“Ruh-roh!” said the massive Great Dane as a monster materialized before him. Defying gravity, the canine clumsily escaped the clutches of the villainous clown. Running in a manner only possible in animation, the dog was joined by his companion, undoubtedly as high as his cracking voice when he shrieked “Zoinks!” in reply to the monster in his peripheral view. The twosome sprinted down the abandoned fair ground, dodging all the forlorn carnival stands, only ceasing their gate for mere moments by an unrealistically open hot dog stand to fuel the continuation of the chase. After a short moment of engorgement, the friends realized the ghoulish entertainer was no longer following them.
Immediately after their realization, the dog and his best friend were accompanied by a group of three. A blonde, young man, with an ascot radiating of metro-sexuality, Hanna Barbera’s attempt at a geeky girl, with an unfortunate bowl cut, large, black framed glasses, and a large carrot-colored turtleneck, and a lovely girl with hair so vividly orange, it seemed to beg for attention, all stepped onto the screen. The canine with the ability to speak basic English was Scooby Doo, his psychedelic owner was Shaggy, the preppy gentleman was Freddy, the sardonic intellect with hair resembling a chocolate fountain was Velma, the girl whose hair color flamboyantly drew awareness was Daphne, and the child plastered to the screen was me.
I was always the child who woke up at 8am on Sunday morning to see the gang of mystery-solving teenagers over and over again. There was never any variety in the twenty-five minute episodes; the children were never harmed, the bad guy was always caught, and all elements of fear were unmasked by the end of the cartoon. Perhaps that is why I cherish Scooby-Doo. There is comfort in its predictability, in an ideally scripted place where all of the wicked are vanquished and good triumphs. But I suppose it is only a show.