Carmen Dog (8 page)

She wishes that she had more time to write the poem, that it could be better, not for her own pride, but for Basenji's sake. She wants to do the absolute best that she can in this last task for her friend. As it is, she finishes it just in time for the service, which is very moving and beautiful, though everyone wishes that Pooch, rather than writing about songs, had sung.

—

Poem on the Death of a Dear Dear Friend

—

First crocus of the season

Whiter than the very snow

I have watched it tremble

When the harsh winds blow—

This spring, though it come not again,

Will linger ever in mind

As will the crocus. Another one so white

And pure I will not find.

—

I would lift my voice in song

And let the bleak wind hear my cries

But hope the crocus doth sleep on,

For her my voice be lullabies.

—

Pooch hopes that someday, especially if they do not live through this experience, someone might set the poem to music, and Basenji thereby be remembered.

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None are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

—Elizabeth Barrett

Now the doctor is going to try a completely new direction. He brings into the laboratory a solid Morris chair and arranges leather straps as though to confine the individual in it, but he cuts them all partway through. The thick one for the waist he will not even buckle, but will let it hang out the back of its own weight. Of course he must be careful not to let 107 realize that she's not strapped in except lightly at wrist and elbow.

He opens one of the high little basement windows. Takes out the thick screening that serves as bars. Only someone quite at the end of her rope could make such a leap up from the floor to what she would take as freedom. Even then, probably impossible. Still, can't be guessed at, what they can or can't do. Not to take any chances, the doctor places a small stool and then a waist-high bookcase next to it to form steps. Then he adjusts the testing cage so that it gives only the slightest of shocks even when turned on full. Partly this is in case he gets carried away. It's possible that he might get very angry. Often does these days. He's found out so little so far. Suspects most of them are as ignorant as they say they are. But not 108 and 107. They know things. And something wise about them that the others respect. They're listened to. 107 may lead him somewhere useful. Perhaps to their leader. Except she doesn't talk now. Could tell that from the tapes.
There's
a waste of time. All those tapes. Grunts, chuckles, quacks. Even worse than it used to be. Bad enough then. Bla, bla, bla. “How do I look with feathers in my ears?” “Tell me, is my topknot mostly blue or green?” “Have my feet grown ugly already?” “Am I too fat? Too thin?” Pleasant singing voice, though, 107's was. Powerful. A bit strange. Music. Used to like it. Beethoven. What they say about menstrual and estrous might be useful. Somewhat. Try to find their most vulnerable times of the month or year as the case may be. Some of them in love with me. Should use that, too. 108. What was her name? What about Rosemary? Eyes sometimes little slits. Watching. Did she do that before? Not when first married. Eyes wide then. Blue. Or were they gray? And she's not done some things lately. Noticed dust. Everything done for
them
, though. Last night thought to try love-making again, but it's been a long time. How to begin after.... Is it years? Tired. Thought better of it. 108 didn't fool me with that tiger bit. No stripes on Rosemary. Though hunched up and gained a little weight. 108 a bit thin. Long. Quite attractive. She and 107 team? Go where there is an answer. Not sit around here any more. Put running shoes on. Lunchbox, sweater, raincoat by the door. Get started. First the baby.

There is, of course, quite a row when the doctor takes the baby. More so even than for Basenji (especially now that Basenji has not returned). Phillip had the baby in her cage as usual, and she let it go to the doctor's arms willingly enough, thinking that it was she he had come for, but then she was pushed back roughly into her cage and the baby was taken. What a commotion as the doctor leaves with it! Such caterwaulings, from throaty croak to skirr. The doctor distinctly heard one dreadful raucous yawp from 107. Quite distasteful and quite unlike her usual voice. He is thinking that she sounds exactly like what her reputation (Isabel's) made him think she would sound like in the first place.

He decides to wait until they have all tired themselves out a bit before coming back for number 107. Let them get it off their chests. It's quite unpleasant to be exposed to it even for a few seconds. And what are they thinking, letting the baby hear such a racket! Meanwhile examine it. Cute little thing. Too bad never had one of his own. He puts it on the floor and lets it crawl around and play with the paraphernalia in the room. It looks healthy. Seems to be doing all right on kibbles and cat food. “Bop,” it says, “Bop, bop.” The doctor is pleased, thinking it might be trying to say “Pop.” He makes up little experiments for the baby, measuring how fast it can crawl and how long its attention span is. Also what kind of things motivate it the most to pay attention or to crawl. Twice he gives it a little pinch. Not enough to make it cry, only to protest. In such a manner he passes a pleasant three-quarters of an hour, finally putting the baby in the testing cage (making sure it's only loosely latched) and going back for 107. They are all, by that time, and thank goodness, so hoarse they can hardly do more than whisper their protests. He doesn't say a word. All the better if they think that dreadful things are happening to the baby.

Of course Pooch comes willingly enough. It is obvious that she can hardly wait to get to the laboratory to see what's going on with the baby, and it's also obvious that she is horrified to find it in the testing cage.

The doctor straps Pooch into the chair. “Let's see how fast the baby learns which side of the cage is which,” he says, and, “Of course you can stop this anytime you want to."

Pooch opens her mouth, but only strange croaking sounds come out.

"In that case.... “the doctor says, and gives the first shock.

"Ouch,” the baby says, perfectly clearly and rather gravely, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Under other circumstances Pooch would have been delighted with the new word. Now she is all the more distressed by it and by the nature of the new word itself and by the serious way it has been spoken. After a few moments of skittering around and saying “Ouch,” the baby finds the safe side of the cage.

"Not bad,” the doctor says. “Actually better than some. Now let's try it the other way round."

This goes on, the doctor increasing the shocks by infinitesimal intervals, hoping soon to find the precise level at which the baby will begin to cry. He hopes, then, to be able to turn the crying on and off by the push of a button. Meanwhile Pooch continuously makes that funny, throaty sound. It is only when the baby is quite suddenly crying vigorously with hurt and frustration, tired of the game, not stopping even with the shocks completely turned off, and when Pooch is almost through the already cut straps, that the doctor suddenly realizes: My God, 107! She's barking!

At that moment Pooch is full of such mixed feelings she doesn't know what she will do. Her teeth have never once been used, even when she was a baby, for anything more savage than pulling on a rag or chewing an old shoe, but now she must ... yes, it is the only answer. Besides, when she thinks of what has happened to her voice, that she would have died for, and that she would also willingly die for the baby.... And what's to lose, when she already has Isabel's reputation? Loyalty is a trap, she thinks, and the doctor has saved us only for torture and death as with poor Basenji. Attack, then. The throat, the shoulder. She had not known she had such strength, the bonds broken already, and so easily! The doctor on the floor, Pooch doesn't stop to see if he's dead or alive. She pushes the latch of the testing cage, grasps the baby in her teeth, and, ignoring the system of steps put out for her, she makes that extraordinary leap up to and through the open basement window, the baby shouting, “No, no, no, no,” at the top of its voice.

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The more they sink, the more fervently glow their eyes....

—Friedrich Nietzsche

At the moment there are several murderers at large. One of them is Isabel (the real Isabel). She had come close to murder several times before, as might be guessed. And she has maimed, though never so seriously that the victim couldn't be rehabilitated and function almost at his former level. Some of these episodes happened before she had even remotely come to resemble a wolverine. But now she
has
killed and has taken off toward Central Park in hope of escape even though she is, in her present state, only vaguely aware of the magnitude of her crime and therefore probably could not be punished for it should it ever come to trial. (It could easily be proved, however, that Pooch understands at all times what she is doing.)

Considering the situation, it is actually surprising that there haven't been more murders and more serious maimings. Several of the misadventures that have occurred were clearly inadvertent, the creatures not realizing their own strength or the sharpness of their teeth and claws. They were as horrified as anyone to find the damage they had done. Of course this is not always the case, for there are those, like Isabel, who have never been particularly gentle individuals and who are very pleased with their newfound fiercenesses.

As one might surmise, while Isabel did get to the Plaza, she did not stay there long. At the first sight of her, two large men in uniforms with gold braid asked her to leave, and no small wonder. Isabel was looking quite disreputable, trailing wood chips, and although her hair is short and fits around her head like a little black cap, it had been neither combed nor washed for days and stuck out in clumps in several directions. She had long ago discarded her silver high-heeled shoes as too confining and was now comfortably barefoot. There were vestiges of heavy makeup smeared about her face, the black from around her eyes having somehow gotten around her mouth and the red from her lips having somehow gotten around her eyes.

"Is good,” Isabel told the two uniformed men. “Fine. Find. Must meet. One. Or two men."

Hearing her guttural, garbled speech, the men grabbed her and tried to push her out, but she broke free and raced around the lobby knocking over people and furniture quite like the animal that she most resembles. Then she made a dash through the dining room and out into the kitchen where a cook had a large tenderloin he was just about to cut into tournedos. The sight was too much for Isabel, who was sick of a whole week's worth of meals of dry dog food. She went utterly berserk. Killed the sauce man, who had come to the aid of the cook, and maimed the cook, who had made the mistake of trying to rescue his tenderloin from the half-woman, half-animal trying to make off with it.

Of course it did not take the police detective long to find out that the murderer is either: (a) a creature named Isabel, or (b) a creature named Pooch, both recently released from the pound. One of them said to be degenerating rapidly and the other said to possess a youthful shyness, but who knows what violence may lurk beneath a maidenly reticence. The detective will not allow himself to be misled by surfaces.

And now Pooch, out into the sunny spring morning, running as fast as she can, and does not stop until completely out of breath, then, panting, slows to a dog-trot. The almost superhuman strength that she has felt ever since the need arose to rescue the baby seems now to be waning. She finally slows to a walk. Then stops. Then hides next to the stairway of a brownstone and tries to make herself and the baby a bit more presentable. She is shaking all over and there are tears in her eyes. She wipes off ... or rather, rubs off the dried stains as best she can and hides them a bit by wearing her smock wrong side out. (Odd, they do not
smell
like blood.) She removes and throws away the baby's torn vest. Thank God it's warm enough. Only now, in this breathing space, does she realize how cut and bruised her feet are, for they had not been allowed shoes. Probably to make it harder to run away.

As she is busy cleaning herself as best she can, she suddenly realizes that she has, all this time, been hearing a strange clop-clopping sound like hundreds ... thousands of high-heeled shoes, and grunts, and a kind of lowing. It seems to be coming from the end of the block. Something is happening, something big. It raises the hair on the back of her neck, though she doesn't know why. She steps out into the street to try to see down the block. There are brownish creatures heading north, trotting down the middle of the far avenue. Pooch is thinking, what a wonderful place to hide! To go with them, in the center, hidden by their bodies! She hurries to the corner and finds them even more impressive than she had first thought, a huge herd, thousands of them, all up and down Third Avenue as far as one can see (for Pooch has already run all the way from the Upper West Side to the Lower East). Many have colorful backpacks or rolled-up yellow or red raincoats slung over their shoulders. Some have wide-brimmed hats. All have large paper or plastic bags that obviously contain their meals for several days, and all are trotting by at a fairly fast clip, clopping in their clogs or teetering in their high-heeled pumps, some still upright, others on all fours. Cars are honking at them from the side streets, mounted police are trying to disrupt them or change their course, but to no avail. As soon as the police manage to cut off a small group, they break free again and rejoin the herd.

Pooch wonders for a moment about the policemen's horses, seeming to see on the face of one of them (mild brown eyes and long platinum mane) the look of a woman, but then she notices, shyly taking modest glances, that they all seem to be males. (Of course they are geldings, but Pooch knows nothing of such things.) She has heard about horses pulling carts or being ridden, but has not seen any before. She finds them so sensitive looking and aristocratic that she wonders how they can allow themselves to be demeaned in this manner. She supposes they have, in spite of their noble looks and large size, low opinions of their own worth just as the psychologist said she had. Perhaps later on, when and if the world ever really does get straightened out and there is a complete redistribution of power and, especially, profits, they can afford to get the psychological help they need and learn to be more assertive.