You Can’t Sue A Dog
Threats of Violence? It’s the Nature of the Business if You’re Doing it Right.
If there was one thing I learned during my years of publishing, it was to have a good lawyer. And, having her dog own the paper was an even safer bet.
Yes, my lawyer’s dog owned the monthly paper I published — and with the amount of time I spent in court, I was lucky the dog was interested in being a media mogul.
From the onset of publishing in 1997, What’s Up, Chuck? Magazine caused a stir in Stratford, Ontario. My friends and I found ourselves threatened with expulsion from school, uniformed police officers intimidated our advertisers and, while the establishment loathed us, the reading public embraced us — we brought the truth to the people.
Or truth as to how we saw it anyway …
After all, we did print tales about local officials being caught with young boys in a local hotel, which may or may not have been true. And, there were plenty of allegations thrown about, but, hey, it was all in jest. That’s what satire is all about.
Regardless the lawyer letters flew.
Luckily the owner of the copyright was Charmagne Labrador — my lawyer’s black lab. Thus when lawyer letters arrived, they were always in the dog’s name. There was no one to serve and hence no one to sue. Remember, you can’t sue a dog.
But you can beat the shit out of the editor. And hence another good rule of publishing is to carry a weapon or at least be able to put up a respectable fight.
I had written a story about a local cop who had been witnessed stealing cash from a drug bust in the city. My sources were, of course, my criminal friends, so they were trustworthy. However, in the story, I went a little too far and made mention of the officer’s wife.
Unfortunately, the cop had a rather large son who didn’t take too kindly to my words. One night I was driving cab and pulling up to drop a fare off at a party, the cop’s son noticed me from the porch and made a b-line for the car. Within moments he was dragging me out of the taxi, pummeling me in the head as his friends tried to pry him from my limp body.
Upon being released, he yelled at me to stop writing about his family. I promised to stop. I lied. I wrote about the whole incident in the next issue. I never heard from him again.
Threats of violence were common when I published the magazine. It’s the nature of the business if you’re doing it right.
One issue I wrote a story about a new McDonald’s that had opened up. Revealing the all too well-known facts about nutrition, or lack thereof, I took it to McDonald’s. Within a few days of publishing, I received a phone call from the manager — who happened to be the owner’s son — who threatened me and said he couldn’t wait to kick the shit out of me next time he saw me at the bar.
Luckily he never followed through, but Charmagne did receive a trespassing notice banning her from McDonald’s.
But soon, our luck with Charmagne would be tested by the courts. Yes, I know, I said you couldn’t sue a dog, but someone thought you could.
I had published an issue that featured many locals displaying their bare asses on the front cover of the magazine. A local diner had sponsored a competition entitled “Whose is Whose Ass,” where readers were challenged to match the ass with the name and the winning response would receive a free dinner.
There were plenty of responses, but no one could identify all of the asses. One of the contestants — a local busker who had been loaded and dropped his drawers for a photo — took offence to being included.
He filed a small claims court suit against Charmagne and me. Yes, he decided to sue both the dog and me.
When our court day came, there we were in Stratford’s grand Victorian courtroom — where men years ago had been condemned to death — preparing to argue about whether or not I had permission to take a picture of a drunken busker’s ass.
Unfortunately, Charmagne was unable to attend, as she had been banned from the courthouse earlier in the year for biting the Crown Attorney’s secretary (but that’s a whole other story), so in her absence, I had numerous affidavits swearing Charmagne was a dog.
When our moment came, the drunken busker asked for $4,000 in damages and a publication ban. He was angry and waived a grocery bag full of my magazines around while claiming he had been “subjected to ridicule and experiencing more than my fair share of shame, frustration and rage.”
Despite his shame, the judge wondered aloud how I was able to get a photo of his naked ass. Without explaining, the drunken busker continued to maintain I tricked him without going into details — all despite the fact I had witnesses and logic on my side.
However, I wasn’t going to argue the details, I was there to argue that the suit itself shouldn’t go ahead because, after all, YOU CAN’T SUE A DOG.
The busker was enraged and burst out, “Well, if I can’t serve a dog, it shouldn’t be allowed to own anything!”
Good point. The judge then asked how the dog became the owner of the publication.
So I indulged and explained, “Well, you see, I held a dog treat in my hand, and as Charmagne anxiously sat to please me for the treat, I asked if she wanted to own a newspaper and held out my hand to shake. Charmagne shook my hand, and it was a deal — the dog owns the paper.”
You can’t argue with logic like that, but the judge did. He let the case continue, but luckily my lawyer had better plans. You see, in small claims court every time you file a response or a counter-claim it costs money. So instead of arguing, we just filed lots of motions that required the drunken busker to respond.
My lawyer and I nickel and dimed the drunken busker until he couldn’t afford to go on, and that’s the advantage of having a lawyer and a dog.
Postscript — This article first appeared in the Waterloo, Ontario publication XEN in 2004. Charmagne passed away in 2005. Nobody ever won the Whose is Whose Ass competition.
