Here is a new bulldog story by Freddy Maffei, author of Red Tina and the Life of Humbug. He wrote it a few months ago, so posted here with his permission --
THE DOG IN THE YARD by Fredric Maffei
He was a giveaway from the puppy peddler down the street who owed Sam Halliday a favor. Sam wanted the pup for his son Brian who had often heard his dad holding forth on how the pit bull was one tough customer that could beat the crap out of any other kind of dog, bar none - and now, according to Sam, it was high time Brian had one of these tough fighting dogs of his own. Especially seeing as how it wasn't going to cost Sam so much as one thin dime.
So the little red pup was set down in the yard. And as soon as he felt new ground under him, he took his round-bellied rosy-eared tail-erect confidently alive little mite of a self off to explore the great new expanse before him - ranging far and wide, even unto the four corners.
``He likes it here,'' said the peddler. An easy time of it, too, nuthin but the grasshoppers to compete with,'' he laughed.
The pup had discovered a large grasshopper. Pouncing, trapping the unlucky insect under his paws, he nipped gingerly at it before half tossing, half spitting the thing out - put off by sharp spines, prickly edges of strong hind legs that kicked so startlingly in a pup's mouth. But he was at it again immediately, and this time the grasshopper did not fare so well. There was an audible crunch - after which the pup discovered grasshoppers tasted just awful and were best left to themselves.
``He's pretty damn tough, all right,'' laughed Sam, ``whatta ya think, son?''
``Hell on grasshoppers, anyway,'' answered Brian, ``a regular killer. Maybe that's what we oughta name him.''
Sam looked to the peddler. ``Whatta ya think, Grady? Killer for a name, ya like it?''
The peddler only shrugged.
``Hey Grady,'' said Sam, ``what about one of them fightin' crops? Like ya got on your dogs. Can we get one on ol' Killer here, make him look a little less puppylike? More like one of them lean mean fightin' machines of yours?''
``Why not?'' said the peddler, shrugging again.
``How `bout it? Ya wanna do it for me sometime, one of them fightin' crops?'' pressed Sam.
``Well, I'm here now,'' said the peddler.
``Good man!'' gushed Sam. ``Whatta ya need anyway? Just tell me whatcha need `n' I'll get it for ya.''
``Hell, lemme go on home for a minute. Just get me an old necktie. Ya got one?''
``Have I got one?'' laughed Sam - ``My one and only. Got myself married up in it. A necktie party, all right. Hell, I'd already had the best of `er any goddamn way - and it was just one long slide down after that.'' Sam gauged his audience. Grady, at least, was smiling, amused. ``Ran off and left me, she did,'' said Sam - ``took the girl with `er, `n' look who she left me with.''
Brian stood hangdog, a half-bitter smile on him.
When the peddler had left, Brian squatted down, gathered a handful of stones, and began tossing them just ahead of the pup.
A fine game. A little puff of dust, and the pup chased bravely to the spot, ten worlds of glee working his tail. He glanced smartly, attentive to further developments - went wrinkle-eyed perplexed when there weren't any. At which moment Brian tossed another.
All missed on Brian who, after he'd thrown the third stone, looked up at Sam and said, ``You had no call to go `n' say that to a stranger.''
``Since when ya got any say in what I got call to do `n' what I ain't? - you pup!'' snapped Sam.
``Oh, so I'm a pup now, am I?'' said Brian, hangdog.
``Damn sure whine enough,'' laughed Sam.
Sam stood smiling down at his son, studying him. Oh, the boy was his mother's son, right enough. Unappreciative of his father's wit. Always so goddamn serious, just like her. Always caring about things that were none of her goddamn business, this damn thing, that damn thing. Just like his goddamned ol' lady.
Brian threw another stone, harder this time, and closer, confusing the pup. He threw another, nearly hitting the pup.
Sam watched his son, the study before him. Slowly Sam's smile turned rancid. Almost too softly to be heard, he said, ``Boy, throw one more stone at that pup `n' I'll stick my foot so far up your young ass you'll be shittin' shoe leather nigh unto Christmas.''
Brian's hand lowered, the stone never flew.
The peddler returned, reached over the gate, letting himself in. He carried in his arms a small wooden stand, a homemade contrivance. But Sam's contribution, the necktie, had yet to materialize. Sam went into the house for it, was back in a moment waving the striped band in his fist.
``What's it for anyway? We gonna tie him up?'' asked Sam.
``Muzzle.''
The peddler called the pup to him, made two wraps around the pup's snout, sent the free ends once around his neck, fastening them.
``Hell, he ain't no better off in that thing than I was,'' quipped Sam. ``Pitiful devil.''
``Worse, I'd say,'' said the peddler.
``How so?'' said Sam.
``Still gotcher ears, ain'tcha?''
``Well, that's a fact,'' laughed Sam. ``Fact hell - it's a blessing.''
``Gimme a hand,'' said the peddler. ``Just hold him steady while I get him in here.''
The stand had two hinges that allowed for its being opened, and then the closing of the pup within. Shut in, a thick wooden collar about his neck, the pup's ears could then be placed upon the flat cutting boards at either side of his head.
``Lean your weight on it, Sam. He's gonna wanna scoot.''
The peddler took his knife, razor sharp, from his back pocket, and to the pup's muffled wail, in one smooth motion cut away the greater portion of his right ear.
``I thought ya said these dogs were tough,'' said Brian, looking on.
The peddler glanced, stood up ramrod straight. ``C'mere, lemme cut off one of your goddamn ears - see what you sound like,'' he said.
At Sam's guffaw, Brian colored nearly as red as the cutting board where the pup's ear lay drenched.
From another pocket, the peddler took a tin of bloodstopper, sprinkled the powder over the pup's stub of ear. Shifting position, again taking up the knife, he deftly cut away the remaining ear. Came the same mournful cry. More bloodstopper.
``There's a good job of it,'' said the peddler.
By the time the pup's ears had healed, Sam had got a doghouse built. A large doghouse. Large enough for the dog Sam hoped the pup would one day become.
So that when the scaled-down giant named Killer sniffed warily at it, followed his nose into it, it was as if he had entered a great hall. Ceiling way off in the yonder, four giant walls rising up all around him, it would easily have housed four, five, or more of the likes of him. But then - wonder of wonders. A pup's yapping inside that great echoing cathedral held nearly the full-out joy of having another pup to yap at - and one to return the favor as well!
***
Soon the great hall had grown smaller and homier around him and was a valued friend, providing both shelter and sanctuary. Shelter from that first summer's sun that made a hotbed of all the best lying places in the yard. Shelter from that first winter's wetness that could soak a dog through and through with shivery cold, wetness that turned white the colder it got and fell more and more slowly, blanketing the yard over in a soft powdery cold into which a young dog might plunge to the shoulders. But cold, so cold, the powder turning first wet on the coat, then cold-icy-hard. And sanctuary from the man Sam who was high boss of the yard and not to be angered by any wrongdoing.
Wrongdoings were too much barking when Sam didn't want to hear it. Or holes dug too deep too near the porch steps. Or business piled where Sam might step in it. Or worse, a lifting of the leg upon the screen door that was Sam's own to go into or out of the great house where he lived.
Lessons painfully learned were that any of these wrongdoings would surely cause Sam to curse and to whip off his belt. Or even when there had been no wrongdoing and Sam reeked of that pissy, foul-scented brew that came from cans, he might reel and stumble - even charge straight at a dog if the dog didn't know to make himself small, go silent and unseen - hidden away in the furthest recesses of sanctuary.
Still and all, the dog hardly ever saw Sam. More often it was the lesser boss, the boy Brian, laying down the law. But it was so confusing. At one moment a dog might greet the boy in a whirlwind of face licking, all full bounty of love and adoration overflowing - while at another time the same greeting might so enrage the young lord that he would growl and punch a dog to the ground. And for all his presence there, whether he was sawing or hammering away at some project or another, the boy Brian was a being more to watch than to stay close by to.
One day Brian came out of the house, a kind of stick in his hands. He pointed the stick upwards. It made a cracking sound. The dog did not like the cracking sound - a something in it that acted on all his nerves like a shock, sending his tail between his legs. Shrinking down, he watched Brian with wide frightened eyes.
A strange masklike smile on him, Brian turned the crackstick in a slow arc, brought it to point at a spot not three feet from the crouching dog. The dog had a startled look about him.
Crack!
Again the terrible jolt on all his nerves, a flinching in all his soul. The sound, and then the even more terrible little thud of impact nearby were more than he could bear. Tail gone between his legs, sad-eyed, the dog began a slow cringe toward sanctuary. Almost there, he heard that same forward-and-back click-clack sound that preceded the other - and his nerve snapped.
He couldn't get away fast enough!
He felt the sting like fire. A cruel sting in his flank even as he slammed into his doghouse. And there he lay, panic-eyed, stiff and trembling amidst the total ruin of all his shattered nerve.
For a time he lay trembling, unknown moments where he was a mere thing of fear. Yet, as he lay, gradually there came a familiar thread, comforting, casting out fear - sounds of laughter and voices outside.
``Gun shy? The brave pit bull? The hell ya say,'' Sam laughed.
``A full gainer into his doghouse, believe it,'' said Brian.
``This I gotta see,'' said Sam. ``Mind ya don't shoot his eye out now.''
Sam moved, peered into the dark little cave where the dog lay huddled in shadow. Soft, gently reassuring tones from Sam: ``C'mon, Killer. There ain't nuthin to hurtcha, ol' boy. Ya ain't afraid of that little ol' toy gun now, are ya? Little ol' peashooter as it is.''
He reached his hand into the darkness, and even as he reached, there was a wet nose to touch it... and then to follow, gingerly, the snap-snapping of the fingers full out into the brightness.
When the dog was quite separated from the safety of his doghouse, Sam stepped quickly aside. Click-clack it said again. And the dog flinched as if struck. But he didn't bolt, for Sam was speaking gently to him - ``Easy boy, easy now'' - softly crooning words of encouragement.
``Okay now, `` said Sam in the same reassuring tones, ``lay one down just to the side of him - see what the sum'bitch has in the way of cajones.''
``Another full gainer - wanna bet?'' said Brian.
``No bet,'' said Sam, the quaking dog before him. ``Tain't exactly a sight to inspire confidence.''
Crack!
This time the dog slammed to safety with a violence that jolted the heavy doghouse back half a foot.
Laughter from without, ever-heightening peals of laughter. Laughter that went on and on, seemingly without end, until at last, aside from an occasional sputter or two, exhaustion had set in. And silence.
But after a little bit, and from farther away this time, Sam began speaking softly again to the dog. ``Come out, come out, wherever you are. Oh, you're a good one, you are.'' And when Sam stooped once more, certain the dog could see him, clapped his hands for the dog to come to him, still the dog would not come out. He would not be tricked outside again.
Nevertheless, a moment later, there came the tentative thump of a tail on the wooden floor of the doghouse. And then, the ever more hopeful the dog, the stronger and faster still his thump-thumping out a rhythm to punctuate the between-time silences of the crooning, jeering voice that was the man Sam's.
***
Brian brought the crackstick outside often after that, but then the dog knew to make himself scarce. Brian seldom got another chance at him. Birds in the two great trees towering outside the yard did not fare nearly so well. Brian was an expert marksman and in no time at all had racked up an impressive line of tiny corpses. Now and then he'd even get one in flight, exclaiming at his own expertise.
Once, a hurt bird fluttered down into the yard, and when it tried to get its crippled wing to carry it away, beating it helplessly in the dust nearby the doghouse, the dog could not help but poke his head out, fascinated at the display. Brian, recognizing the budding bird dog in his proud pit bull, called him to the hunt. It was almost nothing, a mere mouthful of fluff, and then the warm crunch of fragile bones between his jaws. But it excited the dog - the wild fluttering, the loud frantic cries, the final soft peep when his jaws closed upon it. And so, from then on, by mutual agreement, when a hurt bird fell into the yard, the dog was allowed to join the hunt without fear of the sting.
***
When the dog was a year old, Sam put him on a chain. A generous length of chain it was, eight feet long, giving the dog a 16-foot circle all his own, shared only with his beloved doghouse.
And oh, the chain was a curious sort of friend. More than a familiar one, an inseparable one. One that followed forever after him, daytime, nighttime, through every season, day after long day when, but for his friend, there was no one else. He learned the feel of it by heart, its every whim - how best to draw up the slack so it wouldn't tangle, its gentleness in the light tug on his neck - its hard, ungiving mastery over him when he hit the end of it hard. He knew it by sound as well, its soft rustling in the dust, its hard rattle across the wooden floor of his doghouse, the softer clinking sounds it made when he was scratching at a flea, louder when he was shaking out a cloud of dust. A perennial friend, snaking, moving, making sounds in subtle relatedness to his every move.
The dog now on a chain, Brian could be a good deal less conscientious about keeping the gate shut. And so the open gate became the dog's window to the world. What had been mere sounds, random and disconnected, became sights to see. The whispered breathing, all those cranking and occasionally screeching and blaring sounds - speeding hulks whisking past at breakneck speed. Horrible electric twanging that played havoc with a dog's ears, rising higher and higher, louder and louder, until it was as if the devil's own band were screaming inside him - arms and legs, strange alive being strolling past, a great metal box for a head.
There were other dogs too. Dogs on leashes, walking with their masters or mistresses and taking a moment to peer in, curious over the chained dog barking at them. So many stray dogs, too, with no doghouses or chains of their own, dogs small and large, timid or otherwise - but none so timid as to fail to lift his leg at the gatepost, issuing forth a message of his own, just to let the chained dog know how well all his ruckus had been received.
There was one timorous little dog, a black fuzzy little rag mop of a dog whose great stunt was to come into the yard, stiff-hunch his back, and make his deposit on the chained dog's property. At first he hadn't the courage to brave it. But then, a regular visitor to the richest gatepost in town, he'd surmised the chained dog's limitations. And besides, the big dog's bark was not all that menacing. Once the dutifully performed, deep warning bark was over and done, the yapping that followed still had much of the puppy in it.
It became a daily ritual, that the funny little dog - the timorous little dog that dared - should come into the yard, treat himself to the heady satisfaction of hunching his back, all the while staring ``awesome death'' in the eye. Speedstepping on impossible little legs all but invisible beneath his mop of hair hanging down, the little dog would virtually glide into the yard. He'd give a perfunctory sniff or two. And then, with all the self-importance imaginable in so small a body - his tail would go rigid at point and he would perform his grand finale. Finally, in a rousing flourish, he'd send the gravel flying. Then, as abruptly as he had glided in, he would glide out, not to be seen again till the morrow.
So it went, time and again for several weeks, the bold little dog's glowing performances. Until one day when the little hero - imagining, perhaps, some silkily clad little female rag mop's adoring gaze upon him - failed to hear the footfall, failed to note the gate's swinging silently shut behind him.
Prancing to the gate, the closed gate where the opening ought to have been, the rag mop stood stock-still, perplexed. He trotted the length of the fence. Had he misjudged where the opening had been? No, still no opening. Then it must still be where it always had - except, having backtracked almost clear back to the scene of his latest deposit and beginning again - still no opening.
Now he went straight to the closed gate!
A lost little whine escaping him, he leaned tiny forepaws upon the gate, craned his stubby little neck back trying to see over it.
Having shut the gate from outside the yard, Brian had gone around and into the house, entered the yard through the backdoor. He stood on the porch staring at the intruder - tiny ragamuffin of a dog now doing a panicky little dance at the gate.
``I'll teach ya to shit in my yard,'' said Brian.
He went straight to the chained dog, loosed his collar, and with a loud ``Sic `em!'' sent him straightway toward the little dog.
Bounding with great strides, great playful strides that had not an ounce of ``sic'' in them, the larger dog was nonetheless upon the other like a storm. Came the terrible landing of great paws nearby, a huge head panting hot breath hardly a nose away - and the terrified little dog whirled, nipped desperately at the great dog as if to drive him away.
Saucer-eyed, fast-panting with surprise at this unforeseen hitch in his getting-acquainted strategy, the great dog sprang up, eyed the mite with full tail-wagging curiosity. It was a game, wasn't it? Great fun, too! - but he had yet to learn the rules. He licked his nose, caught the trickle of blood running down - and with a curious awakening joy gathered it was all part of the game.
Again he pounced - front-end-down. Again the little dog yapped and lunged, this time nipping the great dog beneath the eye, sharp teeth drawing blood.
Again the great dog was up and panting - taken aback, but fast growing sure, and surer. All part of the game, bringing teeth into it. It was all right then - teeth were part of the game. Swiftly, he had the little dog pinned belly up, pressing him into the dirt.
There was very little pressure really, even a kind of gentleness to it, still playful. Yet something inside the little dog had broken. In hardly an instant and with the mere quietest of whimpers he was gone.
The game was over and done. Head cocked, he stood rapt in a strange sort of wondering, the still little body before him. Where were they now? Where had they gone to, the little dog's scurryings that had roused so intense an excitement in him? He nudged at it. It was too soon over and done - its final little sigh, the small body going slack in his mouth, that strange scent of fear that filled his nostrils at the little dog's messing himself... all a strange sort of dream from which the larger dog would soon awaken and from which the little dog would not. Over and done.
***
Brian was a good deal proud of the dog once he'd made ``his first kill.'' He bought a leash and a fancy studded collar for him, began taking him for walks. At first the dog was leery of the noise, the activity of the streets. And once, when the banner on some car lot's pole flapped loudly and its shadow ``went off'' before him, he tucked his tail and flew to the end of his lead. Which caused Brian's face to redden, and he looked about, relieved no one had seen. But gradually the dog got used to the world outside, came to enjoy the walks, and to look forward to them.
He'd turned out a handsome dog, especially when he was strutting proud, basking in the warmth of Brian's glances, which were just as proud. Sometimes passersby would exclaim over the dog's good looks, ask its proud owner what kind of dog it was. And others, other teenagers mostly, who already knew what kind of dog it was would ask how tough he was. And Brain would say he was as tough as they come. Then Brian would give an accounting of his dog's first kill - how he'd been pushed to the limit and not only had he come out on top but had proved himself ``dead-game'' in the process. So it was that Brian and his sporting dog Killer enjoyed some small bit of celebrity in the neighborhood.
One evening while Brian was in the yard feeding the dog, two boys his age looked over the gate. They whispered together for a moment before one of then called to Brian.
``Say, man, I hear ya got a tough dog there.''
``Tough enough,'' answered Brian.
``Say, man, I got a pit that's bad,'' said one of the boys, ``think yours is badder?''
``I don't know,'' said Brian.
The two outside the gate smiled at one another, superior smiles.
``Wanna find out?'' came the challenge.
But when Brian hesitated too long, the other put in - ``That dog's no fighter. Lookit `im. Not a mark on `im.''
Smirks between the two strangers.
``He's a fighter,'' said Brian, ``a demon when he's mad. The dogs he's fought are marked ya can bet.''
``I'll chance it if you're game for it,'' smirked the other.
Brian, face aflame, said - ``Anytime, hotshot - and it's your funeral.''
Minutes later, in the cool of evening, three lads and one fat dog, his belly full, marched eight blocks to their destination. Plunked down in a small makeshift pit nine feet in diameter, the dog found himself dead in the sights of a scrawny white dog across the way - a half-starved looking dog eyeing him like dinner.
The white dog slammed him against the wall, bit hard into his front leg - clung fast! - enough hurting to draw a whine out of him. Forced to it, the fat dog grabbed a greedy mouthful of snout, and growling impressively, plucked the white dog off the leg. He backed him away, released him roughly, disdainfully almost. And there the fat dog stood, strong and confident in ``victory'' - short-lived as it was.
The white dog's hesitation lasting no longer than it took to get some traction under him, he was hard at it again, grabbed a shoulder this time and nearly bowled the wide-eyed-amazed dog over.
So that was the game, was it? No appropriate pauses, no parading of one's strength. Just plain old bite and shake, hang on and grind those bones till one dog was on his feet and one dog wasn't. And so he entered not only willingly but with a budding pit dog's joy into the battle.
He did fine at first. Even better than fine in all his full heat of awakening, his christening into what it was to be a pit bull dog, his blood come of age. The stronger, he overpowered the white dog every time, each flurry bringing him the advantage. But all too soon the fat dog had to run out of juice. Not that he wasn't willing enough, and capable, a regular locomotive running all over the older, used-up white dog. But without steam to drive the engine, it couldn't go. All the young dog could do, finally, was stand there, great sides heaving - the white dog hanging on as he pleased. All this while the heavy supper that had betrayed him came up and out of him. And now, while the young dog had only whined the once when first taken unaware, he whined again. And yet again, cries drawn out of him, cries coming from elsewhere, from somewhere beyond his knowing.
At last he was thrown and could not rise up again. He could only lie gasping, the catching of one critical breath and then another his sole desire. The white dog still had him by the leg, but even the white dog was beginning to lose interest, the downed dog so out of it, so still and beaten.
***
He wanted only to sleep. And perhaps he had slept for a time. He could breathe easily again, and so he must have slept. He felt himself lifted over the pit wall and set down on the other side, yet he hardly woke. Not even the hurting in his badly bitten front legs was enough to wake him... the lifting stirring vague memories in him of a white dog he had faced not long ago, had fought hard against... but then falling, falling away, a long slow way down to the mat... sleep-stirred recollections of voices that sometimes cheered, sometimes jeered at him... and then the voices dimming, and dimmer still, as the outcome drew nearer... till the voices dwindled to the mere softest of whispers drowned out by the deep labored breathing of some dog....
A hard yank on his leash woke him. He was being dragged by the neck. Hardly focusing, he saw the back of his young master. The boy was moving away but giving no encouragement that he should follow, only dragging him. Stumbling to his feet, the dog limped along as best he could. But then the hurting in his legs was as nothing compared to the hurting at each curse growled at him. Somehow he was guilty, he knew. Though of what, he could not know. And yet he was guilty, the sole cause, the forever and never to be forgiven cause of some terrible shame and anger that his young master, the boy Brian, had suffered on his account.
***
Brian looked at him differently after that, or rather didn't look at him at all. Not even at feeding times would Brian so much as glance at him. He was, in the eyes of his young master - not. So went the days, the weeks, through each long moment of lying on the chain, following that day when he had somehow and by some means disgraced himself.
And though you wouldn't know it to look at him, something had gotten into the dog. There was an edge on him, a curious restlessness that would jerk his limbs for no reason, cause him to rise up on full alert and look about. He would sleep restless sleep, wake with a start. The white dog visited him often while he slept. And then he would fight the brave fight again and again, only never running out of air as he had before. It was a fairer fight in sleep. And then how wonderful going body to body with the white dog - setting teeth deep in. And then, when the white dog was all but bitten down - to shake him! Shake him like a rag, clear off his feet.
And now when the gate was left open and some unknown dog would lift his leg and pause to look in, the chained dog's bark was full and deep. And when some strange dog would stop and stare too long and hard at him, the dog would charge to the end of his chain as if, by God, either the chain must break or he must break his own damned neck instead. And then the offending dog would walk away, slowly, so as to maintain his air of calm and confidence, but always secretly harboring a glad relief that he need have nothing further to do with the dog on the chain.
He would dig great cavernous holes in the yard, holes so deep that when Sam or Brian looked out from the house they could see no dog at all, only the length of chain running out abruptly - as if the dog had been swallowed up by the earth.
No amount of punishment could put an end to the digging. The dog was at it again two minutes later, even after an outraged Sam, pushed to his wit's end, had growled, yanked him up out of the earth, and beaten him. All punishment was only of the moment, forgotten when the moment had passed.
Down he'd go in a fever of digging, the chain rattling about his neck. To dig and to scratch out one small bit of dirt after another from the hard earth was all his purpose, all his desire. He would excavate great rocks, near-boulders weighing half as much as he did. And having found where one began, he would scrape at its sides, under, and behind it - till he found where it ended as well. Then, with great cords of muscle standing out in his shoulders almost as hard as the great rock itself, he would push the rock away and behind him. And begin again. He would dig for hours, till he was weak with it, nails bloody from it, till he could hardly stand. Then, legs spread wide to balance himself, head hung low, wide opened mouth, tongue drooping down, he would stop, hungrily gulp for air. And then he would lie down for a time and sleep and dream.
***
In the beginning of the dog's third summer, there came a change over the great house that was Sam's, an excitement. There were the rare sounds of Sam's laughter within, and Brian's as well, though not so deep as Sam's. And then the voice and laughter of still another, laughter that was high and ringing - different. There had come a visitor to the house.
Beyond the nailed-up window coverings making shadowy figures of all within, there was Sam coming together in a great bear hug with some small slip of a thing, some mere flash of color disappearing altogether in the embrace. There were other sounds as well, most curious sounds that seemed to emanate from within a small bundle passed from one shadowy figure to the next - high-pitched whining sounds like the cries a small animal might make. Then Sam would fuss and in a most curious way coo back at the live little bundle. And then a bit of movement, a wriggling from within the bundle, an answer emanating in softly mewling sounds.
Hours passed and no one came out. The shadows had left the windows. Voices still carried, but fainter. Now and again, beneath the drone of voices, those same little high-pitched animal sounds. Yet sounds like no animal had ever made, like laughter bubbling forth. Sounds that drew little answering whines from the dog, vaguely longing, strangely desirous - the dog leaning into a taut chain, straining to hear. After a time, and with a great sigh, he slumped heavily down and rested his chin on his paws. Every few moments he'd sigh again, and sometimes he would whine.
Finally, when it was growing dark, Brian came out to feed him. And when the dog was licking the last bits from the pan, the screen door opened and out onto the porch came the visitor. Female and small, she was someone Brian smiled kindly at and called ``Sis.'' But the most fascinating thing about her was the small creature that clung close about her neck, moved its little head to look this way and that. It rubbed at its eyes, and then, with the faintest little whimper, stuck its paw in its mouth and commenced sucking noisily at it.
His tail was wagging his whole back end. Bouncing on front paws, he did an almost dainty little quickstep in place. And when the visitor looked straight at him his tail wagged all the harder.
``He looks so strange at me,'' she said.
``Oh him,'' said Brian. ``Don't worry none about him. He ain't much.''
All the same, she turned aside and clutched her little one closer to her. Conscious of a sudden chill in the air, she went inside.
Long after the last light in the house had gone out, the dog lay in a restless half sleep, listening into the darkness. At that hour, the sounds of the town were few, but they carried true and clear on the night, and at each of them the dog lifted his head. The siren that wailed. Two drunks arguing, a bottle smashed to the sidewalk. Several dogs, lone sentinels, barked alarms from their separate stations.
Except for Sam's sleep-breathing, which was low and mostly air, not loud, the house was quiet, and no amount of listening into the sleep-breathing stillness would reveal the slightest stirring. But then, all at once - a sudden blind, shuddering little cry! Gathering force, it strove up and up to a rich, full-throated squall! But immediately came the softly caressing murmurs of the female to still the storm... and it ceased. One last little intake of breath caught with a most curious sound, and was a sob... and the storm was ended. And all, aside from Sam's undisturbed sleep-breathing, was quiet and still once more.
The dog slept deeply and dreamed. He dreamt he was running free on the streets of the town... finding his way back. Away back in space and time, he was retracing his steps. Until at last he came directly upon that same nine-foot-square proving ground that was the white dog's own to hold. The white dog was there standing ready for him. And when he made his rush and closed on the white dog - it was, for him, the most perfect moment of his life.
Through to the cool damp haze of dawn, the dog dreamt many dreams, dreams that twitched his legs and fluttered his eyelids. And he made sad or excited or yearning little whimpering sounds. Away! Away! - the freewheeling, sleeping dog! He was free as the wind, free to go wherever and whenever, free to dig holes as deep as he pleased in soft black rich-scented earth. Yet however deep the holes he dug, however far he strayed, he always came home again. Always, in sleep, it was his choice whether to stay or to go - for he never dreamed the chain. And always, after he had had his day - he would return home once more to the yard.
***
Inside the house, another dreamer was waking. Yet even his waking was more a dream continuing - the pillow beneath his head, the wide expanse between the place where he lay and the great doorway leading out.
It was a brand-new place to wake up in. His ma, forever present, lay resting and slow-breathing nearby. And so, quite safe within this daring new adventure that occurred to him on the spot, he threw off his covers and would go seek out the new gramps who had laughed so brightly at sight of him the night before, had tossed him joyfully high, high up into the air. On stocking feet he toddled lightly to the doorway.
He came out into a hallway. It was darker here than where he'd just left, and so he moved toward the source of light at the end of the hallway, passing first one closed door, then another. And oh, it was an adventure! At the end of the hallway he looked back. Still, no ma to follow him up, whisk him away, change his messy diaper. At the end of the hallway where a great heavy door loomed high above him and was half opened, light was beginning to stream in... and a cool, damp outside air that bathed over his bare skin with a deliciousness that thrilled.
A wave of cool morning-fresh scent sweeping over him, the damp caress thrilling on his nakedness, he looked back, strange excitement in his eyes. Still no ma to whisk him up and away. And so he would go farther. He would go through the half-opened great door and try the other door - the screen door that no one had latched and that swung slowly open at his lightest touch.
There came a dog's sharp bark. The child went to the edge of the porch to see. It was a dog, a dog the same size as his own Mickey. The doggie was wagging his tail, which meant the doggie liked him and was happy to see him. There was no railing on the steps leading down, and so the child had to turn and go down them backwards, one by one.
The dog barked again, a friendly, tail-wagging bark - yet strangely deep and electric. And now the child paused, unsure, a wave of uncertainty sweeping over him. He stood still, quite still. Cocking his head with sudden new interest, he stared at the dog - stared long and hard, all child-serious, brow-wrinkling intensity, studying the dog over.
Set off by the child's stare, the dog barked again.
``BABY!''
At last his ma had come. Her cry resounded in all his soul like a release. He did not hear the terror, the warning in her cry. He only knew that in the next instant he would be swept up once more in the safe cradle of her arms - his great adventure would be over. An instant only! A wild little cry of sheer delight in him - and he plunged right in, threw his arms around the dog's neck.
***
It was a most curious creature that had come out onto the porch. A small, most unsteady creature that walked on its hind legs like a man, yet crawled down the stairs on all fours. And then how it stared! The challenge in that stare. Yet this, too, was different. There was no strength or power in this curiously unsteady little uprighter that moved so slowly and carefully so as not to topple. And the dog gave a loud bark, tail-wagging invitation to play, the deep vibrant note of warning underneath.
He saw only the little one before him. That someone else had come out onto the porch, had cried out, was all on the bare edge of awareness. Only the little one, close by, mattered. Nothing else. Only the moment's closeness mattered. Nothing else to matter in the whole world...
Then all at once the unknown little creature of the intense stare cried out and came rushing in on him!
***
They seemed to come from beneath him, high-pitched screams of terror filling his ears - and filling his nostrils, the reeking animal scent of the creature swaddled in its own mess. And it was all that mattered. All that he knew. He knew only that he was on top, mouth full and working at what lay struggling and thrashing beneath him -
- He was having to bear down harder. There was pressure, a rough twisting at his collar, choking off his air. He could barely keep his hold, felt it slipping, slipping away. He lost it, scrambled to regain it - did regain it! He heard curses, loud curses growled in his ear. And as the dream ended and he slipped slowly back to himself - amidst screams and curses and the taste of Sam's own blood in his mouth! - only then did he know what a hell-world his everyday space and time had become.
Sam, all but naked, gathered up the still, little form while the dog shrank away. Blood was running down Sam's arm where he himself had been bitten. Sam would have carried it quickly away then, except that the female, no longer screaming but angry and cursing, seemed to be fighting him for possession of the thing. He shoved her away to where Brian took and held her, trying to quiet her. But immediately she broke away and ran into the house, Brian running after her.
That he was guilty of a terrible wrongdoing the dog knew all too well. He had bitten Sam! And soon, he just knew, Sam was going to come outside and just beat him and beat him and never stop. How it was that he had committed this most unforgivable of all sins, he did not know. But he knew that he had done it, and so, going to his doghouse and curling up most miserably beside it, he lay waiting for whatever punishment he had brought upon himself.
***
But Sam did not immediately come outside. Rather, the house grew quiet. The dog lay curled up for many hours waiting out the long purgatory of fear. And with each sound that carried, the dog would raise his head, suddenly alert... then give a tight little whine when he realized the waiting was not yet over.
Darkness coming on, there carried from the front of the house the sound of a car's engine sputtering out, the shutting of a door.
The dog was on his feet like a shot!
The waiting over and done, some mad, uncontrollable impulse sent him diving down into the earth, down into the deepest hole he'd dug. He began digging. A mad frenzy of digging, as though if he could dig hard enough and fast enough he would at last reach the bottom of it. His powerful shoulders working as they never had before, a wild, uncanny brightness in his eyes, he set his mad, unbroken will against the sometimes soft and giving, sometimes hard and crusted, ungiving earth.
At the slam of the screen door, the dog froze. Half cringing, a sad yet haunted look in his eyes, he stared fixedly at Sam. Sam's eyes were red, full of rage. For one endless moment, the dog was caught, transfixed, locked desperately and hopelessly irretrievable in time. It took the harsh voice of Sam to free him.
``That's it - dig! Dig it straight to hell, you cur sonofabitch spawn of the devil!''
When Sam advanced on him, the dog turned away, and slowly, with a slow hesitancy that begged permission, made his way to his doghouse. Except that even once he was inside it, Sam kept after him, pointing the new and even larger crackstick with the two great black holes at the end of it right in at him, invading sanctuary. Pointing it in where he lay crouched in his doghouse. Where there was no place left for him to hide and he could only lie shivering and cowering in one corner... waiting... waiting for the sting.
Fredric Maffei copyright 2012
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