Why Not Simply Put The Little Critter To Sleep?

 

There’s a kid up the street beginning to get on my nerves.

We just moved here. Here being a collection of millworkers’ cabins near the Siuslaw River. Most of the cabins are lined up side by side, cluttered all together. Like roadside litter.

But there’s one two-bedroom cottage way down at the end of the lane, maybe a half mile away, set among the trees, off by itself in a forest.

That’s where we live.

We like living here, surrounded entirely by green. Green all over. We can easily pretend to be far out in the middle of nowhere, isolated from modern society.  No newspaper.  No television.  No home mail delivery.  Inconveniently located to any place.  Long distance from everybody.  Just the two of us and my wife’s dogs.

My dog is dead. I left the dog in the care of a man I thought was a friend. While I was gone, he took my dog to the pound and left him there. My dog was gone when I came back from being away.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Can’t talk about it.

I am not real good with words and I don’t think any words I know could begin to tell you how I feel. I have never felt such sadness. I miss my dog and if I ever see that man, the one who used to be my friend, I might put him to sleep. With my own bare hands.

I try not to think about it. But I can’t help myself.

To tell you the truth, my dog was a killer. Capable of incredible savagery and smarter than a trained troupe of circus poodles. He’d obviously been abused as a youngster, beaten, whipped, tortured, God only knows what that animal had been through. I first saw him at the local Burger Princess, begging French fries alongside the drive-thru. Didn’t give the skinny black mutt much thought. Did give him some fries.

Next time I saw him, he was at the Arctic Circle, a nearby ice cream parlor. The dog was hiding behind a shrub just outside the main exit, I thought he was getting some shade. Until a little blonde girl, maybe four-years-old, came out the door, her face beaming, both hands tightly gripping what looked to be a triple cone.  Chocolate and vanilla swirl.

The dog sprung, like a furry four-legged Usain Bolt!  Swoosh!  Took all three scoops in a single bite, left the little blonde girl screaming, an empty cone in her hands, alarmed parents hovering.

Watched the skinny thief race around the corner of a fence into an alley and I followed. The dog was hunkered down, licking large vanilla-coated paws. He heard me before he saw me, his lips curled back revealing huge gleaming teeth.

Apparently, a fast food diet hadn’t hurt his dental work any. A low growl seemed to emanate from deep in his chest.

“Good boy,” I said. “Good boy.” I was being careful. Having seen the speed with which he’d taken that tot’s dessert, I knew he’d be at my throat before I could get my arms up.

He seemed to recognize me from before when I gave him the fries, maybe I’m kidding myself. He wasn’t wagging his tail, he sure wasn’t scared. Three bacon cheeseburgers later, hold the pickles, he was in my truck.

“Buck” I called him, after the big dog in Jack London’s The Call Of The Wild, who was kidnapped and beaten, then sold into a life of frigid drudgery and danger before escaping to rule over a pack of wolves. No telling what names he’d been called in the past, but Buck seemed to work.

Buck was skinny, he hadn’t eaten a square meal for quite some time, that was obvious. Big feet, a large head, ribs sticking out of his thin coat. I fed him three good-sized meals daily, dried and canned. A hearty eater.

He never seemed to get enough. I let him lick all the bowls, pots, pans and dishes. I fed him doggie treats by hand, wasn’t something for a sissy to try. He’d snap his jaws together, sounded like the heavy lid of a wooden box slamming shut.

Said he was smart. In two weeks, he could sit, stay, lie down, roll over, shake hands, shake his other hand, play dead, go, come, and a bunch of other stuff I forget now. I finally ran out of dog tricks to teach him. He didn’t like doing tricks anyway, not really. Hated to fetch. I got the impression he thought tricks were somehow silly, beneath him.

But I enjoy teaching young dogs old tricks.

Finally, I just started to tell him what I wanted him to do, and after a couple times telling him, more often than not, especially if that’s what he wanted to do anyway, he’d do exactly what I told him. He knew left from right. He knew good from bad, but he didn’t always seem to care.

I counted nine different ways he could open doors and windows. He didn’t like to be locked up, not alone anyway. Maybe something from his past life when he was a puppy, he wouldn’t be caged. I tried to lock him up three times; he ate a bathroom, the inside of a Chevy van, and room 14 of the Desert Lodge Motel in La Grande.

Finally, I got the message.

Buck filled-out, grew huge in fact. Looked just like a big, black wolf. A beautiful creature. I guess because I was the best source of food he’d ever come across, Buck was very protective of me and anything that belonged to me. The stories I could tell, about the two deer hunters we met in the woods who decided the best thing to do was lay their rifles down.

Like the time I stopped at night on a remote highway for a hitchhiker who turned out to be a drunk with a large knife, who took one look at Buck and decided to wait for another ride, however unlikely.

Except for when he bit me in the face, Buck and I got along just fine.

Getting bit was my fault. We were playing, tussling over a stick or something. Buck had been growling, sure, but I was still trying to domesticate him, and I suppose I wasn’t paying close enough attention to the signals he was giving me. Didn’t hear the change of tone in his growls.

Next thing I know, there’s a dog hanging off of my left cheek. Buck had sunk his teeth through the skin, felt like a knife cutting butter, and held me like that. I froze. Didn’t move, didn’t scream, nothing. Didn’t feel any pain. I looked into his eyes, which were looking into my eyes. Finally, he let go.

We never had any trouble after that. I learned to listen better, I can tell you that. I learned Buck wasn’t to be taken for granted. And we became best friends, like two boys who become steadfast buddies after having a fight. We were inseparable companions, Buck and I. He never left my side, until I was, how should I put this, sent for one to three years to another town – the state capitol, it was – where we weren’t allowed to have dogs.

I told my Mom I got elected to the legislature. She was so proud. When I got out, Buck was history.

Best I can figure, what with me gone, he had simply reverted to the wild dog he’d been before we’d met. Wouldn’t behave for anyone else. Started killing the neighbors’ cats, then livestock. Became a menace to most of the surrounding countryside. Acted crazy.

My love apparently was the only thing that had kept the big mutt sane. So one day, about the time he came home dragging half of a freshly killed white-face calf, his jowls dripping blood, my friend decided Buck was too deadly to run free. Dangerous to himself and others. Some critters are simply bad to the bone.

I think maybe Buck had a tough childhood and felt abandoned and I always wanted to believe he was good deep down. Just a little misunderstood. A little headstrong. Feeling unloved. His violence merely a misguided cry for help.

Could of been that way myself once or twice.

I got to thinking about Buck because of the kid up the street. The little punk wouldn’t be acting the way he’s acting if Buck was here. You fussed with Buck just once.

We still have two dogs, the wife’s. Andy is old, real old, over twelve, arthritic. He’s a collie, looks like a darker version of Lassie, a nose like a towel rack. Maybe the gentlest spirit I’ve ever come across. His name was Pee Wee when she got him real young, which was all wrong for this gentle guy, who’s pushing eighty pounds now. He was abused, too, as a pup. We don’t know how exactly, but he crawls behind the couch if you spark a lighter.

A while back, the wife thought Andy was going to die, he looked like he was going to die, so she got a replacement canine. The puppy’s name is Money, an Olde English sheepdog abandoned – and rescued by lesbians- at birth. He’s never been alone, he’s never missed a meal, he’s never had a bad day.

Andy took one look at Money and, well, he’s been like a new dog ever since. He’s perkier, he walks better, his coat is full and lustrous. He can still get it up to chase a kitty.

Money is two-years-old now, too young to have his entire brain yet, but he’s absorbed a lot from Andy. A young dog can learn by example and the old dog is a stalwart role model.

I wonder what kind of role model the kid from up the street has. The mills are all closed, most everybody around here is out of work, on the dole, food stamps. Whatever extra money there is goes for cigarettes and booze. Marlboros and Budweisers, the essentials.

Most folks seem to manage the price of the next six-pack.

Have this image of his dad, unemployment running out, drunk, hollering, taking out his anger on the kid. Slapping him around. Hard and too often.

“Goddamnmotherfuckersonuvabitchin’cocksucker!!!”

I heard the kid before I ever saw him. Stepped out of the woods just in time to watch him launch a kick at the bad hip of old Andy, who yelped in pain.

“Whoa,” I said as I grabbed Money, excited and barking ferociously. “Take it easy.”

“Motherfuckers! You better call your goddamn dogs off before I kill’em!”

“They won’t hurt you. You just startled them.”

“Bullshit! They attacked me.”

The kid couldn’t have been five feet tall, small for his age, straight brown hair hanging in his eyes. Reminded me of a fawn in jeans. Wore a black t-shirt; Heavy Metal Rules, it said. Practically hyperventilating. Red-faced and ready to fight the world.

“Calm down. These dogs are nothing to be afraid of.”

“Afraid? Fuck.” He picked up the bike he’d thrown to the ground. “If those dogs get in my way again, I’ll kill’em.”

“Have a nice day,” I said.

By the time we got home, Andy was hardly limping.

A week or so later, I heard excited barking, looked out the window, saw the kid from up the road pull a knife on the puppy. One of those folding chrome numbers with a blade maybe six inches long, used for skinning game. Money doesn’t even look like a real dog, more like a big toy, a fluffy Muppet.

Rushed outside. “What seems to be the trouble?,” I asked.

“Your fuckin’ dog bit me,” the kid said, making quite a display of his knife, which looked bigger close up, like a pair of hedge clippers. “I’ll kill the little motherfucker if he comes near me.”

Kids threatening puppies; sometimes I think we all must be going crazy.

“Money never bit anyone in his life. Doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

“Yeah, well, he bit me.” You could tell he was lying.

The kid took to riding past the house with a machete on his handlebars. He’d slow down in front of our place, we could hear him scream. Most of the words were unintelligible, all we’d catch was “… motherfucking cocksucking dogs.”

Psycho is the name I gave him. Couldn’t help thinking, Charlie Manson was a little boy once.

Other kids went by all the time. Money and Andy would race up to the end of the driveway, barking. The kids would stop and pet them. No problem.

“I heard they bite,” one curly-headed girl said, a little scared, then giggling as Money lavished licks on her fingers. Sloppy puppy kisses.

We took to keeping the dogs inside after school let out, after dinner. Prime Psycho time. Began to feel like captives in our own home. Like we were being held hostage. Thought about the city we’d left behind, where old people are afraid to leave their houses. Under siege.

One day the wife came home in tears. Andy was dragging one leg. Money was a nervous wreck. Seems they’d all gone for a walk in the woods, met up with Psycho. Apparently there was much barking, a lot of shouting, sticks thrown. She said he’d threatened again to kill our dogs. In fact, he’d threatened to kill her. Said he was going to burn down our house, too. She wanted me to talk to his parents.

I suggested perhaps a police S.W.A.T. team. Didn’t even know which cabin the kid lived in. Started to feel ridiculous, letting some little punk intimidate my family. Started to get angry. Wasn’t why I’d moved to the country.

And what would I say if I did know where the little punk lived? ‘Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Psycho Sr., please ask your demented offspring to kindly refrain from tormenting us.’ Think not.

Why give the kid the satisfaction, was the way I looked at it. Maybe they could beat on him some more.

I started going for walks by myself, much to the disappointment of the dogs. Started carrying a big stick. Spent more time working on the front yard, big stick handy. Waiting for a chance to talk to the kid alone, have a mano a mano confrontation. Just the two of us.

Found him in the woods hacking away at a small Red Maple. A real tough guy. He was so intent on destroying the tree he never heard me come up behind him. On the back swing, I grabbed the machete from his hands.

“What the fuck?! Hey!” I’d surprised him, saw the fear momentarily rise up, the energy leave his slender body like air whistling out of a runaway balloon. Blew himself back up. Wasn’t an ounce of flight in this boy.

“Give it back.”

“Let’s talk first.”

“Talk, shit. Give it back.”

“Not until we clear up a few things.”

“Yeah. Like what?”

“Oh, like you harassing my dogs.”

“Better keep those motherfuckers away from me.” He looked so defiant, so small.

“The Karate Kid wouldn’t kick Mr. Miyagi’s puppy.”

“You ain’t Mr. Myagi.”

“That’s my point. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know anything about me.”

“You sure as shit ain’t Japanese.”

“Help me a little here. I’m six-foot-three, nearly two hundred pounds, gotta outweigh you by a hundred. You always talk to adults this way?”

“Fuck you.”

“Bet you don’t talk to your father like that.”

“Fuck him, too.”

“We don’t seem to be making much progress here.”

So I handed him his machete, handle first. He grabbed it, seemed to gain some confidence, waved it threateningly in my direction. Kid puts a whole new slant on the term ‘child abuser.’

“Okay. Look, there’s a new marshall in town. Stay away from my house, stay away from my dogs.”

“Or what?”

Good question. I didn’t have an answer.

Kid mumbled something. Sounded like “faggot.”

“Excuse me?”

He gave me a blank stare. I left, keeping a watchful eye on him. He swung the big blade again at the little maple, lopped the top off. Already out of sight in the brush when I heard his voice come hollering out at me.

“Fuck you, faggot!”

The final straw, that was. One thing to kick the old dog, pull a knife on the puppy, promise to burn down the house, threaten to kill the wife. Boys will be boys.

But don’t call me a faggot.

There’s a swimming hole not far from here. Kids from the neighborhood swim there every day it’s hot enough. Every day.

The next morning I went for another walk alone. Went to the river early, went to the swimming hole, swam across to the other side, hid in tall grass behind big boulders. Waited.

Later. Heard some boys come down and jump into the water. Must’ve been a half dozen of them. Couldn’t really tell. Stayed hidden.

“Motherfucker! Shit, that’s fuckin’ cold!”

Slid into the water on my belly like a hungry gator.

Watched until Psycho was way over his head, then I dropped below the surface. Eyes open, I swam under the water until I saw his pale legs dangling. Grabbed both ankles and pulled hard.

Saw a snapping turtle pull a duckling down once, must’ve looked like that. I know he took a big gulp of river when he came under.

Lank hair streaming, his eyes open wide, surprised to see me, I guess. He struggled to escape, I pulled him deeper. He tried to pry my fingers apart, turned him upside down. Felt his small fists punching and clawing at me as I broke the surface silently, took a breath of air and pushed him back down. Deeper still.

Took another breath of air, practically standing on top of the boy’s chest now. Soon the clawing stopped, no more punching. Struggle over.

Wedged his frail, lifeless body, still underwater, between a couple of rocks. Filthy mouth finally silent. Carefully, I slipped ashore and disappeared into the forest.

Behind me, I heard his friends call out for him.

“Jimmy! Where are you?!,” they called. “Jimmmmmyyy!”

So that was his name.

The little motherfucker.