My Pothead Roommate Loved Dead Dog Jokes

Photo courtesy of Fotopedia

Right when I started college, I formed a permanent friendship with a few guys from my dorm. We rarely added people to our group because we thoroughly entertained each other. When junior year rolled around, I realized I had been hanging out with the same dudes for years. My friend Marv had recently moved into my house near campus, and I thought it would be healthy if we expanded our ranks, so I started inviting new people to come blaze with us after class. I quickly learned that my friends' collective sense of humor was less than universal.

Marv always cracked us up, but his jokes often offended people who weren’t familiar with his style. He often ended his jokes with a signature cackle, making it difficult to tell if he was serious or kidding. He once convinced me for several hours that CNN’s Jeffrey Toobin was Frankie Bush, the younger brother of President George W. Bush. I only recognized my gullibility when I brought up Frankie during a conversation with another friend. Marv overheard us and let out his cackle, letting me know that I had been fooled. Some of his bits were a bit more conventional. After he moved in with me, he obsessively pursued a four-month campaign called Scare War 2008. He would hide somewhere in the house and wait for me to enter the room, and then he would pop out and scare me. As soon as I reacted, he would stop and mark the accomplishment on a piece of notebook paper—the official Scare War scoreboard. By the end of the semester, Marv had scared me almost 30 times and I had only frightened him once. Years later, he said he had feigned being scared to spare my feelings. “I figured I’d let you get me that one time,” he said smugly.

When Marv moved in, he brought few belongings. He was always on the lookout for street furniture. Several times, he pulled up to the house with a hideous chair or side table strapped to the roof of his car, yelling for me to come help him carry it inside. One day, he walked in with a large, velvety painting of a Rottweiler. The painting was tacky, but the artist had executed the painting with skill. His name, Ortiz, was signed at the bottom. Marv proudly hung the painting above the TV, stood back, and smiled. “Really ties the room together,” he said.

A couple of days later, I returned home with Tom, a new friend I had made in class. He seemed pretty chill, so I thought he would get along well with my crew. When we walked into the house, Tom immediately noticed the painting and smirked. Marv, who was sitting on the couch, was not amused. Tom introduced himself to Marv and put out his hand to greet him. Marv stared at his hand like it was a tentacle. “Let’s smoke a blunt!” I said, breaking the tension. Tom tried to make small talk, but Marv eyed him suspiciously. As I lit the blunt, Tom returned to the painting. “What’s with the majestic dog?” he asked, chuckling a little.

Marv took a deep breath and told Tom a sad story: “That’s a painting of my dog,” he said. “I loved him, and he loved me. He was such a good dog. Every morning, he’d come into my room and pull the covers off me because he wanted to go for a walk. Anyhow, we were on a family camping trip once, and I took him with me on a hike. I was climbing a tree by the edge of the river, and I fell into the water. I couldn’t swim, so I started flailing around and yelling for help. That dog charged right into the water without any hesitation and dragged me close to shore. I grabbed onto some rocks and climbed out, but when I looked back, he was gone. The current swept him away. The last thing he ever did was save my life. My buddy Ortiz painted this so that I’d never forget him.”

We all sat there, stoned and quiet. I waited for Marv to start cracking up, but he didn’t. I knew it was bullshit, but the story moved Tom, and he felt embarrassed for laughing at the painting. “I’m so sorry,” Tom said. “What was his name?” Marv looked down at the can of Murphy's Irish Stout in his hand, closed his eyes, and wistfully said, “Murphy.” Marv looked up at Tom and narrowed his eyes. “And yes,” Marv said, “you should be sorry.”

Tom was clearly uncomfortable and left abruptly with a stoned, awkward goodbye. The second Tom walked out the door, Marv cackled uncontrollably. “Did you see the look on his face?” he yelled. “Oh my god, that was fun. I couldn’t think of a name, so I said Murphy, ‘cause I’m drinking a can of Murphy’s Irish Stout.” He showed me the drink and laughed even louder. “Bring some more random people over here,” he said. “I’m gonna fuck with their heads.”

I wasn’t planning on feeding Marv more unassuming stooges, but I did continue to bring over people who fell into his trap. I was just trying to find new people to smoke blunts with, but Marv wanted to fool as many people as possible. In the beginning, I sat there quietly as Marv told his story. Eventually I chimed in. When Marv would stare off into space with a sad expression after someone asked about the painting, I would say something like, “He doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s still very painful.” Most the time, we would run with the story for a few minutes and then let the person in on the joke. We only let the joke get out of hand one time.

We were at the house drinking 40s one night when a random acquaintance named Rav stopped by to burn one. It was the first time he had been to the house, so he asked about the Murphy painting. Marv was drunk, so his rendition of the story lacked drama and convincing details. Rav laughed and said, “That’s ridiculous. You guys are obviously clowning me.” He lit the blunt and started to talk about something else, but Marv stuck to the Murphy story: “That dog was a hero. He died for me, you son of a bitch.” Marv’s sudden hostility shocked Rav. I could tell from Marv’s face that he wasn’t going to back down. Rav said, “A hero? Don’t be ridiculous, man. It sounds like you’re fucking with me, so let’s just forget about it and smoke this L.” Suddenly, Marv went into a rage. He seemed like he had told the story so many times, he thought Murphy was real in his intoxicated state. He stood up and started incoherently yelling profanities in Rav’s face. Rav passed me the blunt and stood up. Marv and Rav stepped towards each other. I finally stood up and tried to break them up. Between hits of the blunt, I said, “Let’s chill. No need to talk about the dog. Marv, let it go.” Marv was not having it, but Rav finally backed down. He said, “You guys are both fucking crazy,” and then walked out. The second he left, Marv cackled louder than I had ever heard him laugh before.

I had to admit that it was pretty funny, but it seemed wrong to let two people go to blows over an imaginary dog. Marv agreed to retire the Murphy story, and we put the painting in the basement for the rest of the time he lived there. He lost track of the painting at some point—it probably ended up on the same curb he found it on—but the memory of Murphy and his final, selfless act will live with us forever.

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