A Dog's Life

“POOOOOOOOOHBEEAAAAAARRRRPOOOOOOOOHIEEEEEEEEE”

Pooh Bear ignores my aria. Running off lead his nose has taken a powerful hit.  The scent is an amphetamine that pulls him through the understory of ferns, mountain laurel and the varicose roots of maple trees.  I can’t help itemizing a nervous inventory of tragic endings.

This is our favorite place, a wooded oasis in the middle of the city. We come here every day after I get home from school.  It has the authentic feel, the quiet isolation of a forest if only for the twenty minutes it takes to walk the winding path that overlooks the river.  A no man’s land separates the two groups of people who come here. The dog owners claim the ridge.

They say that pets resemble their owners, but Baby Bear does not look like me at all.  He is the Adonis of the canine world, big, blonde, and athletic.  I am short, swarthy and anxious.  My boy is sweet tempered and relaxed.  He is a patient nurse to my various neurotic deficits, generously yielding his comfortable body to the torments of my hugs and kisses.

He hates being white.  Running after his nose he finds oozing offal, and then luxuriates in a deep massaging roll.  Last summer the primitive canine within alerted him that there was a swamp at the bottom of the hill.   Some atavistic brain synapse took over and instantly he was on the lam.  I watched, horrified, as he careened down the hill, across the traffic jam of men cruising for a pickup near the river, and leapt into the yummy, mucky stew of city sludge.  I was in a rage of fear when I finally caught him.  At home I gave him – and the station wagon -- a comprehensive detox shampoo.  Afterwards I had a Martini.

Last week his nasal radar led him to a secluded grove in the lee of the woods, a rendezvous for male hookers.  The sex is a rudimentary version of being given a personal enema.  The urge to take a huge dump comes after. Sweet Pooh discovered a wet pile.  I smelled him before I saw him, smeared gooey brown, running back to my whistle, flashing a toothy smile.  When we got home, I gave him – and the station wagon -- a comprehensive detox shampoo.  Afterwards I had a Martini – just gin.

“POOOOOOOOOHBEEAAAAAARRRRPOOOOOOOOHIEEEEEEEEE”

He’s been lost for five minutes.  My brain has already concocted a hundred tragic endings.  Thank God.  Up the trail I spot his plumed tail waving like a semaphore in the midst of a convention of dogs out for their daily run.  But relief turns to mortification when I get close enough to see that he is humping a little male spaniel.  It’s ugly, an act of power and dominance.  My sweet Baby B.  Sometimes love is hard.

Back home we settle in to read the evening paper.  I nestle into one corner of the couch.  Bunny Bear stretches out on the remaining five feet, slaps his dewlaps several times, heaves a Buddha sigh, and dozes into contented meditation.

John Rivera is on the front page:

CITY YOUTH ARRESTED FOR GRUESOME MURDER. Police stopped John Rivera, age sixteen, and Donte Perry, age seventeen, when they ran a red light at the intersection of Admiral Street and Chalkstone Boulevard. The car was reported stolen earlier in the day. When the officers opened the trunk they found several body parts wrapped in plastic bags. The victim has yet to be identified. . .

There’s a photo on page four.  I recognize those icy, vacant eyes even though I haven’t seen him since fifth grade.  It looks like he has abandoned his body, and all that’s left is empty laundry.

I’m on the phone to Betty, my friend who teaches with me at Carleton Elementary.  The old wound, the searing pain, shoots through my chest point blank.

“Didn’t I tell you way back when that we’d read about that kid in a few years?  I predicted it.  It was bound to happen.”

I didn’t know.  I wanted to help.  I thought I could make the difference.

“He was already lost.  You couldn’t help him.  Nobody could help him.”

The other children never wanted to play with him.  He was so frail, so vulnerable.  Once I found him hiding in his locker.  He’d messed his pants.

“Believe me.  I had him in third grade.  Those cold eyes looked right through you.  Scary.”

He loved Pooh.  I had a picture of Pooh Bear on my desk.  One day he gave me a note with the most wonderful drawing of Pooh.  It said, “Dear Mrs. M., I am sorry I didnt do my homework.  The dog ate it.  Love, John.” He and I laughed over his little joke.  I loved that drawing.  I still have it.

“He was nuts.  Every kid in his family had a different father.  The mom used every drug on the street. Remember the knife incident?”

It turned out to be a broken nail file in his backpack.  It was so sudden, the change.  The kids complained about the touching, in line, on the playground, in the bathroom.

“It was beyond your control.  And, THAT day. . .”

THAT day he grabbed his crotch and pretended to urinate.  I told him, go to “Time Out.”  He freaked.  He was seventy-five pounds times ten of rage.  I was really afraid.  Desks, papers, chairs, everything went flying.

“. . . you did the right thing.  You evacuated the class.  You called the principal.”

He kept calling me a fucking bitch, kicking and punching me.  I wanted to hit him.

“With our school population, you’d have to be Jesus to save everyone.   Try to calm down.  You’re going to be all right.”

It was that restraint hold.  Mr. Franklin hugged John from behind so he wouldn’t get kicked.  That was when John really went ballistic.  By the time the police came, he was locked on to Mr. Franklin’s tie with his teeth.  They had to pry him loose.

“It was his mother’s boyfriend.  You didn’t know he was being sexually abused.”

The boyfriend, that predator, used the exact same restraint hold.

“They had to put him in handcuffs.”

How could this happen?

“They take and take to fill up the emptiness.  They suck you dry.  You can’t love all of them.  Dogs have it better.”

I cared for John.  I wanted to make a difference.

“You’re not to blame.  These children get lost in the system.

John was only ten, already dead and rotten. His immune system was compromised. He couldn’t fight off the sorrow and pain. They took him away. “Transferred.” He disappeared from my life, but not from my body, the torn rotator cuff, the migraines, the bruised soul.

“You have a migraine? You need to take care of yourself. Do you want me to come over? I’m here if you need me.”

When he attacked me I felt betrayed. I wanted to hit him.  It happened so fast.  Dark instinct. I hit him.  I can’t forgive myself.

The migraine is a serrated dagger slicing into my eyeball, dripping acid tears.  It co-opts thinking. It punishes me.  I can’t survive the guilt without it.  I can’t survive without my soft Bear.

***

Donte told him about the park.  He said, “Yeah, the river, right near the boathouse.  No problem.  It’s a fucking traffic jam.  Those fools are easy. They’d fucking pay you just to take a look.  Just watch out for the dog shit all over the place.  There’s a law says they should be on a leash.  I just bought these Nike Air Force Hi Supremes.  Those damn hound wiggers are crazy.”

John admired the blazing white mid-tops, the loose shoe laces, and Donte’s hip hop swagger.  Then he slipped on his headset.  Eminem’s rap music blared in his head.  They parked the car at the river’s edge and waited.

When I was just a little baby boy

My mamma used to tell me these crazy things

She used to tell me my daddy was an evil man

She used to tell me he hated me. . .

I’m ready to make everyone’s throat ache

You faggots keep egging me on

Till I have you at knifepoint then you beg me to stop?

Shut up, give me your hand and feet

I said shut up when I’m talking to you

You hear me? Answer me. . .

Or I’mma gonna kill you

You don’t wanna fuck with me. . .


© Eminem: Kill you