♪ RON GOLDMAN: The scene kept running through my mind, Honey running through the streets of Johannesburg, looking for me, the one who'd abandoned her!

LINA CORAL: Guide dogs became a symbol of freedom and independence, and it was something that I desperately wanted for myself.

ROBIN GELFENBIEN: And I drew a Christmas tree with little hot dog ornaments and a menorah with little hot dog candles, and I sent it off.

MICHAEL TOW: Tonight's theme is "In the Dog House."

ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you.

Thank you.

TOW: Now, usually when you think of, "in the dog house," it's about getting in trouble or doing something that disappoints your family.

Or maybe that really good idea that you did, and at the end, it really wasn't that good of an idea.

Or maybe "in the dog house" is about your dog, and the unconditional love, the friendship that they give us every day.

Tonight's storytellers have some great stories on the theme "In The Dog House."

♪ GELFENBIEN: My name is Robin Gelfenbien, I am from New York City, and I am the self-proclaimed ambassador of fun.

And what that means is that I love to create fun and entertaining content for people.

So whether it's funny videos with my 76-year-old aunt, or hosting my storytelling show, "Yum's the Word," and making ice cream cakes, or telling my own funny stories on stage, I feel like that is the perfect title to capture all the things I love to do.

TOW: You've been telling stories for a long time.

GELFENBIEN: Mm-hmm.

TOW: How do you challenge yourself and stretch your storytelling abilities?

GELFENBIEN: I find that I can always challenge myself by being more vulnerable, because I feel like that's such a key part of storytelling, and why people really love storytelling.

Um, for, you know, because I'm also a comedian, that is not always the most comfortable place for me to live.

But the more that I've done storytelling, and the more that I push myself to really go deeper and see, like, what's really behind this, and you don't have to cover everything with a laugh, that that is something that really pushes me.

TOW: Do you tweak stories up to the last minute?

GELFENBIEN: I definitely tweak my stories until really the very last second.

Quite often, when I'm being introduced, and I'm backstage, it's not until they say, "Ladies and gentlemen," that I put the paper down.

(laughing) TOW: Why is that?

GELFENBIEN: I find it fuels me to, like-- really, I'm really putting myself sort of on the edge of this cliff, where it's, like, "You're about to tell this, like, in less than a second.

What are you doing?"

Like, it's pretty unconventional, I think.

I think a lot of storytellers will prepare quite a bit, um, it just, I don't know.

It just, I think it kind of lights something under me.

I couldn't wait to get to college.

I was going to go to the same school where Dick Clark and Bob Costas went: the Newhouse School at Syracuse University.

Not because I wanted to do hard news, no.

I wanted to do features, like interview Ricky Schroeder at the mall, or be the wacky weather girl, 'cause I dream big.

And shortly after I got to school, these guys started calling me this name, "Vargas."

They thought I looked like the science teacher from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Mr. Vargas.

(laughter) And they would whisper behind me in class and yell at me in the dining hall, and they'd call and wake me up in the middle of the night.

And before I knew it, about 60 guys were bullying me around the clock.

And for the next four years, I never joined the campus TV or radio station, because I was so afraid that that would give them reason to make fun of me even more.

And... but I was so determined to get my degree from the Newhouse School, so I totally stuck it out.

By the time I was a senior, I realized what I had done, and I completely plummeted, and I honestly didn't know what I had to live for.

Until I saw the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile.

(laughter) Now, if you've never seen this thing, it is a 23-foot-long hot dog on wheels, and I fell in love with it instantly.

So I ran up to the people standing in front of it, and they were on campus recruiting for the next round of Weinermobile drivers, a.k.a., Hot Doggers.

I was, like, "What?!

Best title ever!"

And so I grabbed the job description, and I'm looking at the, at what the job would entail, and it would mean I would get to be on TV and be on the radio and be in the paper, travel all over North America, and tell hot dog puns every single day.

I was, like, "They're basically going to pay me to be myself."

(laughter) So I catered my resume completely to the job, bragging about my excellent driving record and my impending BSS degree in bologna sandwich skills.

And then I crafted my cover letter, which was riddled with puns, like, "A hearty hot dog hello to you!

"I recently traveled to Europe, "where I got to use real French and Swiss... franks.

What a lucky... dog I was!"

(laughter) But I knew that wasn't going to be enough.

They were choosing ten people out of 1,000 applicants.

I had a one-percent chance of getting this job.

It was dog-eat-dog.

(laughter) That's when I came up with Rockin' Robin's Hot Dog Holiday Favorites, which was a cassette of me singing self-promotional songs.

Like you do for a job interview.

With hits like... (tune of "Winter Wonderland"): ♪ Oscar Mayer, do you hear me ♪ Want to be in that weenie And: (tune of "Hava Nagilah"): ♪ Robin Gelfenbien ♪ Robin Gelfenbien ♪ That is my name all the time ♪ ♪ This job will be mine ♪ My shoe size is nine ♪ I'm Jewish, but I dig on swine ♪ (laughter, applause) And I drew a Christmas tree with little hot dog ornaments, and a menorah with little hot dog candles.

Which is completely sacrilege.

(laughter) And I sent it off.

And I wait, and I wait.

And about a month later, I get a letter from Oscar Mayer saying, and I quote, that I "cut the mustard."

Yes!

(laughter and applause) So they fly me to Madison, Wisconsin, for nine back-to-back interviews, and the day starts at 7:00 a.m. sharp.

I'm in the conference room, surrounded by all of my competition, and these people were not messing around.

One guy made a miniature version of the Weinermobile, and another guy, for his on-camera interview, was going to do a debate between Ross Perot and Bill Clinton as to which topping is best on a hot dog.

(laughter) But I knew I was going to give them a run for their money.

So I meet with HR and PR and sales and marketing.

I'm on my way to my on-camera interview, and I get to the door, I look down, and I am horrified.

And I think, "How the hell am I going to tap-dance on carpet?"

(laughter) And so I politely ask the cameraman to pan down to my shoes so they could see I had gone the extra mile, and I launch into my routine.

And I'll give you guys a little taste of it right now.

(tune of "Bare Necessities") ♪ Look for me in the Weinermobile ♪ ♪ The Oscar Mayer Weinermobile ♪ I'm gonna have the time of my life ♪ And then it keeps building and building, and by the end, I'm like: ♪ The Weinermobile of life will come to you ♪ I look like a snow angel on crack, and I stick the landing, like, "Aaaaah!"

(applause) (laughs): Thank you.

Nothin'.

(laughter) And so I leave, and I am totally mortified.

And I think, "I have to redeem myself."

And I'm on my way to meet the man I have to impress the most, the Weinermobile manager, a.k.a.

Top Dog.

(laughter) Russ.

Now, Russ was well over six feet tall, stoic, stocking-- stocky-- and for some reason, he breathed like Darth Vader.

And so I say to him, "Hey, did you have a chance to listen to my Weinermobile demo?"

And he says, "Oh, you're this Robin."

(laughter) And then he opens his top desk drawer to reveal Rockin' Robin's Hot Dog Holiday Favorites.

My heart starts beating faster, and I think, "Oh, my God, he knows my work!"

(laughter) And he says, "No, I haven't listened to it."

I said, "Well, if you want, you can listen to it on my Walkman right now."

And he goes: (exhales like Darth Vader) (laughter) "That won't be necessary."

I said, "How about this, why don't I sing a few songs "that didn't make it on the album?

The B-sides?"

And so I launch into the first song, no response.

And I think, "Robin, go big or go home."

I sing the second song, and the last line I sing is, "I'm going to have this job before I'm dead."

And he goes, "Hmm."

(laughter) And I'm not sure what that means.

But I assume the worst, and I leave Oscar Mayer completely dejected.

I cry the entire flight home.

And I get back to Syracuse, and I'm going on these interviews for things I do not want.

All I want to do is drive a Weenie-bago.

(laughter) And then about a month later, the phone rings, and I pick it up, and I hear, "Robin!"

(exhales like Darth Vader) (laughter) I'm, like, "I know that voice, I know that weird breathing."

And he says, "This is Russ from Oscar Mayer calling to offer you a position as one of our Hot Doggers."

(cheer) And I was-- thank you-- I was, like, "Yes, yes, oh, my God, oh, my God, yes, yes, yes!"

And I'm crying, and I'm screaming-- it's as though he just proposed to me.

(laughter) And I was so excited, because for those four years, I completely lost sight of who I was: someone with unbridled enthusiasm and so much drive, and this job gave that all back to me in spades.

And it was all worth it, because it was truly a job to relish.

(laughter, cheers and applause) And that's no bologna.

Thank you!

(cheers and applause) ♪ CORAL: My name is Lina Coral.

Um, I graduated last year from UMass-Lowell.

I majored in psychology, and I am hoping to be a mental health counselor.

And I am here with my guide dog.

Her name is Quest, and she's a German shepherd.

TOW: Is this your first time telling a story on the stage?

CORAL: Yes, this is my first time telling a story in front of an audience.

I'm a little bit nervous, but I'm really excited.

I think it'll be lots of fun.

TOW: Do you have any friends or family in the audience?

CORAL: I do, I have my mom and my sister and my sister's fiancé in the audience.

TOW: Oh, wow.

Does that make it easier or harder, do you think?

CORAL: I think it makes it harder, because I think it's easier to tell a story when I don't know anybody in the audience, so I'm a little bit more nervous.

But I'm excited that they'll be here.

TOW: What are some of the challenges about putting a story together?

CORAL: I struggle sometimes with talking about my feelings, so telling my feelings to lots of people in an audience is a little bit weird for me, but, um, but it's something that I've definitely gotten better at through this process.

This is something that would typically be way out of my comfort zone, so I feel like I've grown a little bit by taking that step and doing it.

TOW: How do you relate to tonight's theme of "In The Dog House?"

CORAL: I love dogs, I always have, my whole life.

So if it gives me an opportunity to talk about my dogs, then I love it.

(laughs) When I was two, my family and I moved to the U.S. in order to get me eye treatment for a condition called retinoblastoma, which is basically an eye tumor.

I immediately met a woman who was blind and had a guide dog, and she showed me and my family that it would be possible for me to lead a normal life as a blind person.

Guide dogs became a symbol of freedom and independence, and it was something that I desperately wanted for myself.

Unfortunately, you can't get a guide dog when you're five, and for me, at five years old, 18 seemed like a million years away.

But I didn't only like guide dogs, I loved all dogs, no matter the breed or the size, I loved them all.

So since I couldn't have a guide dog, I thought maybe I could get a pet dog.

But my family said no, because we lived in an apartment, and we didn't have a yard, and I was very young.

So a few years later, when we moved into our house, my begging for a dog became relentless.

And my parents, running out of excuses, gave in.

I find myself at an animal shelter in the dog room, listening to all these dogs barking and whining, and I just can't wait, I want to pet them all.

So I stick my fingers through the wires of the kennel, and I feel this fluffy, medium-sized dog that I'm later told is a golden retriever puppy.

We ask one of the women working at the shelter if we can spend some time with this puppy in one of the visiting rooms, but instead of bringing me that puppy, she brings me a different puppy, a black lab-chow mix who is even smaller and fluffier than the golden retriever and has the cutest floppy ears and the tiniest bark, and I immediately fall in love.

We bring her home, and we name her Rosie, and Rosie and I have lots of great times together.

I think she thought of me as her annoying little sister, because I was constantly picking her up and kissing her and petting her and not giving her any personal space.

(laughter) We also had some unique experiences that came with me being blind and having a dog.

For example, when I tried walking Rosie, I really wanted to do it by myself, so I tried using my cane.

And I had the cane in one hand and Rosie's leash in the other hand, and Rosie would get scared of the cane, and the cane and the leash would get tangled, and it was just an awkward experience.

(laughter) On the plus side, I didn't have to pick up after her when she went to the bathroom in the backyard.

(laughter) Because I couldn't find it, so... that worked out pretty well for me.

But as much as I loved Rosie, as I started getting older, I still really wanted a guide dog.

And when my classmates in high school talked about getting their driver's license, I thought about getting my dog.

So I filled out all this paperwork that asked me questions about my lifestyle and what activities I liked to do, and I had a practice walk with a trainer, so he could gauge my pace.

And I was finally at the day where I was getting my dog.

I was so anxious, I couldn't sit still, so when I hear the trainer pull into the driveway, I leave Rosie inside, and I go outside to greet my dog.

This very dog came out of the van and greeted me.

She was wagging her tail and panting, and I petted her long fur, and we were so happy to meet each other.

The trainer gave me the leash, and we started our training.

But, as expected, it was a little hard for Rosie to adjust to having this new dog in her life, because they were very different dogs.

Rosie was always down for taking a nap and watching TV.

Quest really lives up to her name, and is always ready for a new adventure.

Unfortunately, Rosie just passed away last week.

And it's been really hard for me, because I think about her every time I pass her favorite spots where she would curl up, or when I come across her favorite treats in the pantry.

Reflecting on what these two dogs have meant to me, I realized that I wanted a guide dog so I could have freedom.

But Rosie gave me the freedom to be a kid.

We laughed and played together, and she was such a great comfort to me when I struggled to make friends in high school.

Quest has given me all this freedom and independence that I had hoped for and is literally helping me navigate my adult life.

I realized that these very different dogs were just the right dogs for me at just the right time in my life.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ GOLDMAN: My name is Ron Goldman.

I am an immigrant to this country.

I come from South Africa.

I've been here for over 50 years, now, though.

I practice as a psychotherapist, specializing in couples work, which has become a real passion of mine over the last ten years or so.

TOW: The story that you tell is deeply personal.

Describe that first time that you told that story.

GOLDMAN: The first time I told this story, I was scared, because I had never told it before.

I doubted anybody would really want to hear a dark, difficult-to-handle story on a Sunday night while drinking beer and eating hamburgers.

So I was convinced I'd make a bit of an idiot of myself, and people would even boo, but much to my amazement, it really seemed to touch people.

TOW: Do you find it easier the more you tell your story?

GOLDMAN: Actually, no.

Not for me.

I find, for instance, in coming to tell the story tonight, that I dared not rehearse it too much, because for me to be able to tell the story well, I've got to live it.

And I don't think being able to tell this story should ever be easy, and I've got to be able to be sufficiently present with myself and the audience to tell it in a real and compelling way.

I always had to pluck up all my courage to ask my mother a question that I asked her over and over again.

"Mom, how come when you emigrated "from M ünster, Germany, in 1936 to South Africa, "you didn't bring your mother and your father and your brother with you?"

Her face transformed always into the grimmest of grim looks, and she answered me with the same story in her raspy voice.

(rasps): "Well, there we were on the train platform, "and my mother said, "'We ought to all get on the train with Hilde,' "but my father said, 'No, I'm a veterinarian in town.

"'I take care of the animals here.

"We're safe, nothing to worry about.'

And so they stayed on."

Now, I knew in some unformulated way that that grim look locked up a single, unimaginable fact.

She never again saw her family.

I so much wanted to know more, but that grim look made me feel, "I dare not ask more, it will provoke too much pain."

And so I shut it down.

I grew up in the warm embrace of the German-Jewish community in Johannesburg, South Africa.

And one couple in that community, named Herbert and Mariana, had two beautiful golden cocker spaniels named Psyche and Eros.

(laughter) And one day, as Psyche and Eros should, they had a litter of puppies, and we got to adopt one of them.

I was about seven years old, and we brought Honey-- our dog-- home, and we named her Honey.

And Honey was beautiful in so many more ways than just her lovely golden color and her floppy ears.

She had a way of lifting her upper lips and smiling at you in pleasure.

You know, dogs do that.

If you type in YouTube, "laughing dogs," you'll get a whole lot of great images of dogs laughing.

And Honey and I took great pleasure in each other.

For many, many years, I would ride my bike up my driveway, and Honey would come pelting out of the house, smiling away, hurl herself into my arms, and we would just take great delight in each other every day.

When I was about 16 years old, my parents took a trip to the United States and came back and announced that we were going to emigrate to the United States.

Now, I was in my final year of high school, I didn't pay much attention to that, I had a lot of other business to take care of, and didn't think much about it.

Two weeks prior to departure, a strange car comes up the driveway, and a couple I've never seen before walks up to the door, and I say to my mother, "Who are they, what are they here for?"

(rasps): "They've come to adopt Honey and take her to their house."

No!

That cannot be!

Somehow, I'd not thought about this.

I'd not planned for what would happen to Honey, but before I could gather myself or protest, they'd scooped her up, were going down the driveway.

I was following them, stuttering and trying to stop this from happening.

Into the car, they opened the back door, and Honey and I locked our eyes in a look that I have never forgotten.

It was as if she was saying to me, "How can you be doing this to me, me, your Honey?"

And the door closed, the car drove down the driveway, turned the corner, and she was gone.

One week later, I had to pluck up all my courage again, this time to ask my mother a very different question.

"Mom, have you heard anything about how Honey is doing in that new home of hers?"

(rasps): "Honey has run away, and nobody can find her."

Oh, no!

I'm overcome by grief.

Guilt.

Shame.

"What have I done?

"How did I be so passive about this?

Why didn't I take care of this differently?"

But of course, my face was as grim as it could be and showed none of those feelings, even though I carried them around with me for years afterwards.

But not only the feelings, but a scene kept running through my mind, over and over again.

Honey, running through the streets of Johannesburg, looking for me, me, the one who'd abandoned her!

Very slowly, though, each time I wanted to ask my mother that question, I began to understand something that I could never understand before.

The feeling she was suffering from, the grief, the guilt.

And I began to imagine the scene that must play itself through her mind over and over again.

The scene of her standing in that train car, looking out the window as the train started to move away from the platform, waving goodbye to her mother, her father, and her brother, who she fully expected to see in the reasonably near future, but never did.

And slowly, as a result of beginning to face into those feelings, very slowly, over years, I began to explore in a little bit more detail with her what it was like, what actually happened, how she tolerated the feelings.

And slowly, as a result of being able to face into those feelings and building that connection with her, I developed the courage to tell you the story.

And I'm so grateful for the way you've listened, because it's a gift to all those that we've lost.

Thank you very much.

(applause) ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you.

Thank you.

♪