some of you have probably heard the story about the boy who was afraid to go to bed at night. if not, let me quickly summarize the plot. in the story, a boy is told by his mother to hang his arm over the edge of his bed so the dog lying underneath would lick his hand and make him feel better so he could go to sleep unafraid. the boy hears a dripping sound, and when he goes to investigate he finds his dog hanging upside down in the bathroom, its throat slit, dripping blood, and the words humans can lick hands, too scrawled on the mirror in the dog's blood.
at this point, most listeners are supposed to experience a chill of terror as the reality of the situation dawns on the little boy. often we cannot truly say how we would feel in a given situation unless we are in the middle of the story ourselves. for example, our protagonist, the boy, had no such reaction. i know it seems contrary to reason, but he was young enough that the implications of what he saw did not sink in right away. he simply turned out the light and plodded down the hall, back to his room.
the boy sat for a while on the edge of the bed, his bare feet dangling a few inches from the floor. he covered his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself tired so he could go back to sleep. finally, he stood up and began to walk towards the light switch near the door, when he heard a man's voice say, from under his bed, "aren't you scared?"
the boy stopped and turned around to face the bed. to his surprise, he realized he was not afraid at all. "no," said the boy.
"hmm," said the man under the bed, "well, now, why don't you come closer so i can get a good look at you." the boy walked over to his bed, lifted the edge of his comforter, and looked into the darkened face of a man, rough, unshaven. "that's better," said the man.
"why did you do it?" asked the boy. the man said nothing. there was a long pause. the man's eyes shifted from side to side, but he still didn't say anything. finally, when the boy decided the man must not have heard him, he asked again, "why did you kill my dog?"
"i didn't," said the man, looking up at the boy.
"what do you mean you didn't kill him? then who did?" asked the boy. again, a long pause, and no response from the man. the boy decided to switch the question. "how did you get in?"
"through the window," the man offered eagerly. "your mom always leaves the kitchen window unlocked. it's easy not to be heard if you come through the kitchen."
the boy thought about this for several seconds. finally, the boy repeated his first question, "if you didn't kill my dog, then who did?"
dark furrows formed across the man's forehead. his eyes shifted. "lean in close," he said. the boy sat down on the floor and put his ear next to the man's mouth. "i can't tell you," the man hissed.
"why not!" exclaimed the boy loudly, which resulted in the man startling, bumping his head on the bottom of the bed, and reacting with a series of shushes.
a long painful silence followed which lasted at least an hour. the man lay underneath the boy's bed, the boy sat cross-legged in front of the man. the man closed his eyes, and the boy nodded off several times, slipping in and out of sleep. at one point he had a disturbing dream that the man was hanging from the bathroom ceiling, and his dog was under his bed. the boy woke up to the sound of the man sobbing. "why are you crying?"
the man opened his red eyes. "no reason."
"why are you under the bed anyway?"
"i'm afraid," answered the man.
the boy stretched his arms. he was now wide awake. "you won't tell me who killed my dog, then?"
"i can't."
"if i guess right, would you tell me?"
the man thought for a long time about this before finally saying, "i guess that would be okay."
"okay, then; did you kill my dog?"
"i already told you i did not."
the boy screwed up his face and thought hard. "did my mom kill my dog?"
"no," said the man, with a look of intense sadness. " i think you know the right question to ask," he added.
the boy thought, and thought, and thought, but could come up with nothing.
"i can come up with nothing," said the boy. "did..." but the boy stopped. abruptly, shock and understanding came over the boy, the chill of terror, if that's what you want to call it, and the man started sobbing uncontrollably.
"go ahead," gasped the man between sobs, tears running down his face, "ask it."
the boy's lips trembled, the blood ran out of his face, and everything you would expect to happen to a person sitting around a fire listening to a horror story happened to the boy all at once as he asked his final question.
"did i kill my dog?"
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
the ballad of the cheshire cat
the cheshire cat was dead, i thought, or sleeping. i sat down on a rock, stared at the fat orange cat lying motionlessly on the ground, and took a drink of water. i extended my leg and prodded the cat with the toe of my shoe.
dead.
he's not my cat, i reminded myself.
i heaved a sigh and stood up, placing my hands on my hips, examining the house in front of me. it was a dilapidated trailer. did the people who live here kill the cat, or did it just wander here and die? or, did someone else kill the cat and leave it here for the people who lived in the trailer to find? i didn't have a clue, and i was frustrated with myself for having left my apartment for a mindless walk in the first place.
in any case, i decided, animal control should be contacted. deciding not to knock on the trailer, i walked over to the house on the corner of the road and knocked. i have this thing about talking to people i don't know, especially in an awkward situation like this, so waiting to see if somebody would answer the door seemed to take at least a full two minutes. i made myself breathe deeply the whole time. finally, the door was opened by an older man wearing a straw hat. "hello, can i help you."
i was direct. "is that your cat?" i gestured.
the man in the hat looked bewildered. "i'm sorry...?" he shrugged, grimaced slightly. his face was beet-red, as if he had been working out in the sun all day long.
"the cat over there," i motioned with my hand, "he's dead."
"dead," he said, his tone completely neutral. an old woman wearing garden gloves appeared behind the man in the hat, a sour look plastered to her face as she studied mine.
"dead," i repeated. my pits were sweating. i hated talking to strange people. why was this taking so long?
"can we help you?" the woman asked, the look of disgust on her face increasing.
this isn't burger king, i thought. i glanced over at the cheshire cat lying vacantly on the side of the road. he was still dead. "do you have a telephone?"
the old man and woman exchanged glances. he clicked his tongue and asked suspiciously, "do you need to make a call?"
"well," i began. here was the climax of our conversation, when my intentions would be fully revealed. i forced myself to go on. "i was thinking maybe you could call animal control and tell them about the cat." revelation.
i thought my request was pretty reasonable, but it was met with a duet of no's. an explanation followed. "we wouldn't dare call animal control," said the man.
"our neighbors have called them on us a number of times because of our dogs," the woman added. i looked sideways at an outdoor kennel made from light wood and chicken wire. two small dogs lay on a cracked concrete floor, next to a large water bowl. although the dogs didn't appear to be in distress, they didn't seem like the sort of dogs that would cause any great disturbance. in fact they hadn't even barked when i answered the door. why had the neighbors contacted animal control?
all at once the unpleasant old people seemed patently childish and uneducated. forcing myself to check the rolling of my eyes, i nodded as if in understanding, thanked them, and walked away.
twenty minutes later, i was in my apartment, smelling of sweat and dust. i picked up the phone and dialed the number for animal control while i poured myself a glass of cold grapefruit juice. they assured me they would retrieve the dead cat. why don't you check into the neighbors on the corner of the road -- yes, the neighbors with the two dogs, i wanted to add, but did not.
slipping the leash on my dog, i took her for a short walk, then jumped in the shower briefly to rinse off the dirt and sweat. the mirror above the sink was foggy when i stepped out, and i had to wipe it with a towel before i could check my face. what i saw startled me. i can't explain it, but something was changed, i no longer seemed to be me, or at least not the same person as i was the last time i looked in this mirror. to make matters worse, i was grinning nervously and uncontrollably from ear to ear.
later, i drove by the spot in the road where i had last seen the cheshire cat. he was gone. animal control had done their job.
dead.
he's not my cat, i reminded myself.
i heaved a sigh and stood up, placing my hands on my hips, examining the house in front of me. it was a dilapidated trailer. did the people who live here kill the cat, or did it just wander here and die? or, did someone else kill the cat and leave it here for the people who lived in the trailer to find? i didn't have a clue, and i was frustrated with myself for having left my apartment for a mindless walk in the first place.
in any case, i decided, animal control should be contacted. deciding not to knock on the trailer, i walked over to the house on the corner of the road and knocked. i have this thing about talking to people i don't know, especially in an awkward situation like this, so waiting to see if somebody would answer the door seemed to take at least a full two minutes. i made myself breathe deeply the whole time. finally, the door was opened by an older man wearing a straw hat. "hello, can i help you."
i was direct. "is that your cat?" i gestured.
the man in the hat looked bewildered. "i'm sorry...?" he shrugged, grimaced slightly. his face was beet-red, as if he had been working out in the sun all day long.
"the cat over there," i motioned with my hand, "he's dead."
"dead," he said, his tone completely neutral. an old woman wearing garden gloves appeared behind the man in the hat, a sour look plastered to her face as she studied mine.
"dead," i repeated. my pits were sweating. i hated talking to strange people. why was this taking so long?
"can we help you?" the woman asked, the look of disgust on her face increasing.
this isn't burger king, i thought. i glanced over at the cheshire cat lying vacantly on the side of the road. he was still dead. "do you have a telephone?"
the old man and woman exchanged glances. he clicked his tongue and asked suspiciously, "do you need to make a call?"
"well," i began. here was the climax of our conversation, when my intentions would be fully revealed. i forced myself to go on. "i was thinking maybe you could call animal control and tell them about the cat." revelation.
i thought my request was pretty reasonable, but it was met with a duet of no's. an explanation followed. "we wouldn't dare call animal control," said the man.
"our neighbors have called them on us a number of times because of our dogs," the woman added. i looked sideways at an outdoor kennel made from light wood and chicken wire. two small dogs lay on a cracked concrete floor, next to a large water bowl. although the dogs didn't appear to be in distress, they didn't seem like the sort of dogs that would cause any great disturbance. in fact they hadn't even barked when i answered the door. why had the neighbors contacted animal control?
all at once the unpleasant old people seemed patently childish and uneducated. forcing myself to check the rolling of my eyes, i nodded as if in understanding, thanked them, and walked away.
twenty minutes later, i was in my apartment, smelling of sweat and dust. i picked up the phone and dialed the number for animal control while i poured myself a glass of cold grapefruit juice. they assured me they would retrieve the dead cat. why don't you check into the neighbors on the corner of the road -- yes, the neighbors with the two dogs, i wanted to add, but did not.
slipping the leash on my dog, i took her for a short walk, then jumped in the shower briefly to rinse off the dirt and sweat. the mirror above the sink was foggy when i stepped out, and i had to wipe it with a towel before i could check my face. what i saw startled me. i can't explain it, but something was changed, i no longer seemed to be me, or at least not the same person as i was the last time i looked in this mirror. to make matters worse, i was grinning nervously and uncontrollably from ear to ear.
later, i drove by the spot in the road where i had last seen the cheshire cat. he was gone. animal control had done their job.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
the letter
january 2, 2007
the aberdeen american news
124 s. second st., p.o. box 4430
aberdeen, south dakota 57402
to the editor:
regarding tuesday’s headline, my heart goes out to anyone who has been maltreated by this unjust, antiquated, and ill-conceived ordinance. a dog who bites once should not be labeled aggressive. in fact, most of what we label aggression in dogs is actually normal canine behavior. as humans, if we spit in another person’s face, give a person unwanted contact, or call someone by a profane name, we increase the likelihood of inspiring aggression in an ordinarily non-aggressive individual. likewise, if we send the wrong messages to a dog, the response will be unpredictable.
here some best practices: 1. avoid eye contact. 2. never pet a dog on top of the head or scruff. 3. never pet a dog that isn’t completely calm. 3. keep a safe distance. 4. never offer a dog your hand, either palm up or palm down. dogs can’t tell the difference. 5. educate yourself. 6. use common sense.
if animal welfare laws were effective, and if humans were more educated and well-behaved, the number of incidents of dog to human aggression would be negligible. in the meantime, in the unlikely chance someone’s dog should happen to bite me, and I should need medical attention, they won’t hear how it happened from me. aberdeen does not serve the best interests of either you or your pet.
sincerely,
vegancowboy
the aberdeen american news
124 s. second st., p.o. box 4430
aberdeen, south dakota 57402
to the editor:
regarding tuesday’s headline, my heart goes out to anyone who has been maltreated by this unjust, antiquated, and ill-conceived ordinance. a dog who bites once should not be labeled aggressive. in fact, most of what we label aggression in dogs is actually normal canine behavior. as humans, if we spit in another person’s face, give a person unwanted contact, or call someone by a profane name, we increase the likelihood of inspiring aggression in an ordinarily non-aggressive individual. likewise, if we send the wrong messages to a dog, the response will be unpredictable.
here some best practices: 1. avoid eye contact. 2. never pet a dog on top of the head or scruff. 3. never pet a dog that isn’t completely calm. 3. keep a safe distance. 4. never offer a dog your hand, either palm up or palm down. dogs can’t tell the difference. 5. educate yourself. 6. use common sense.
if animal welfare laws were effective, and if humans were more educated and well-behaved, the number of incidents of dog to human aggression would be negligible. in the meantime, in the unlikely chance someone’s dog should happen to bite me, and I should need medical attention, they won’t hear how it happened from me. aberdeen does not serve the best interests of either you or your pet.
sincerely,
vegancowboy
she cheated on her final
she cheated. she cried. i arranged a second chance. she cried some more. her father came in. i arranged a third chance. she was late. why do i do this to myself? she tells me she is in trouble with her probation officer. my weakness is that i actually care.
Friday, January 5, 2007
ramones poster
for much of the day afterwards i hunched guiltily behind my desk, students approaching me for help, me wanting to hide from everything. at 3:00 i met with my principal, and at 3:30 i was back in my room with a student who had received detention for creating a unique response to the question "why did the chicken cross the road?" in the art teacher's class. ('why did the chicken cross the road? to suck a dick.') middle school.
i had students serve detention for half an hour, and i always told them they could do one of three things: 1. read. 2. work on homework. 3. stare blankly at the wall. however, if the student chose option three, he or she could not lay his or her head down. invariably, students chose one of the first two options.
today, however, i was not in the proper state of mind to effectively make detention unpleasant, so i spent the next half hour leaning back in my chair, drinking a tepid cup of tea i had forgotten in gulps.
'have you ever listened to the ramones?'
'excuse me?'
he pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. 'have you ever listened to the ramones?' he repeated.
'oh,' i said drily, 'yeah.'
'i have a huge ramones poster in my room. i mean, it's so big next to everything else i can hardly think about anything else when i'm in there.' i had no idea why he was telling me this. he stopped and looked at me like he was waiting for me to respond.
after a few seconds, i sighed, not knowing what to say. 'yes, i do listen to the ramones.'
'oh.' he sat there in front of my desk for several minutes while i paged blankly through a discarded issue of the smithsonian magazine. i started to skim an article about a study that proved fish could feel pain. 'so what's your favorite song?' this kid would not give up.
'my favorite ramones song?'
'yeah.'
it has always somewhat annoyed me to cast an immediate value judgement without adequate forethought, so i paused for several seconds, looking back to my article. it wasn't until i was dismissing the student and he was walking down the hall before i called out after him, 'i wanna be sedated.'
driving home, i found myself ejecting mozart's requiem from my cd player and putting in a ramones cd that i had left in my car for some reason. all the way home i listened to 'i wanna be sedated' on repeat, loudly. in my apartment, i downed two tall glasses of fresh water before working on lesson plans. i read a book until ten, did some quick yoga, then went to bed.
the following day, early in the morning, i went for my usual run. again, i heard the violin and drum. i would hear them every day i ran, but only when i ran. thirteen months would pass before i would hear the music apart from my run, and when i heard it next, i would be sitting on a chair under a tree, holding a dying friend in my arms.
i had students serve detention for half an hour, and i always told them they could do one of three things: 1. read. 2. work on homework. 3. stare blankly at the wall. however, if the student chose option three, he or she could not lay his or her head down. invariably, students chose one of the first two options.
today, however, i was not in the proper state of mind to effectively make detention unpleasant, so i spent the next half hour leaning back in my chair, drinking a tepid cup of tea i had forgotten in gulps.
'have you ever listened to the ramones?'
'excuse me?'
he pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. 'have you ever listened to the ramones?' he repeated.
'oh,' i said drily, 'yeah.'
'i have a huge ramones poster in my room. i mean, it's so big next to everything else i can hardly think about anything else when i'm in there.' i had no idea why he was telling me this. he stopped and looked at me like he was waiting for me to respond.
after a few seconds, i sighed, not knowing what to say. 'yes, i do listen to the ramones.'
'oh.' he sat there in front of my desk for several minutes while i paged blankly through a discarded issue of the smithsonian magazine. i started to skim an article about a study that proved fish could feel pain. 'so what's your favorite song?' this kid would not give up.
'my favorite ramones song?'
'yeah.'
it has always somewhat annoyed me to cast an immediate value judgement without adequate forethought, so i paused for several seconds, looking back to my article. it wasn't until i was dismissing the student and he was walking down the hall before i called out after him, 'i wanna be sedated.'
driving home, i found myself ejecting mozart's requiem from my cd player and putting in a ramones cd that i had left in my car for some reason. all the way home i listened to 'i wanna be sedated' on repeat, loudly. in my apartment, i downed two tall glasses of fresh water before working on lesson plans. i read a book until ten, did some quick yoga, then went to bed.
the following day, early in the morning, i went for my usual run. again, i heard the violin and drum. i would hear them every day i ran, but only when i ran. thirteen months would pass before i would hear the music apart from my run, and when i heard it next, i would be sitting on a chair under a tree, holding a dying friend in my arms.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
the violin and drum
the sound of a violin and drum remind me of my morning runs. sleep would be clinging to my face like a cotton pillow when i would lift myself out of bed and stretch. my small white terrier would be under my feet, excited that her pack was up and alert. a long drink of water, perhaps some fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, would wash the last cobwebs away, and i would be out the door.
it was the coolest part of the day, the only tolerable part sometimes, too cold during other parts of the season. but mostly it would be cool like a piece of citrus fruit left out on the table overnight, the perfect weather for exercising, and the only time to go, as far as i was concerned; i hated people watching me, especially hypocrites who would sit on vinyl kitchen chairs on the patios in front of their apartments, the self-loathing coming from them like thick clouds of noxious gas i would have to run through. early morning was the only time for me. i would stretch my legs one last time on the steps leading down from the walkway in front of my apartment, and i was off.
probably the most peculiar thing about my runs was that i would never really go anywhere special, just around and around the perimeter of the complex, yet i would leave arizona altogether. i still remember the first time this happened: the clear stars in the sky, the sad moon, the soft lamps illuminating hibiscus, oleander, young palms, and a good amount of foliage that was unknown to me and lent to the sense of otherworldliness that would evolve as my heart rate increased and the sweat ran down the back of my neck and cooled. that night i ran around the apartment complex six times, which was about three miles. as i ran, my senses were heightened and i began to hear a violin and a drum, and i realized i was no longer in the desert.
awareness broke over me like cold water suddenly waking me from a long dream, and i realized the sounds i heard and the sense i got were not something outside me at all, but that i was a part of them. neither was it my running that created them, but it was the only way i became a part of the sound. the sound i heard was rich, not like a fiddle played jovially, but a deep, rich sound. by contrast, the drum beat rythmically, earnestly, but not impatiently. together, the music brought something that could be described only as a sense of complete awareness, yet complete contentedness, a spell broken only by the end of the run, the moist heaving of breath, the opening of my apartment door, and the rising of the sun.
i walked my dog, then showered, letting the water run down my back like rain. after a fifteen minute stretch, i hopped into my car, popped mozart's requiem into the cd player, and headed off for the school where i taught middle school reading.
i was chairman of our school's poetry club, and we were meeting this particular morning, so i decided to make a quick stop by the supermarket for some breakfast. i got a sack full of tangelos shared them with the students, having half a notion that tangelos were the product of some unnatural genetic experiment, which gave me an inexplicably guilty sensation as if the sweet juice running down our hands was somehow polluted. like antifreeze -- sweet, yet deadly.
it wasn't until halfway through first class period that i heard the violin again. this time there was no drum, but it was the same violin strain, very distinct. haunting, almost in the style of itzhak perlman, but sadder and more beautiful. it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. i was right in the middle of pointing out a context clue to one of my students when it made me stop and listen. the student looked up. she was unsure why i had stopped speaking, but didn't ask.
the music now was distant and more faint. i couldn't tell if the sound was coming from inside my chest or through the wall of the next room, but it was there, and the music was the same. i was touched. what was the last time i had felt like this?
it was the coolest part of the day, the only tolerable part sometimes, too cold during other parts of the season. but mostly it would be cool like a piece of citrus fruit left out on the table overnight, the perfect weather for exercising, and the only time to go, as far as i was concerned; i hated people watching me, especially hypocrites who would sit on vinyl kitchen chairs on the patios in front of their apartments, the self-loathing coming from them like thick clouds of noxious gas i would have to run through. early morning was the only time for me. i would stretch my legs one last time on the steps leading down from the walkway in front of my apartment, and i was off.
probably the most peculiar thing about my runs was that i would never really go anywhere special, just around and around the perimeter of the complex, yet i would leave arizona altogether. i still remember the first time this happened: the clear stars in the sky, the sad moon, the soft lamps illuminating hibiscus, oleander, young palms, and a good amount of foliage that was unknown to me and lent to the sense of otherworldliness that would evolve as my heart rate increased and the sweat ran down the back of my neck and cooled. that night i ran around the apartment complex six times, which was about three miles. as i ran, my senses were heightened and i began to hear a violin and a drum, and i realized i was no longer in the desert.
awareness broke over me like cold water suddenly waking me from a long dream, and i realized the sounds i heard and the sense i got were not something outside me at all, but that i was a part of them. neither was it my running that created them, but it was the only way i became a part of the sound. the sound i heard was rich, not like a fiddle played jovially, but a deep, rich sound. by contrast, the drum beat rythmically, earnestly, but not impatiently. together, the music brought something that could be described only as a sense of complete awareness, yet complete contentedness, a spell broken only by the end of the run, the moist heaving of breath, the opening of my apartment door, and the rising of the sun.
i walked my dog, then showered, letting the water run down my back like rain. after a fifteen minute stretch, i hopped into my car, popped mozart's requiem into the cd player, and headed off for the school where i taught middle school reading.
i was chairman of our school's poetry club, and we were meeting this particular morning, so i decided to make a quick stop by the supermarket for some breakfast. i got a sack full of tangelos shared them with the students, having half a notion that tangelos were the product of some unnatural genetic experiment, which gave me an inexplicably guilty sensation as if the sweet juice running down our hands was somehow polluted. like antifreeze -- sweet, yet deadly.
it wasn't until halfway through first class period that i heard the violin again. this time there was no drum, but it was the same violin strain, very distinct. haunting, almost in the style of itzhak perlman, but sadder and more beautiful. it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. i was right in the middle of pointing out a context clue to one of my students when it made me stop and listen. the student looked up. she was unsure why i had stopped speaking, but didn't ask.
the music now was distant and more faint. i couldn't tell if the sound was coming from inside my chest or through the wall of the next room, but it was there, and the music was the same. i was touched. what was the last time i had felt like this?
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