The Room (11 page)

And every day, or quite often many times a day, he would inspect their fingernails and their toenails. He would start with the fingernails, saving the toenails for last, squeezing them with a pair of pliers and rapping them with the butt end of his whip. And he measured them carefully, making notes in his little black book, to see how much further down they were worn. Sometimes he couldnt inspect them, or measure them too accurately because of the clotted blood and dirt so he cleaned them thoroughly with a wire brush, lashing the dogs repeatedly when they cried out with pain. And as he inspected and measured and brushed he wondered how long it would be before he could see a bit of bone thrusting itself through the mangled flesh. And, too, with each inspection he spent longer and longer on the finger tips saving and savoring the toes for last as a gourmet would relish each delectable bite of the entree while looking forward to the exquisite dessert that would be the culmination of the feast. He would crack the caked blood and dirt with the butt of his whip, one finger tip at a time, then peel and yank at scabs before wire-brushing and measuring and inspecting. Then a long thin needle would be pushed slowly into the tip of the finger until it hit the bone and the depth carefully measured. And then through the top of the finger where the nail had been worn away. And then when he had spent as long as possible on each and every finger tip iodine was poured slowly, drop by drop, on each one. He had to take proper care of his dogs. He didnt want them to get an infection. O, no. He wanted healthy dogs. He wanted his dogs to be able to frolic and cavort. Yeah, they should be able to traipse and romp over hill and dale. And too, if they didnt have strong and healthy front paws how could they dig for buried bones and cover their turds when they shit. When he finished dropping the iodine on the front paws, he stood for a moment and surveyed his animals with a smile of complete and consuming joy before once again kneeling and examining their hind feet. He would just stare at them for a few moments making a mental note of how far back on
the toes the skin was now starting to rip and tear. This examination took time to do thoroughly as there was much more to be inspected and measured. There was not only the wearing down of the nail and the tip, but also the wearing away of the skin on the joints of the toes.

No matter how they ran or tried to keep their toes off the ground it was inevitable they eventually would have to drag their paws over the gravel, the cinders, the glass, the concrete. He would watch them joyfully, timing them with a stop watch, as they ran, trying to keep the tender paws elevated, watching their faces contort with the sudden pain as they lost the battle. And the more he ran his dogs the sooner the battle of the hind paws was lost. At first he inspected them every few minutes to see how long it took for the hairs on them to be worn off. And when the paws were completely bald he made careful note of how long it took for the joint to peek through the scraped skin. And he took polaroid pictures constantly to see if the bone would really turn whiter with wear. And then with each running, more and more of the bones would be exposed and as he measured and noted and added with metric precision his stomach would glow as the figure increased. And then the needle where the nail had worn away and where the tip of the toe had worn away.

He also played a little mathematical game of trying to determine the ratio between the wearing away of the tip of the toe and the nail. From careful measurements he knew how much of the tips of the toes and fingers had been worn away and also how much of the nails had been worn away and, too, just how far away from the tip of the toe or finger was the edge of the nail. He could not develop a formula that would determine exactly what the difference would be, but he experienced great joy and stimulation in seeing just how close he could predict the measurements before each run. And naturally, as with the forepaws, the cracking and peeling of scabs and wire-brushing were done slowly, deliberately, and with great relish and joy.

Obviously the examinations were extremely painful and the fucking animals screamed and yelled until, with constant and considerate lashings, they learned to howl and yelp with great canine artistry. And too, they would jerk and thrash about so it was necessary to restrain them so the necessary and various measurements could be made
accurately. He employed various methods depending upon his mood. If he wanted to hear the yelping and howling loud and clear he would simply shackle their limbs to the floor of their kennel. That way they could constantly thrash about and howl and yelp piercingly, especially when slowly pricked with the needle. Naturally he was well aware of the danger of infection from needle pricks, especially tetanus, so he carefully heated the needle in the flame of a candle to be certain it was completely and thoroughly sterilized.

But there were times when he wanted a different sound accompanying his examinations so he added strangulation collars and attached the other end of their leashes to the wall. Then as they thrashed and yelped and howled the collars would slowly tighten and their music would be muted until with a sudden stab of pain there would only be a barely audible croaking deep in their throats. He would then stand and look at them as their tongues protruded and swelled and darkened, their eyes bulged with absolute and uncontrollable terror and their skin slowly turned blue. Then he would loosen the collars and start the process all over again. This was his favorite means of inspecting and measuring. He could slowly toy with their paws and see how long their howls and yelps would remain at their highest pitch and then he would see how long he could prolong it while the pitch slowly descended until he heard the ultimate croak from their throats. And there was also the added thrill of watching them twitch and writhe as their contorted bodies starved for air. And each time he loosened the collars he would measure the dents in their necks to see just how tight the collars had gotten. The ultimate goal was to see how far he could go without them dying. But he would have to wait to determine that, however. That would come if he ever tired of the game. Then he would simply let them die and then measure the dents in their throats and see how close he had come the previous times. Maybe someday he would just let one of them die and save the other one. But that was in the future. No need to worry about that now. There were many more games to be played and enjoyed.

And like all good dogs they should learn to beg for their food. How in
the hell do you teach such goddamn dumb animals to do anything. Well, I guess I/ll just have to start at the beginning. A little flogging and prodding with cattle prods should help. Now beg you sonsabitches. No. No. Not like that. He stood back and looked at them for a moment, shook his head then flogged them and prodded them in the balls with the cattle prods. Keep your hind fucking feet flat on the floor. Now bend your knees. No. No. For krists sake. He shoved the cattle prods up their asses and kept them there for many long, painful seconds. Keep them at a 45-degree angle. Goddamn stupid mutts. He shoved the prods up their asses and flogged them, then stopped and surveyed the scene for a moment, thinking. I guess youll just have to learn the hard way.

A wonderful surge of excitement flooded through his body as he made the preparations to teach those fucking mutts how to beg. They would know just how much to bend their knees and let their hands hang limply and get the proper mournful look in their eyes. By Jesus he would teach them.

His hands trembled with excitement as he twisted one end of a wire around their balls and the other end to an eye bolt in the floor. He then tightened the wire until their knees were bent at precisely the proper angle. Then he twisted one end of another piece of wire around their balls and attached the other end to the ceiling, tightening it until it was impossible to move ½ inch without feeling that their balls were being crushed in a vise. He walked around them as an art critic would a statue, studying every little detail of his work. His excitement was so great that he could feel his stomach trembling from his guts up to his throat. Yes, everything was ready. The knees were bent at just the proper angle and now he could concentrate on teaching them the proper attitude of their front paws, the proper attitude of the holding of the head and the mournful hound-dog look that should be in their eyes.

But first it might be best if they knew what it would feel like if they moved. He shoved the cattle prods up their asses and listened to them scream and watched their bodies twitch and struggle to find that one minute point at which the pain would be relieved. He screamed at them that they were dogs and were supposed to howl and whimper and not scream like men and jammed the prods deeper then flogged
them with the cat-o’-nine-tails until they started howling then stopped flogging and yanked the prods from their asses and stood back and watched the desperate twitching and jerking as their eyes bulged with the pain of their balls being twisted, the electric pain jabbing through their guts.

He sat on the floor in front of them so he could see their eyes bulge with pain, their tongues flop and the spit dribble from their mouths. He laughed and laughed, but not so loud as to drown out the sound of their howling. After many long and torturous years they found the position that relieved the pressure and pain. Their breathing was rapid and labored and he yelled at them to pant properly. He picked up the prods and their eyes started with fear and their tongues quickly hung from their mouths and they panted like hounds. Thats better. Thats the good dogs. He continued to sit in front of them staring at the wires and their balls. Then he noticed an almost imperceptible movement of their knees, as they strained to keep their painless positions, and his mouth tightened with joy. He noticed the straining and taut muscles and tendons in their legs and thighs and could feel the painful battle going on within his dogs as they strained to maintain the position, hearing their prayers that their muscles wouldnt cramp, feeling the endless time they were experiencing, as they prayed desperately that the wires would snap or that their master would die or go away and leave them alone. Praying for anything that would relieve their torment. And o god, it was good to feel their desperation and hopelessness. To see the pain not only in their eyes, but in the very flesh and muscle and sinew of their bodies. And the more he felt the painful immobility of their time, the more time, for him, was non-existent and sublime. And the more their guts were knotted and tortured with pain, the more his body felt weightless and free. And the more he watched them groveling in their hell, the more he embraced and caressed his heaven. He didn’t bother trying to think of new tricks to teach his animals. He was simply and fully content to wallow in his sublime joy as they wallowed in their endless and painful time.

But then his reverie was interrupted by the buzzing of a fly. He waved at it with his hand, but it kept coming, buzzing around his face until the spell was broken and he swatted at it angrily, cursing the
sonofabitch for bugging him. But then he suddenly stopped and broke out into a loud laugh that startled his wired animals and he laughed even louder as the look of pain on their faces was mixed with complete and utter confusion and apprehension as he stood up and told them you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar. He watched the contortions of their faces as his face broke into a huge grin and he stared at them for long moments, chuckling. I/ll be back in a few minutes, my mans best friends. Dont get lonely while Im gone. I wont be long. He laughed aloud and left the kennel, returning quickly with a jar of honey. He stood in front of them and held the jar in their faces, then took off the top and passed it back and forth under their noses. See? Honey. His grin was larger than his face as he stared at them, then slowly tilted the jar and poured honey over their balls, pricks. Its true. Believe me. Its really true. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar. He sat down a few feet away from them, then leaned back on his elbows and waited with the excitement of happy anticipation.

There was almost a gentleness in his smile as he stretched his legs out and tilted his head to one side and looked at their faces and into their eyes. And as he looked at the beautiful expression of terror on their faces he could feel the tension of their bodies. Every muscle, tendon and sinew straining with all possible power and control to remain immobile. He studied their faces and eyes carefully and minutely, digesting with every cell of his body the beauty he saw there. The most exciting beauty he had ever viewed. And they truly were beautiful animals. Their tongues were thick and wet and their panting was an extremely musical accompaniment to his excitement. And then over the deep and constant beat of their rapid panting there glided then soared the lyrical melody of a quartet of flies, their beautiful cello-like sound strongly punctuated by the bass accompaniment and their shimmering, iridescently lovely forms were watched with bulging and screaming eyes. Aaaahhhh … … such a wonderful and beautiful sight to behold. He started humming in a low counterpoint then relaxed beyond belief as excitement continued to beat through his body. His head swayed slightly and lightly back and forth to the music and then his face burst into an endless and complete grin as he
sang the words to his song – a trip to the moon on gossamer wings. He laughed and laughed as he sang the line over and over. He stopped laughing and sat up and looked at his animals and spread his arms. Its just one of those things. He laughed again, but quickly controlled it to a chuckle as he saw the flies zeroing in on the honey. Now the fun begins.

His face quickly hardened with intense concentration as he tried to observe every inch of his animals simultaneously. His eyes flew from face to body to crotch to legs then crotch then face, but whatever parts of their bodies he focused on he was afraid of missing something important in another part. He quickly eliminated the portion below the hips because he could feel the tension there, the jerking and straining. Instead he adjusted his vision to take in the area just below their balls upward, raising his sights occasionally to note the difference in their bulging eyes and gasping tongues. He thought briefly of trying to measure the bulge of their eyes and tongues, but dismissed it for fear of missing something important.