The Dogs
Joel was five, maybe four at the time. I was ten-ish. This was when we lived in the first house in Tai'tung. The gaudy duplex that looked like an owl from the front. The one that was just around the corner from the Zhang's home.
It was a hot steamy day, the kind that made your eyes feel glazed and your limbs feel heavy. A day that blended seamlessly into the perpetual Taiwanese summer. With air so humid and so thick that you felt the need to chew it up and swallow in your efforts to breathe. There was no breeze and the little yellow BMX that I pedaled along on was travelling too slowly to create its own. It felt as if my head were inside a fish bowl full of steam. The brake levers rattled with every bump and little droplets of sweat fell from my nose and chin and splattered on the foam pad that protected my posterity from the savagery of the steel that ran from the seat to the handle bars.
I was inching my way down the broad un-trafficked road that led to the hospital, the road that was flanked by the abandoned market to the west, and the typical tangle of chest-high grass and mounds of rubble to the east. My eyes were heavy with the strain of existence in the merciless sun, and so they watched the asphalt sliding by beneath my pedalling feet. So it was that the black blur came as something of a surprise. I snapped to attention, squeezing the brake levers and skidding sharply to the right in an effort to avoid colliding with the mass of black fur. Pebbles and dust scattered as my bike ground to a halt next to a pair of mutts whose butts were spot-welded together. They had foolishly chosen to breed in the middle of the road at noon on asphalt that was hot enough to sear the conscience of a saint. The female looked up at me with eyes that bespoke her woe. So typical in dogs. Such impulsive creatures with such short memories. They suffer the consequences of their actions in such a bewildered state. The male looked back at me over his shoulder and the mirage from the asphalt put tears in his eyes.
I had seen dogs locked in this configuration many times before. In fact, it was not an uncommon sight in that part of the world where dogs roamed the streets like vermin; dirty, diseased, and often starving. Not an uncommon sight and yet it was still so compelling. And for a kid as oblivious to propriety as I was, such occasions offered the opportunity to roll up the sleeves and get an intimate look at the business of procreation. I remember the first time that I stumbled across a pair of mating dogs. I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking at and to be sure, I had walked up and inspected the mechanics on my hands and knees as a crowd of snickering locals looked on.
My father had conveyed the facts of life to me one evening after I had asked some very difficult questions at the dinner table. Questions prompted by a very confusing discourse that I'd engaged in with some of the local children earlier that day. A discourse marked by a barrage of confusing hand gestures and a steady stream of very graphic depictions etched in the dirt with a stick. "The man has a penis and the woman has a vagina," my father had read to me that evening from the book that I had never seen before. And upon that first encounter with breeding dogs, I had discovered a very amusing corollary. That is, dogs have penises and vaginae too. And fueled by a euphoric sense of accomplishment, I had produced a stick and attempted to pry the dogs apart, whereupon I was forced to conclude that a two-headed dog made for a rather intimidating foe.
I was done with silly experiments. And on this day, it was enough to stand by and watch. So I stared until gripped by a sudden impulse. I turned my bike around, and set out at a mad pace for the house. The dogs watched with dreary indifference as I vanished in the undulating shimmer of the mirage.
I skidded to a halt in front of the house and jumped off of the bike without even bothering with the kickstand. "Joel!" I yelled as I burst through the front door. "Joel's outside. Don't yell in the house!" My mother scolded. I turned and dashed back out the door. Joel stood on top of a flint boulder the size of a washing machine that rested at the far end of the "yard." The "yard" was a rolling lumpy field of waist-high grass that was partitioned by foot-worn paths that zig-zagged among the mounds. Joel was the self-appointed supreme commander of the world. He stood atop the rock in his camouflage cowboy hat that tilted back high on his forehead. He wore a tattered Houston Oilers T-shirt underneath his camouflage vest. Both were tucked into his camouflage shorts that were held up by an elastic belt that had snagged a belt loop or two. He had completed the look with a pair of red rubber rain boots and a plastic UZI submachinegun that was almost as big as he was.
"Joel," I shouted again. He eyed me imperiously from his perch. Evidently, he was in one of his more serious moods. I quickly realized why this was. He had mounted the boulder in an effort to escape the neighbor's billygoat whom he had provoked by prodding it with the barrel of his gun. He had been on the rock for some time. The billygoat had lost interest long ago, but Joel wasn't taking any chances. "Come here," I shouted and motioned to him with my hands, "hurry!" He took one long look at the goat, jumped down and stumbled through the grass in his frantic four-year-old run. His dirt-smudged face was all that I could see. He scowled with his eyes as he ran. Joel was never scared. It made me smile. He was only four but he was already pretty much the man.
He arrived out of breath. "Get on." I said as I picked up the bike. He complied with a shrug, shoved his gun down the front of his pants, and clambered up onto the little luggage wrack behind the seat. I strained at the pedals and the bike teetered back and forth as I struggled to maintain balance while we got going. "Where we goin'?" he asked, a minute or two after we got under way. "I gotta show you something." I replied.
The dogs were there, just as I had left them. They looked up with glum disinterest as we pulled up in front of them and climbed off of the bike. Joel and I stood side-by-side, staring at the spectacle. I studied his face for a reaction. He was grim, but I could see the faintest indication of an inquisitive luster in his eyes. Joel never indulged anyone with a reaction. He was born with an indefatigable determination to refuse to be caught off-guard. He soaked up the scene for a minute or two before pulling his UZI out and making as if to prod the bizarre creature with the barrel. "Nuh uh," I planted a hand against his chest and shook my head. He glared up at me and shoved the gun back down his pants. Together, we stared for a minute or two before getting back on the bike and heading back home. Not a word was spoken but I could tell that he was deep in thought. I knew he was perplexed and I gleaned a fair amount of satisfaction from this.
Later that evening, as my family sat around the dinner table eating, the usual conversation dwindled. Suddenly, Joel's eyes went wide as if he'd just remembered something very important. I knew what was coming and I gulped hard. I opened my mouth to cut him off but it was too late.
"Today I saw a long dog with two heads and a bunch of legs." He said excitedly. My parents slowed their chewing as they processed the statement. It didn't take them long to figure out just what he had seen. Mom and Dad stopped chewing and stared at each other uncomfortably. Dad cleared his throat loudly and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Tea almost exploded from Em's nostrils as she cupped her hand over her mouth.
Poor Joel mistook all of this for incredulity and he looked at me angrily as if to say: "You saw it too! Tell them!" I shook my head. "No!" I said to him emphatically, using only my eyes. He looked around. His rage was building. "JOSH SHOWED IT TO ME!" He screamed. I slumped down in my chair until my eyes were level with the table top. Dad glared at me with the unmistakable sarcasm that said: "Thanks a lot, Josh!" He didn't like reading the book. And Joel was about to get the book.
It was a hot steamy day, the kind that made your eyes feel glazed and your limbs feel heavy. A day that blended seamlessly into the perpetual Taiwanese summer. With air so humid and so thick that you felt the need to chew it up and swallow in your efforts to breathe. There was no breeze and the little yellow BMX that I pedaled along on was travelling too slowly to create its own. It felt as if my head were inside a fish bowl full of steam. The brake levers rattled with every bump and little droplets of sweat fell from my nose and chin and splattered on the foam pad that protected my posterity from the savagery of the steel that ran from the seat to the handle bars.
I was inching my way down the broad un-trafficked road that led to the hospital, the road that was flanked by the abandoned market to the west, and the typical tangle of chest-high grass and mounds of rubble to the east. My eyes were heavy with the strain of existence in the merciless sun, and so they watched the asphalt sliding by beneath my pedalling feet. So it was that the black blur came as something of a surprise. I snapped to attention, squeezing the brake levers and skidding sharply to the right in an effort to avoid colliding with the mass of black fur. Pebbles and dust scattered as my bike ground to a halt next to a pair of mutts whose butts were spot-welded together. They had foolishly chosen to breed in the middle of the road at noon on asphalt that was hot enough to sear the conscience of a saint. The female looked up at me with eyes that bespoke her woe. So typical in dogs. Such impulsive creatures with such short memories. They suffer the consequences of their actions in such a bewildered state. The male looked back at me over his shoulder and the mirage from the asphalt put tears in his eyes.
I had seen dogs locked in this configuration many times before. In fact, it was not an uncommon sight in that part of the world where dogs roamed the streets like vermin; dirty, diseased, and often starving. Not an uncommon sight and yet it was still so compelling. And for a kid as oblivious to propriety as I was, such occasions offered the opportunity to roll up the sleeves and get an intimate look at the business of procreation. I remember the first time that I stumbled across a pair of mating dogs. I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking at and to be sure, I had walked up and inspected the mechanics on my hands and knees as a crowd of snickering locals looked on.
My father had conveyed the facts of life to me one evening after I had asked some very difficult questions at the dinner table. Questions prompted by a very confusing discourse that I'd engaged in with some of the local children earlier that day. A discourse marked by a barrage of confusing hand gestures and a steady stream of very graphic depictions etched in the dirt with a stick. "The man has a penis and the woman has a vagina," my father had read to me that evening from the book that I had never seen before. And upon that first encounter with breeding dogs, I had discovered a very amusing corollary. That is, dogs have penises and vaginae too. And fueled by a euphoric sense of accomplishment, I had produced a stick and attempted to pry the dogs apart, whereupon I was forced to conclude that a two-headed dog made for a rather intimidating foe.
I was done with silly experiments. And on this day, it was enough to stand by and watch. So I stared until gripped by a sudden impulse. I turned my bike around, and set out at a mad pace for the house. The dogs watched with dreary indifference as I vanished in the undulating shimmer of the mirage.
I skidded to a halt in front of the house and jumped off of the bike without even bothering with the kickstand. "Joel!" I yelled as I burst through the front door. "Joel's outside. Don't yell in the house!" My mother scolded. I turned and dashed back out the door. Joel stood on top of a flint boulder the size of a washing machine that rested at the far end of the "yard." The "yard" was a rolling lumpy field of waist-high grass that was partitioned by foot-worn paths that zig-zagged among the mounds. Joel was the self-appointed supreme commander of the world. He stood atop the rock in his camouflage cowboy hat that tilted back high on his forehead. He wore a tattered Houston Oilers T-shirt underneath his camouflage vest. Both were tucked into his camouflage shorts that were held up by an elastic belt that had snagged a belt loop or two. He had completed the look with a pair of red rubber rain boots and a plastic UZI submachinegun that was almost as big as he was.
"Joel," I shouted again. He eyed me imperiously from his perch. Evidently, he was in one of his more serious moods. I quickly realized why this was. He had mounted the boulder in an effort to escape the neighbor's billygoat whom he had provoked by prodding it with the barrel of his gun. He had been on the rock for some time. The billygoat had lost interest long ago, but Joel wasn't taking any chances. "Come here," I shouted and motioned to him with my hands, "hurry!" He took one long look at the goat, jumped down and stumbled through the grass in his frantic four-year-old run. His dirt-smudged face was all that I could see. He scowled with his eyes as he ran. Joel was never scared. It made me smile. He was only four but he was already pretty much the man.
He arrived out of breath. "Get on." I said as I picked up the bike. He complied with a shrug, shoved his gun down the front of his pants, and clambered up onto the little luggage wrack behind the seat. I strained at the pedals and the bike teetered back and forth as I struggled to maintain balance while we got going. "Where we goin'?" he asked, a minute or two after we got under way. "I gotta show you something." I replied.
The dogs were there, just as I had left them. They looked up with glum disinterest as we pulled up in front of them and climbed off of the bike. Joel and I stood side-by-side, staring at the spectacle. I studied his face for a reaction. He was grim, but I could see the faintest indication of an inquisitive luster in his eyes. Joel never indulged anyone with a reaction. He was born with an indefatigable determination to refuse to be caught off-guard. He soaked up the scene for a minute or two before pulling his UZI out and making as if to prod the bizarre creature with the barrel. "Nuh uh," I planted a hand against his chest and shook my head. He glared up at me and shoved the gun back down his pants. Together, we stared for a minute or two before getting back on the bike and heading back home. Not a word was spoken but I could tell that he was deep in thought. I knew he was perplexed and I gleaned a fair amount of satisfaction from this.
Later that evening, as my family sat around the dinner table eating, the usual conversation dwindled. Suddenly, Joel's eyes went wide as if he'd just remembered something very important. I knew what was coming and I gulped hard. I opened my mouth to cut him off but it was too late.
"Today I saw a long dog with two heads and a bunch of legs." He said excitedly. My parents slowed their chewing as they processed the statement. It didn't take them long to figure out just what he had seen. Mom and Dad stopped chewing and stared at each other uncomfortably. Dad cleared his throat loudly and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Tea almost exploded from Em's nostrils as she cupped her hand over her mouth.
Poor Joel mistook all of this for incredulity and he looked at me angrily as if to say: "You saw it too! Tell them!" I shook my head. "No!" I said to him emphatically, using only my eyes. He looked around. His rage was building. "JOSH SHOWED IT TO ME!" He screamed. I slumped down in my chair until my eyes were level with the table top. Dad glared at me with the unmistakable sarcasm that said: "Thanks a lot, Josh!" He didn't like reading the book. And Joel was about to get the book.
posted by Reckless at 7:18 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home