Cobb, Corn, dogs and Fluffy the Clown

Art and story contributed by Montreal painter/writer John Pohl.

Previously on Fluffy and the Clown, a humble artist known as

Mr. Cobb was drawing in a park along the Lachine Canal, when

he witnessed what appeared to be a dognapping. Thinking there

might be a reward for finding the dog, he rushed back to the

compound where he lived with a captive group of con artists

making dog paintings. But Mr. Cobb didn’t return with a salable

drawing – as punishment, he was sent to bed without supper.

That night Mr. Cobb left the con artists’ compound running. “Another day of this and I’ll won’t live long enough to break my fast,” he said to himself as he leapt over the 12-foot razor-wire fence.

“That’s some super renewal of energy,” he muttered as he hit the ground under the weight of the rucksack and horsehair sleeping bag on his back. “Too bad I didn’t grab my medications and art supplies.”

In later days, when Mr. Cobb would recall his escape, a sad smile would escape his weathered lips.

“All I had to do was to reach through the open window and grab the two backpacks with the meds and art stuff.”

But Mr. Cobb, realizing he would soon be unhoused and unroofed, ignored his backpacks and entered the room of sleeping con artists to pry his bedding off its bed frame. Deep into their dreams of future riches, the con artists slept through the noise made by loosened bedsprings flying against the ceiling and bouncing off the walls. Their contract with the Esteemed Artist filled their heads.

All they had to do was paint 971 dog paintings so the Esteemed Artist could reach his goal of 1,000 paintings that would be sold at a one-night auction for $1,000 each, making the Esteemed Artist an instant millionaire (minus expenses).

“Good luck, people, with supper tonight,” Mr. Cobb snarled at the con artists, finally stirring as bedsprings hit their blankets. “I was the only one here making money to buy food.”

When they heard this, the con artists jumped out of bed as one and started running toward the small window where the legs of Mr. Cobb were just wiggling through. If the con artists had run out the front door, they might have caught Mr. Cobb before he

scaled the fence and staggered into the bushes with his heavy

burden and collapsed.

Long after the con artists returned to their beds, Mr. Cobb regained consciousness and crawled into his sleeping bag.

The rising sun struck his face, waking him.

“Hope I got the food rucksack,” Mr. Cobb said as he opened the duffel bag. “Shit, what’s this?”

Instead of hot chicken sandwiches and bottles of wine, the duffel contained the day’s sperm samples that Mr. Cobb had forgotten to put in the freezer.

Mr. Cobb shrugged off the setback. He had a plan: he would track down the blind owner of the dog that was stolen from the park near the Charlevoix Bridge.

The con artists had their own plan. One million smackers on the night of the big auction!

“And we’ll get it all,” they told each other.

They would cut out the Esteemed Artist, but first they had to get him to sign even one of the many paintings they brought to him in his Miniature McMansion at the rear of the compound.

The Esteemed Artist threw their paintings into his fireplace as soon as he looked at them. The only paintings he kept for a day or two were made by the con artist in sick bay, tied to a bed, where he writhed in agony from a dog bite that had inflamed his

painting arm, swollen to an alarming size and oozing pus.

The con artists figured their paintings were being rejected because the subjects were just mutts. They decided to steal purebreds and use them as models.

But there was a snag.

In the middle of their studio, in a cage big enough for 20 St. Bernards, lived their one purebred model. It was a Miniature Schnauzer who barked constantly. The con artists stood at their easels, ears covered with fuzzy ear muffs, desperately trying to

create a mental force field to hold the animal still.

Mr.Cobb decided to become a dognapper and sell the purebred dogs to the con artists, who rarely ventured outside their studio, let alone their fenced-in compound on Rufus Rockhead St.

“I went out to the mailbox on Tuesday,” one of the artists muttered. “I didn’t see any f…..g dogs!”

As a native of the area, Mr. Cobb knew what the housebound con artists did not — that every family had a dog.

There had been one family with a kid until last week, when Mr. Cobb’s brother Johnny turned 18 and left the Pointe to look for work in the Maritimes.

The humble and hungry artist might have stayed with the group another day or two to steal a few items necessary for survival, but the Esteemed Artist had stormed into the studio during evening shift and screamed at the con artists.

“Stop it with those paintings of midget rat chasers with skinny noses,” he yelled. “I keep telling you, I want nice noble looking dogs. Give me an alpine rescue scene or two. Something … something I can sign. I need that million dollars by Tuesday. Paint me dogs that can carry a keg or two of whisky.”

So, when Mr. Cobb, rejuvenated after a night in the fresh air, discovered he had nothing of value but the sleeping bag, he started running to the swanky headquarters of Madame K, a private art detective. Sitting back in a plush leather chair, he

detailed the con artists’ scheme to defraud investors.

“Help me bring them to justice,” he shouted. “You told me about their scam!”

“It’s too small a job,” the private eye answered. “I’m working on the Gardner museum heist right now. But I’ll give you some free advice.”

Which was exactly what Mr. Cobb wanted: information to help him steal dogs and not get caught.

“I caught a dog thief by wearing camouflage,” she said. That was enough for Mr. Cobb. As Madame K continued: …. “But the danger …,” Mr. Cobb was already through the heavy oak door. He raced down the marble stairs and headed for an army surplus store on St. Laurent Blvd.

A happy thought intruded when he stopped to catch his breath. “Instead of stealing somebody’s beloved pet, maybe I could just befriend an unhoused dog and paint him as he slumbers at my feet.”

Unfortunately, that was Mr. Cobb’s last smart idea until much

later in this story. A few mornings later, Mr. Cobb put his new plan into action.

Dressed in full camouflage and with a net in hand, he waited behind a tree for a dog that wasn’t attached to its owner.

It was a long wait. He had time to whittle out a core sample of the tree he was hiding behind – a 153-year-old elm tree.

A husky looking Greyhound with a suitably thick neck came into view. No leash! But then a little white dog startled him. It was Fluffy, sniffing at his feet! The little service dog he’d been looking for!

The dog’s walker came into view. Instead of the dapper clown who stole Fluffy, it was the man in dark glasses, the blind victim of a dognapping.

There goes the reward, thought Mr. Cobb. “Maybe I can steal Fluffy instead and hold him for ransom.”

“Howdy there, Mr. Hunter,” the man told Mr. Cobb, who politely responded that his name was Mr. Corn.

"Are you a butterfly collector or looking for injured birds?” he asked Mr. Cobb, whose long metal pole with a heavy open mesh clanged to the ground as he flung his dognapping tools into the woods.

“No, I work for the city,” Mr. Cobb told him, as Fluffy licked his ankle. “I’m doing a bird count.”

“My Fluffy seems to like you,” the man said, startling Mr. Cobb.

“His name is Fluffy?” he managed to say.

“Yes,” said the blind man. “He’s a purebred with a fancy name, but I call him Fluffy.

“Listen, my new BFF, I need a dog sitter while I’m away in Longueuil on business,” he told Mr. Cobb. “Can you watch Fluffy for me? It’s just for a month, and I’ll pay you $500.”

Mr. Cobb couldn’t believe his luck.

“I can rent Fluffy to the con artists while I’m minding him,” he thought to himself.

Out loud he spurted, “I’ll be eating 12 burgers a day!”

“I thought you might be in need of honest work,” the man said.

“I’ll drop him off at nine tomorrow.”

“Can I get a down payment?” asked Mr Cobb. “I need to rent a place to live.”

“Then you can stay in my house, Mr. Corn,” the blind man said. “No worries. There’s a big yard.”

“I’m interested,” said Mr. Cobb.