscuit, her older, Jack Russell Terrier brother, was the first. The one thing you must know about him is that he’s big. Probably the closest thing to Clifford that I’ve come into contact with. It wasn’t love that made him that size, though—it was steroid infused horse food he’d sneak off and eat. Where the average Jack Russell weighs roughly fifteen pounds, Biscuit, in his prime, came close to sixty. That kind of mass gave him the energy to bolt around our backyard, chasing squirrels, tennis balls, and the socks of whatever poor souls we invited over. But it also gave him diabetes. The condition’s taken a toll on him these days. At thirteen, he’s blind, skinny, and nearing deafness. Thankfully, his heart’s still intact. He’s still the same ol’ boy that would love on Bean and secretly destroy her toys when she wasn’t looking. They’ve always been good friends and even better siblings.

Next is Bear, our second, five-year-old Mini Schnauzer. Unlike Bean, he’s fully black except for his white beard and little tufts of eyebrows that make him look like some mythical sage. He’s anything but. The poor fella is scared out of his mind. He’s skittish at the smallest sounds, hides from being held, and loves leaving the house the moment he’s given an accidental chance to. You wouldn’t expect much from a dog named, well, Bear. He’s much more Pooh than Polar. Still, he and Bean have become sweet friends even though his attention stays directed towards Biscuit, acting almost like a caregiver.

This trio practically grew up together. They eat, go outside, play, and hog the couches all as one. The thing is, Biscuit and Bear live with my parents whereas Bean lives with me. In Conway. Three hours away from her siblings. And with me lives my brother, Bo. And who lives with him? None other than Bean’s mortal enemy: Willow.

The beast in a modern day siren. Her outer Miniature Australian Shepherd shape is cute as can be. She has a thick, shaggy, black-and-white coat that’s two Bean’s high with a pair of dual colored eyes, one brown, one blue. Inwardly, darkness brews. This dog has it out for my Mini Schnauzer. She slaps her before stealing her food and toynapping Mr. Bill, tackles her in the yard and stalks her once they’re back inside. Hnnn, Hnnn, [Translation: You better do something about her before I do] Bean whines nervous to me while guarding my bedroom door. Willow’s worst offense, however, is not her doing, but Bo’s. He taught her how to speak. When she obeys and belts out an obnoxious bark, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t talk. Neither do Biscuit and Bear, in fact. They do some to my mom who knows when Biscuit wants to be covered by a blanket or when Bear thinks it's time to be sweet and snuggle up, but it’s never to the scale of Bean. That’s what sets her apart. It’s like I’ve been given this furry little alien as a pet. Pet is a bad word. This furry little alien…friend. A friend who’s smarter than anyone gives her credit for.

***

Spike was the same way. Sparky, the little boy who took care of him, couldn’t stop noticing it as the pair grew up. The black-and-white spotted hound made it his mission to be as “unique” as possible. That meant ringing the doorbell to be let inside, drinking exclusively from the kitchen sink, telling time, fetching potatoes on command, and, perhaps most impressively, swallowing everything. Spike’s swallowing was akin to Bean’s spinning—constant. At first he did so with harmless things, like the rubber end of a paddle ball and an entire plate of spaghetti, only for it to escalate to pins, tacks, and razor blades. It was a miracle he survived; at the same time, it was a story Sparky just knew he had to share.

The boy, now fifteen, sent in a crude sketch of his dog to Ripley’s Believe it or Not! magazine and, to his surprise, got published. It wouldn’t be the last time. He continued to draw and send in work to a multitude of other publications and companies, even setting off to art school to better hone his craft. Yet when he checked his mail, only rejection letters arrived. And when he got his art back, it came stamped with a massive “C”. This type of misfortune wasn’t new, though. He faced it his entire life. It was why he started to introduce it in his autobiographical comic strips drawn up for the local St. Paul Pioneer Press. If he felt depressed, so too would his alter-ego character. But the same wouldn’t go for Spike’s. It took a good many years for the dog’s personality to develop, going from a quiet quadrupedal mutt to a walking, talking Beagle copying Spike’s craziness. Instead of telling time and swallowing razors, he flew biplanes and cooked Thanksgiving dinner. It was that exact kind of dynamic, a loser boy and his otherworldly friend, alongside a vast array of characters, that made Sparky’s cartoon a worldwide success. By that time, though, he dropped his childhood nickname and went by his real title, Charles Schultz. Spike changed too. At least, his counterpart did. Instead of being christened directly after Charles’ childhood friend, he named him after the neighbors’ dog: Snoopy.

I don’t think I need to introduce you to Peanuts. You probably grew up knowing the cast of Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, and the gang, watching them wait for the Great Pumpkin at Halloween or putting on a play during Christmas. To me, though, the most engaging parts were always Snoopy’s adventures with his little bird buddy, Woodstock. Schultz ensured his Beagle wouldn’t be lonely while Charlie Brown kept busy between going to school and being bullied by faux punts of football. Originally, Woodstock began as just a random bird assigned as Snoopy’s mechanic during the early days of the strip. He didn’t have a name nor a color for years. What he did have, however, was his unique way of talking. Where Snoopy spoke in thought bubbles (and high-pitched yaps in the television specials), Woodstock communicated in random lines of “chicken scratch” unreadable to us. Not so to Snoopy. He always got what the bird said. He listened. Our inability to understand the marks doesn’t mean there’s no message behind them. We should be able to read between them, to see the friendship connecting the bird and Beagle, the Beagle and his boy, and the boy with his friends. Only then do we see the true magic of what a talking dog can do.

Charles Schultz created 17,897 Peanuts comic strips over the course of his life. They appeared in over 2,600 newspapers, were collected into 26 volumes, and served as the basis for the 45 television specials created since 1965. Just like Clifford, Snoopy (alongside the rest of the cast) have become iconic in American culture. I didn’t even have to give backstory because of how deeply ingrained Peanuts has become in our tradition. It ushers in our holidays, names our pets, and now, decades since its creation, represents a bygone era of innocence. There’s purity in the friendships, in the capturing of childhood. You’re drawn in by the wit and classic characters, but stay every time because of the heart thumping beneath the surface. What a legacy to leave.

***

There was a period of time when Bean wasn’t always by my side. My parents moved the summer after my freshman year of college, and she went with them, and although I stayed there for close to a month, I had to come back to Conway eventually, settling in our dark, dingy, dog-disavowing apartment. At first I was too busy to notice her missing. Life became a constant back and forth of work and worry as the school year approached and passed over like the angel of death. Slowly, though, I noticed how quiet my steps became. The usual jingle didn’t hover behind me. No pants clang to my heels. When I came home, the living room lay silent. No fanfare, no OW! OW! OW! The bed grew colder at night. The reading and writing lonely.

Everything came to a head a few months later as I sat at the table finishing a sandwich. I took the final bite, but made sure I still had a pinch of bread left in my hand. I turned and tossed her bite into the air, the little nibble she’d whine and spin and jump on my leg for, just like I had for years upon years.

It hit the ground. Untouched.

It was Oreo all over again.

***

“Something in my heart, told me I must have you…”

Frank Sinatra’s buttery voice fills Iwao Takamoto’s cramped, quiet, cartoonist studio. The lights are dim apart from the single bulb shining over the sketches scattered across his desk. They’re of dogs. Squatty, square, unshapely, not too different from the one snoring at his side. Still, he’s a great boy, or, more specifically, a Great Dane. The same as the pups on the page.

“Strangers in the night, two lonely people we were strangers in the night…”

The design is due soon for the new show. It’s different from his past work at Disney, more crunch than The Lady and the Tramp and One-Hundred and One Dalmatians ever put him through. Hanna-Barbera is growing. Fast. Creating Astro and working on The Jetsons was only the beginning of what they needed him to do. As a character designer, it’s on him to make these shows stand out. To make them last.

“Up to the moment, when we said our first hello…”

He thinks through what the breeder told him about Great Danes during his research. Straight back. Straight legs. Small chin. Every bit of it noted and sketched onto the paper before him. Yet it refused to be right. Nothing looks how they want it. Nothing looks how he wants it.

“Little did we know, love was just a glance away…”

Iwao sets aside his pencil and glares down at the snoring beast beside him. He can’t help but smile. His ears are flopped across his head, the gray wrinkles melting over his eyes. Nothing about him screams I am a Great Dane. He looks about the opposite of what the breeder had said those kinds of dogs are meant to look like. Maybe, though, that wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it could be exactly what he needed…

The song fades, and Iwao bends over and rubs his ears, as if to say, “Thanks, Scooby.”

“Dooby-dooby-doo-o-o-o…”

Scooby-Doo is perhaps the most famous talking dog. He, alongside Shaggy, Daphne, Fred, and Velma have been solving mysteries together since the late 60s, unmasking villain after villain both in the small town of Crystal Cove and beyond. Thing is, for all his talking and remarkable un-doglike abilities, Scooby isn’t usually the one cracking cases. Neither is Shaggy. The pair always end up stumbling across some long lost kitchen and putting together a sandwich at least fifteen Bean’s high. Together they indulge, smacking and stuffing their faces with food. It’s not often one of their friends complains. They know it’s their specialty. Scooby’s talking isn’t meant to freak out the men behind the masks, or draw the gang’s attention to some forlorn clue, oh no. It’s meant to tell Shaggy when he’s hungry. When he’s scared. When there’s something funny that’ll somehow be a clue and lead to the day being saved. It’s not overly important, but the part is played to perfection, every single time. He wouldn’t be the show's namesake if it wasn’t.

It would take you around 10 and a half days to watch all Scooby-Doo media. That’s 45 films, 46 short films, 13 television shows, and 12 television specials. Scooby himself has continued to remain popular and in the national zeitgeist for decades, even without a constant, current show on air. Popularity like that is rare, especially in the hyper-changing world of today. On one hand, it’s a testament to Iwao’s creation and distinct personality that makes Scooby-Doo so fun to be around; on the other, it shows a lasting commitment to community, to a group of individuals so different from one another yet so united under a central goal. It’s unique. It’s comforting. It’s a legacy to be proud of.

***

I don’t think I can conclude this essay without bringing up the elephant (or dog) in the room. It wouldn’t be fair to her, spilling the beans about Bean and the rest of the bunch, without giving her the mention she deserves. Even if it hurts to do so.

Her name was Oreo. An all-black mutt. Roughly the same size as Bean. We drove to Louisiana to get her. Saved her from an abusive home. She loved Arkansas. Loved Biscuit. Loved me. Then came November 5th. Day before my birthday. My friend had come over and we, along with Bo, wanted to film a dumb video in the woods. We go out there. Oreo follows. My dad accidentally let her out. I didn’t notice until I heard her scream.

It’s too brutal to translate.

I run further in and see her. She’s crossed over our neighbor’s electric fence. They have two twin weimaraners. Throwing her up. Throwing her down. Sinking teeth into her chest.

I scream for help. My brother and friend take off back to the house. The fence is thankfully not on. I stick my arm through. Grab her. Feel her feral bite lock onto my right arm. I still have the scar. I don’t care about the pain. I run. I pant. I scream and I scream and I scream. Everything afterwards is a blur.

There’s red running down my arm. I’m wearing a blood-soaked polo in the back of our car. The emergency clinic is small. I’m failing to put on a brave face. The vet says her lungs are punctured. There’s nothing they can do.

And then there’s an Oreo-sized casket in the back of my dad’s truck.

***

That’s Bean’s origin. A few days later my parents called me downstairs to say a box showed up. I thought it was the custom Muppet I’d gotten ordered for my birthday. Wide-eyed, I peeled back the cardboard flaps and looked down into the brown, equally as wide eyes of a Miniature Schnauzer puppy. It was love at first sight. But a love that wouldn’t have happened without a death.

I look at Bean now, sprawled out across my bed as I type this, and I can’t help but ask myself if this is any different from the examples I’ve presented so far. Is Oreo’s death not Bridwell’s dog-riding dream, Schultz’s ever-clever hound, Takamoto’s dozing Dane? Is it not the driving force that brought me my very own talking dog? And when I look at her now, her wrangled beard, grinch-like feet, gray coat that’s starting to fade to white, isn’t she the same as Clifford, Snoopy, and Scoob? If so, if all of that is true, then what comes next? What will be made from Bean? Her antics? Her siblings? Enemies? Hardships? Should I only use her as a unit of measurement? Or make her like Oreo, a thread to keep you reading? Will it be 30 Macy’s Day Parade appearances, 17,897 comic strips, or 10.5 days of content? Or will something greater, something like a legacy? The creatives here procured love, friendship, and community—what will I do? What will I make? What will the point of all of this ever be?

When dogs talk, do we listen? When we’re given gifts, do we use them?

I believe Beignet is a gift from God. A gift I don’t want to waste.

A weight comes alongside when given the extraordinary. It’s not meant to burden you, nor keep you down, but to remind you that you carry something precious and have a responsibility to do right by it.

My weight just so happens to be roughly twelve pounds and coming up to get under the covers beside me. I’m lifting up the blanket. She’s nestling in. Snuggling right up close from my knuckles to the edge of my shoulder. This time, though, she’s saying something to me. A quiet Hmmm. It’s probably meant for my ears only, but I’ll write it down so you aren’t left out. She won’t know. Bean can only speak, after all. Not read. [Translation: Come on, wrap it up. You won’t get anywhere worrying like this, and you’ve already kept them too long. Just take your time. Do your best. Pray. Thank God for everything. And turn the lights off so we can go to sleep. Goodnight!]