Walking the Dog (30 page)

“Has your puppy had his balls cut off yet?” asked another man. He was tall and wearing an undershirt and baseball cap.

“I bet he has,” grunted the fat man. “She looks like one of those lady murderers who cut her hubby's penis off.”

“Naw, she ain't never seen a cock,” the little guy chimed in. “She's a dyke. Wishes she had one.”

A very big drunk guy in jeans and a jacket roared with laughter for no reason I could tell.

I sank inside myself, ready for whatever was next, when I heard an ear-splitting whistle. Everything stopped. It had come from the woman guard. She was medium sized, black, and appeared fearless. She held up a can and showed it to the stumbling, confused men.

“You know what this is, cocksuckers?” she yelled. “This is pepper spray. You know how it burns, assholes? It burns like little tacks and coals and stingrays all over your body. It can blind you for days. So back up on the count of three, babies, or I'm gonna start spraying like you're mosquitoes.”

She counted off, and though the men spit at her and pretended to take their time, none of them tried to hit her or come closer. My male guard had his baton halfheartedly in the air, but he was the type who would easily sympathize with the men and let happen whatever they had in mind. He was the type who'd be raping newbies or crazy women in solitary.

When the last of the vehicles had taken off, I said to the female guard, “You saved me and I won't forget it. I wish I had something to give you.”

“Can I play with your dog?” she asked. “I know he's being trained for the blind and all . . . ”

Androcles had been panting with agitation, and so when I said, “Release, Androcles,” he jumped up and put his legs on my shoulders in a hug. “She saved me,” I said to him. “Kiss.” He jumped up and gave the guard a similar hug and then did his dashing, bounding, and leaping routine to let off the tension. “Come play,” I shouted. He bounded back, and he and the guard wrestled and chased and tumbled. She played tug-of-war with her glove, and the two of them kept going until the guard was out of energy.

As we walked back to my cottage, my lackluster male guard trailing a few feet behind, she said, “I have a Maltese, but I've been thinking about getting a bigger dog too. What breed is this one?”

“No breed,” I replied. “Just a fancy mutt.”

“Yeah, I've been thinking about a rescue,” she continued. “But I spend so much time around, well . . . ”

“Damaged goods,” I looked over at her. “You want something without scars or a temper or craziness.”

“Well, yeah,” she was embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“I don't blame you,” I replied.

The male guard snorted. “Damaged goods ain't the half of it.”

“Good morning, Buddy,” said the woman guard, turning to face him. “And thanks for all your help back there.”

“Whole thing's stupid,” he grumbled. “This place is 'sposed to be a prison. You know, lock up murderers? Not make us a petting zoo. You're all fuckin' nuts.”

He trailed off in another direction.

“I hate this place,” she muttered. “Guards as evil as the inmates. They got so much drug business goin' on back and forth you'd think it was South America. Everybody's got somethin' on everyone else, too. Blackmail city.”

I didn't ask her about herself. We reached my cottage.

“Made it out alive,” she smirked. “Next time we get some of them rich, bored housewives and their dogs with bows on their butts.”

“Listen,” I looked her in the eye. “You saved me. Thanks. You did. You saved me.”

“Nice to do the job for once,” she said.

She headed toward the main house to make her report. Then she turned around to look at Androcles.

“You give me a kiss,” she said.

“Go,” I whispered.

Androcles ran up to her and nearly knocked her over. He licked her face and put his nose on her neck. She laughed, got up, and headed out.

“I think he's a person,” she smiled at me.

I realized I didn't know her name. I guessed she didn't want me to. She probably knew mine. That night Androcles slept in my bed.

It was months and some seasons later when, after visits and tests, one day Phyllis just showed up. I saw her pull up in a van, which was odd. Androcles was massacring a stuffed rabbit Phyllis had bought him that played a squeaky outer-space version of “America the Beautiful” until he destroyed the little music box inside. Thank God. Phyllis called it imaginary aggression and said it was fine for this dog, who had one of the best temperaments she'd come across.

We went out to our bench. I don't remember if it was cold or hot. I was uncomfortable. My body felt bigger than itself and ached. “Down,” I said to Androcles. “Down, Buff.” He lay in front of me, but put his head on my feet.

“You know better than that,” I said to him.

“Let it be,” Phyllis said. She was trying to get comfortable on the bench, but she was trying to settle another discomfort as well.

“We all have our instincts,” Phyllis sighed. “Buff's leaving today. He's more than ready to go join us at the school for guide dogs. It'll be another eight to ten months for training, and then I'll match him with his owner. I don't give my puppy trainers advance notice because a lot of good work can get undone in two days of sentimentality, just letting the dog become a pet because you're sad.”

“Sad,” I said emptily.

“I hope you'll forgive me, but I have one of my workers clearing out his stuff from your cottage. We take it for the first period of adjustment to the new place, and then, when he's settled, we start him in an entirely alien environment. These creatures have to learn to adjust to changes very fast. The only constant can be none.”

“Yes, you've told me that,” I said.

“Now Carleen, darling—I have a question and you must answer honestly. What is the other name you use for Buff? For the forbidden ‘pet' relationship. I've known all along he has one name for you and Buff for everyone else. We can't take him further if we don't know every cheat and tiny bending of the rules.”

I was genuinely shocked that she'd figured this out, and it relieved me a bit to admire her professional side again.

“Androcles.” I looked down at him.

“You wanted to name him that first off,” she remembered. “What's it mean?”

I told her as best I could about the lion and the thorn and the paw.

“I do love those ancient fairy tales,” she said. “I wish I was better educated.”

I wished I knew nothing.

“So, did he pull the thorn from your paw?”

“Don't know,” I mumbled. I didn't want to talk anymore. “It's in pretty deep and there may be more than one.”

“Like I said, you've done a hell of a job.” Phyllis couldn't look at me. “I'm going to suggest to the warden that we set up a regular puppy school here. You'd run it. Show me the agility track—the one you invented.”

I took her to my secret park, and she took a maddeningly long time examining my jumps and turns and tunnels. She whistled.

“And he can do all this?”

“Flawlessly,” I answered.

“I'm going to take some of the ideas if you don't mind.”

“Could you go now?” I asked. I saw her van in the distance.

“He's gonna walk to my van with me and he's not allowed to look behind. So say your goodbyes now.”

“We don't have hellos and goodbyes,” I said. “Just go.”

She grunted and picked a harness out of her pocket. It reminded me of the type ancient slaves wore in pictures in history books when they carried rocks on their backs. He sat in his military position as she expertly snapped the halter on him.

“You'll be hearing from me. You have a gift. We'll see if we can get that warden to set up something.”

“One way or another,” I said.

I watched her lead Androcles toward the van, and he turned
his head and stared at me for a long time, but Phyllis didn't seem to notice.

“Phyllis,” I called out. “Phyllis Gelb.” She stopped. My shouting shook her up a bit.

“He broke training,” I said so she could hear. “He turned around. He looked at me. That's not the proper conduct. You have to start again.”

Breathing a bit hard, she brought him back to exactly where I was standing.

“Go again,” I said to Buff. “You know what you did. Do it like you're supposed to.”

He lay down and Phyllis did some of her own sounds and harsh commands. This time Androcles walked properly by her side and made no effort to turn around.

I headed back to my cottage before I could see her load him into the van. I don't remember what I was wearing, but I didn't take it off. My room was cleared of the rug, the dish, and his rabbit. I got into bed with my clothes on—maybe even my coat. I fell into a thick gray sleep. When I woke up I had no will to even sit up. I pulled the covers tighter over my head. For the next week, ten days, or two weeks, who knows, I stayed that way. I only got up to go to the bathroom, and that moment alone was so sickening and exhausting that I was propelled by a deep terror to get back into bed immediately. I had closed myself in so I wasn't surprised, and I didn't care, when I heard the guard breaking through my lock with his gun.

I stank. I felt the familiar shackles around my arms and legs. The mumbling and crying and whispering of the psych ward was memorized music. I knew when they were wheeling me toward ECT. Nothing helped. I had no longings, no fights. It would have been convenient to build up the energy to attempt suicide, but I appreciated being invisible and didn't want to
draw attention to myself. The female guards finally forced me into a shower and, when I washed myself, my skin felt like it was wailing. I asked them to cut off all my hair since brushing was unbearably painful.

I squatted on my bed and held my knees to my chest. I rocked back and forth, the autistic savant they always thought I was. The rest of the time I slept.

Sister Jean came to visit once or twice but I had nothing to say to her.

“You're grieving,” she said. “And because you're Carleen Kepper, your insides are acting out a Cecil B. DeMille movie. You're very dry on the outside, Carleen, but you have monsoons and tsunamis that crest up inside and take over. Stop now, or sooner or later we won't be able to pull you out.”

I didn't know what she was talking about, and I thought the poetry was trite. I just wanted to sleep. I didn't have any inner dialogue. It was almost silent inside. I was a stone.

Phyllis Gelb was brave enough to visit me. She glanced around as if she were in a pen of dogs way past trainable. Her hands trembled.

“We'll go to my bed,” I managed to say, and she wheeled me into the dorm, which wasn't much better, but at least you could pull a circular plastic curtain around the bed, which allowed a bit of privacy and kept out the noise. I stayed in the wheelchair—I was chained—and she sat on my bed. I wouldn't look at her.

“Wow, you've really lost it,” Phyllis said in wonder. “But you'll come back. We always do. Oh yes, Carleen, do you think a woman can look like this and not suffer constant humiliation? But you'll bounce back.”

She didn't know me.

“Do you want to hear about Buff ?” she asked casually.

I tried to yank myself from my wheelchair and go for her. She pulled out a little pink gun from her cleavage and aimed it at me.

“They didn't check deep enough,” she said. “I thought I might need this. They said you had moments of aggressive behavior.”

“Pink.” I was amused.

“Yes, my husband bought it for me for my birthday. I think it's adorable. But don't think it doesn't hit dead on at target practice.”

For the first time I really looked at her.

“Yes, there's a lot you don't know about me and vice versa, Carleen. We're complicated women both locked in prisons. Part of why you're here is my fault, you know,” she said. “I didn't prepare you thoroughly enough for the loss you'd feel when we took Buff. If you break the rule and fall too much in love, it's like a death. You fooled me. I thought you'd figured that one out. I didn't take into account that you're a lunatic.”

I smiled. Then I held back screams or sobs or whatever were being let loose in my throat.

“I had a long talk with Sister Jean and the warden. You're the best damn trainer I've ever laid eyes on. Your basic skills are A+. I think it's 'cause, aside from Buff, you have a kind of distant passion. You don't get caught up with humans. You don't need them very much. Also, Carleen, because of whatever is in your head, repetition soothes you. You can go for hours. I read something somewhere that repetition is what they call Zen. It gives you faith. Maybe your life, like mine, has had its disasters. But you can really take pleasure, real pleasure, out of small technical accomplishments. We thought when you get
outta the hospital that I'd bring up two dogs, ones with great potential, but troublemakers. You'll get a bigger space and you'll start over.”

“Never,” I muttered.

“Bullshit,” Phyllis shot back. “Here's what else we've got planned. Sister Jean, the warden, that Sam woman, and the board will choose a group of ten women and we're going to train them to raise puppies. Then I'll interview the women, and if I like 'em I'll match them both with a puppy.”

“Good luck.”

“You'd be surprised about human nature. Our best trainers are certified nutcases, but real kind and a lot more interesting than menopausal socialites.”

“Well, well, well,” I snickered. “I never took you for a bitch.”

Phyllis leaned closer to me. I thought for sure the springs would break.

“My first dog they took from me. Afterward I quit. Just quit. But what brings you back is not praising yourself for the good you did. The truth is, honey, what else is there to do? You could die. I guess. So go ahead. But training dogs beats the hell out of a factory life or a coal mine and you're cooped up here for—”