Carmen Dog (11 page)

Pooch rushes to the writing desk for more paper and the lewd pen. “Kind sir,” she writes, “for I know you are kind, I have seen it and felt it.” This is not exactly true, but better to err on the side of expecting virtues than the opposite, in the hope of making them come true. “Surely a man of your sensibilities will not ask of me what I have no right to give since it is certainly the property of the man I may one day fall in love with. As the root yearns toward the stalk, as the bud yearns toward its flowering, as the chrysanthemum as well as the delphinium...."

"Enough!” the fat man shouts, reading over her shoulder. “You cannot wriggle out of it. You ate, therefore you promised, and I can see you are not the sort to break your word."

With that he snatches the pen from her and, leaning over her, breathing, deliberately it seems, on the back of her neck, he draws a quick yet practiced rendering of a strawberry. Clearly he is a man well versed in many arts. “But let some others convince you,” he says. He opens a book and reads: “'only there, do hearts less etiolated by the thousand little worries of vanity,' vanity it says, my dear, ‘find delicious pleasures even in the lesser varieties of love,' lesser varieties, it says. ‘For I have seen far more furious transports and moments of intoxication caused by a caprice,' caprice it says! ‘than were ever brought about by the wildest passion here in the longitude of Paris.' So. No more stalling. Come, both of you. Take your aphrodisiacs."

Pooch decides there is nothing for it but to do so.

The fat man turns out the lights (anyway, it is now dawn) and, with a little Baryshnikov flourish, leaps onto the bed. “First you two be Tristan and Isolde for a while,” he says, “and then I'll be Queen of the Night. I want to save myself for last."

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And so, after all, his acquaintance with the languages of dogs, frogs, and birds was of as much use to him as if he had been a man of great learning.

—
Grimm's Fairy Tales

Pooch does not want to sink into licentiousness. Perhaps if she comports herself with the utmost decorum.... But already the aphrodisiac is beginning to take effect and Pooch's mind turns, of its own accord, to the pale, thin young man with tan eyes and tan hair who must have been the one singing the part of Escamillo. She feels sure that, were he here, he would be as kind to her as her beloved master used to be. Hadn't she seen that in his eyes? Hadn't she smelled it? Why, even the faint whiff of sexual interest? Perhaps he lives nearby and might rescue her any minute now. She would say yes to him. Yes, yes, yes, and yes, she thinks (remembering Joyce's
Ulysses
).... But Pooch knows this is only a silly wish that cannot be.

Several little yelps of passion now escape her in spite of herself. Quite uncouth, really, and then she, along with the other two, falls across the king-sized bed in a semiswoon, her master, the pale young man, the dark, evil (or perhaps only misguided) doctor, and even the psychologist, all swirling together into a single sexy being.

Meanwhile, at the little opera house on Third Avenue, they have found the rolled-up blue smock with what looks like blood on it and have turned it over to the police, whom the pale-eyed young man has just reluctantly told of the young thing at the stage door dressed in what he now realizes were bits and pieces from the cast-off costumes of
Cavaleria Rusticana
; and the doctor, with bandage on neck and shoulder and looking quite out of character in sneakers and sweatshirt, is skulking about in an entirely different part of town ordering every creature he sees, from Pekinese to canary, to take him to their leader and to be quick about it. At the New York City Opera they have just lost another top soprano, who has run off with a trumpeter swan; and in government offices as well as in institutions of higher learning, secret meetings are in session this very morning on the topic of motherhood. What, for instance, are the alternatives to it should worse come to worst? A decision has already been made to outlaw from the human race all creatures except primates (and of those, only the ones who have passed a certain level of expertise) in order to preserve, as well as possible, future generations from contamination with inferior and outlandish genes. It's a question of priorities, and for once motherhood and related topics seem to be at the top of the list, though it's true they are hoping to find ways of eliminating it altogether. Already research is being done not only in
in vitro
fertilization but also in the coupling of the germ cells from the male only. The present problem would be solved, then, by simply going around it. In the future one would not need to create any humans (so-called humans, that is, for a great deal of doubt has been cast on the status of women as human beings all through the ages of course, but now in particular) ... at any rate, one would no longer need to create beings with two x chromosomes at all.

And at this moment the president is preparing a talk for television to be aired that very night on the need for control—control in all its myriad forms. Control of self first, of course, for if men cannot control themselves then who can? Second, control of mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, and assorted pets. If all men become responsible for their unruly kin, the basic problem will be solved. Rebellious and grotesque relatives must be caged one way or another, fenced off in wilderness areas or confined to attics, kept out of sight at the very least. Last, and most important of all, of course, is control of the world in general. Masters must be masterful. Governments must remain adamant. And the president will make it perfectly clear that the first priority is not, after all, the question of motherhood, for that question is being solved this very moment by the best research teams in laboratories all across this great land of ours as well as all across other lesser lands; no, the first priority is the question of control. We need have, he will say, no fear that the researchers will fail, and so we dare risk everything.

All this while Pooch, though she could be said to be completely out of control, has managed to get through to early afternoon with her virginity intact, partly with the help of Chloe (a masterful and graceful contortionist) and partly because they are all three exhausted long before any such climax is called for. Pooch does learn a lot, though, that she has not even suspected before. Knowledge that may stand her in good stead later on, though she hopes she will be able to use it with someone for whom she has some real feelings. She had not been aware until now, for instance, of the exquisite sensitivity of the breasts, and especially had not been aware that the nipples of the male are, or so it seems, as sensitive as those of the female; nor had she realized the potential for pleasure of the backs of the knees, not to mention the toes and the bottoms of the feet. She also had not realized the many ways that music, ribbons, belts, pepper, and guacamole could be used.

At last, around one in the afternoon, they all three fall asleep, strewn every which way across the bed, Chloe with her arm around Pooch, the fat man's fat leg across both of them, his head on Chloe's back between her shoulder blades. He is now wearing nothing but a black leather posing cup with a large zipper up the center (zipped, as of now) and several heavy bracelets and, of course, the key around his neck. Chloe is wearing a great deal of jewelry. Pooch is wearing the same fringed scarf and the beads and earrings she came in with, though nothing else. There are bruiselike kiss marks on the bodies of both young females.

Of course they are no sooner sound asleep than the baby begins to cry. Pooch drags herself out from under the other two to go see to it, but the baby, usually so easy to calm or to distract, will not stop crying. Pooch wonders if perhaps the sleeping potion disagreed with it. The fat man groans with rage. Chloe lets out a couple of howls of the sort that only a Siamese can make, which set the baby off all the louder. There is no place to go but the kitchen, but now the baby is yelling so loudly that, even with the door shut, it's too much for the other two. The fat man pulls off his key, hands it to Chloe, and pushes her off the bed with his feet. “Get that bitch and that brat out of here,” he tells her.

Chloe is, at once, wide awake, her eyes calculating slits, a slight grin at the corners of her mouth. She gets Pooch and the baby out of the kitchen (also grabbing a half pint of cream, a stick of butter, and a small container of smoked oysters). They dress quickly. Chloe, hiding her jewels under a high-necked white dress, looks as though she has stepped straight out of the pages of
Vogue
. All the while the baby (stiff with rage or stomachache, hard to tell which) is screaming and the fat man has a pillow over his head. Chloe unlocks the front door and then locks it carefully behind them and puts the gold chain with golden key around her neck, dropping it under her dress with the rest of her jewelry.

"Are you interested in universal questions such as the ultimate fate of creatures like ourselves?"

Pooch nods vigorously
yes
, but then motions to the crying baby.

"Come on, then, or we'll be late. I saw a flier about it. Perhaps if I give the baby some butter when we get there. Anyway, one of us will be able to go and maybe we can take turns."

The motion of their walking, the sights along the street, and the fresh air all seem to calm the baby, but only a little. It still cries vigorously, and yet looks out at everything.

Back at the opera house on Third Avenue a meeting is about to take place. Representative females from many parts of the city as well as from New Jersey, Westchester, Long Island, and even a contingent from Baltimore, are gathering. Pooch and Chloe find that there is a place to drop off children, and the baby no sooner sees the other children than it stops crying and begins to shout enthusiastically, “Bop, bop, bop!” Pooch is rather upset to see that, when faced with a choice of snacks including sunflower seeds, sardines, and dog biscuits, the baby chooses the dog biscuits. She is wondering if she is a bad influence on it.

After seeing that the baby is settled and happy and gnawing its biscuit, Chloe and Pooch, not sure that they really should be there, hurry into the theater and sit in the back row at the side.

The stage is quite different from what it was when Pooch crept in and watched from the wings the day before. Now there is a large green banner across the top with spcac on it. Just as the pound is now in the hands of the men, the spca has been taken over by the females and is now known as the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to All Creatures. (Pooch guesses instantly that that is what it stands for.) Bide-A-Wee, a sister organization, operates a Long Island retreat and rest home for those who have exhausted themselves in the service of their cause, though there is some risk of picking up distemper there if one hasn't had one's shots. Also their animal cemetery is one of the few places where females can be buried without question because these days the regular cemeteries won't allow females unless it can be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that there were no animal qualities creeping out in them.

"Does the female have a soul?” is discussed from many a pulpit these days. Sermons are preached to an almost-all-male congregation, for the females seem to have lost interest in everything but the quality of the earth under their feet and their own fascinating bodies, or so the men say. Also, according to the men, the females sometimes even look up at the stars with equanimity as though the universe were the most natural thing in the world and as if the stars belonged to them. But this is a dreadful denigration. The females have, if anything, the opposite point of view. They believe that the stars, if they belong to anyone, certainly belong to the men, or to other higher beings.

Chloe and Pooch hunch low in their seats and try to look inconspicuous, but of course many notice them and wonder who the two beautiful young things are, so unlike each other both in dress and manner, one so feline and so
Vogue,
the other so canine and so gypsy, yet here they lean their heads together, dozing in spite of the uncomfortable seats.

Suddenly everyone stands up and begins to clap in all their various ways. If they can't clap, they stamp and they all shout out. Pooch, half asleep, wonders why they seem to be calling out, “Rosemary, Rosemary!” Can they really be saying
Rosemary
, or is this part of her dream? Pooch stands up with the others, still groggy, and is shocked into complete wakefulness. There, coming out on stage, are not one but several Rosemarys, eight of them to be exact ... eight doctor's wives, one of them more hunched over than the others, and, even so, much larger. This one comes forward to center stage and breathes into the microphone in asthmatic groans audible even above the racket. Slowly she straightens to her full six feet six. Her gray clothes split apart down the middle, and as they fall to her feet she pulls up under her chin and lifts off the Rosemary mask. She is still, somehow, Rosemary. One can tell it's basically the same person. Whoever the others are, one knows that this is the one to whom the original Rosemary face belonged and upon which the others are modeled; but what a Rosemary! This is Rosemary the abominable. The abominable snowman ... or, rather, snowwoman. Savage, silvery white, and abominable, but abominable in all the best ways: abominable to contemplate, abominable to meet in the mountains as well as on the streets of the city,
wonderfully
abominable and on their side! Now she is naked (that is, she is wearing nothing but her heavy fur) except for a green, tan, and brown camouflage vest full of pockets. All the pockets are, obviously, stuffed. She raises her arms above her head for quiet.

Pooch is barking joyously, for the first time not ashamed of her animal sounds, for in this place, and next to Chloe's caterwaulings, hers seems as appropriate a sound as any other. Besides, they are all sisters. They are in this together and here it clearly doesn't matter what sort of beast you are, or came from, or will one day be. How wonderful, Pooch thinks, to be whatever one really is, even if half dog and even if something of the savage wolf, as has proven to be the case with her.