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In the next scene Ike writes home complaining
about a mysterious illness. I got this idea from a dog I once
knew who was a master at faking injuries (which earned him
lots of sympathy and attention). He could play the part of
a wounded pooch just like a movie star. I tried to capture
that same kind of dramatic flair in Ike's pose on the stretcher.
In fact, he imagines the whole scene as one of high drama,
with stony-faced hospital orderlies, a very tough bulldog,
and the silhouette of prison bars on the wall. As always,
his version is in black and white. (I'd been told that dogs
can't see color, so I thought I was being extra clever in
this way, until I heard on the radio that the idea has been
debunked.) In reality he writes his letter from a comfy bed
in a bright, airy room with a fresh breeze riffling the curtains.
The Medical Digest book suggests that he's been reading
up on diseases in order to make his own ailment sound particularly
bad, the empty food tray suggests that he hasn't lost his
appetite, and the doctor's diagnosis ("hypochondriac") indicates
that, like me, maybe he hasn't been as clever as he had hoped.
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