Of Mongrels and Men
The volume knob on your car radio is so finicky it’s almost impossible to turn it in small increments while driving, especially in such a torrential downpour. You can barely see through the windscreen – it looks like you’re underwater – but you keep driving in the direction of home. You’re so close, don’t pull over. You’ll be alright. The warmth of your heater, comfort of your couch, food in your fridge and the thought of dry clothes urges you to push on through what seems to be the heaviest downpour you’ve ever witnessed in your life.
On a dark street two blocks from your house you notice a dog slowly limping its way across the road in front of you. You don’t have time to react in any helpful manner and your front left headlight smashes into the dogs hips. The first thing that comes to your mind is that old rule they teach learner drivers about not swerving to avoid animals on the road. Fuck that. If you had noticed it earlier you definitely would have swerved around the poor
thing. That being said, in these conditions you most probably would’ve ended up slamming your car into a telegraph pole, or injuring yourself, but at least the canine would’ve been fine. You pull your car to the side of the street and grit your teeth ready to face the grim reality of death forced by your own hand.
The dog isn’t entirely dead yet, but it isn’t in a good way at all. Its back legs are immobile, both presumably broken from the impact. Its torso seem to be pretty twisted but the front legs are fine. The dog used them to pull itself up onto the nature strip of the nearest house. You assume the dog’s owners live there from its longing looks towards the front door. ‘Fuck,’ you think, ‘I’m gonna have to go and fucking tell these poor bastards that I’ve just killed their bloody dog!’ The thought sickens you a bit, but not as much as the thought of leaving the animal there to die in pain, cold and wet, alone in the gutter. If something like this happened to your dog you would want to find out whatever you could, even if it was horrible. Closure can be therapeutic and sometimes nothing can be quite as torturous as wondering what really happened – it always leads to overthinking and the worst of expectations. Even if that worst case scenario turns out to be true, if you know the truth it can really help you overcome adversity and move on – most of the time anyway. There can be nothing worse than the unknown and the unanswerable. Sometimes the simple truth is all that’s needed for somebody’s life to go back to being as normal as it can be after they’ve been through some kind of traumatic event.
You grab one of your old shitty towels from the back seat and wrap the dog up in it. He winces and makes an odd low-pitched grumbling sound that is about hallway between a growl and a sigh of relief. The dog stares you in the eyes as you place it down into your tray. His eyes are so deep and black and fearful. He looks up at you through fading eyes, coated in shiny tears that disappear amid hundreds of raindrops, and you can tell that he knows his time is up. Dogs often carry a melancholy look on their faces, but to you this dog looked like he was in true misery and anguish. They remind you of the eyes of your grandfather as he lay unconscious in his deathbed. His mouth had ceased to work weeks earlier, but his mind was still as coherent as ever. Everything he wanted to say he said through his facial expressions, and with every visit you could read every ounce of pain that he was feeling just by making eye-contact with him.
Tearing your gaze from the dog’s, you avert your eyes to the front door of the house where you assume the owners live. This is really gonna fucking suck! No lights are on. You think that maybe nobody is home, but thinking about it won’t help. You know what it is you must do. You knock on the door, as politely and quietly as you feel necessary at this hour and with the given circumstances. Not a sound is produced inside the house. You wait a minute, listening intently, then knock again, harder this time. Again, nothing; nobody is home.
As you walk by your car the dog begins to wince. He tries to move but is obviously in such an immense amount of pain. The thought crosses your mind to kill it – end the ceaseless misery that you’ve accidentally caused it. You brush off the idea, thinking that there is still a possibility of the dog surviving, especially if you find its owners soon. They could take it straight to a vet and they could fix him, quite possibly. Maybe you should take him to the vet… right now! You decide to try one more house and if they don’t own the dog, you’ll take it to the emergency animal clinic. There’s one about half an hour’s drive away that is open all night.
The house next door has a dilapidated front yard filled with rusted metal parts of old cars and bikes and assorted white goods. It seems like the type of house that local kids create scary rumours about and are afraid to go anywhere near. It also seems like the type of house owned by a neglectful type of
person who may let their dog out onto the street to get hit by a car. There is a light on inside though, so you hope there must be someone awake inside.
After tapping your knuckles on the frosted glass panelling you start to make out a dark shape becoming larger through the glass. A man opens the door. His grizzled features are still prominent in the darkened doorway, and for some reason the man doesn’t seem at all startled by a stranger coming to his door in the middle of the night during the storm of the season.
“What can I do for ya, mate? Ya car broken down or somethin’?” he asks while he looks over my shoulder at my car with its rear door open.
“Not quite, mate,” I say, steeling myself in preparation for relaying this awful information to him. “Ah, listen. I’ve hit a dog. A male. Dark. Do you own him? Is it yours? He’s…”
“Shit,” says the man, turning to grab a thick coat from the rack next to him. His haste tells you that this is the dog’s owner. A part of you is relieved and ready to get out of there. There isn’t much else left for you to do but hand the poor thing over to him. That’s what you think anyway.
The man doesn’t appear too upset or surprised at the sight of his dying dog wrapped up in a towel in your tray.
“I’m so sorry, mate,” I say placing my hand on the guy’s shoulder gently. “This torrential fucken downpour and the darkness I just couldn’t see shit. He was walking across the road, really slowly. He didn’t even try to avoid me!”
“Did you try and avoid him?” This question scares you a little but I decide to lie to him, making it seem like you put his dog’s life above your own.
“Of course I did but it just wasn’t enough. I’m lucky I didn’t hit anything else really.” You immediately regret saying that.
The man looks at you for a few long seconds and you half expect him to throw a punch at you or something. But he doesn’t seem angry. You can’t tell what he’s feeling, the guy’s facial expressiveness is like a blank canvas. “Ya know, if y’about to hit a dog or cat or somethin’, drivin’, ‘specially on a night like fucken this,” he points to the sky, “ya not ‘sposed to swerve, mate. You coulda killed yaself. Ya lucky ya didn’t!”
“Well, I was only crawling along too. Couldn’t see shit ‘cos of the rain.”
“Yeah… Righto.”
You struggle to understand what this guy’s deal is. Is he pissed off? Is he sad? Is he used to this type of stuff happening to him? Does he just want someone to talk to? So many questions are rushing thought your head when the man hands you his dog in your towel.
“C’mon then. We better go do something with him.”
A bit dumbstruck and more confused, you follow him, carrying the dog while it drips blood onto your pants and shoes. It’s still alive, but barely. You think it’ll probably die pretty soon if you don’t do anything about it.
“Is there a vet or anything open at this time?” you ask but get no answer. You know the answer, actually. You follow the man around to his backyard and approach his shed. He goes in but before you can follow he emerges holding a shovel. Shit! You realise what it is he wants you to do now. “Ah, mate. He’s not dead yet. Why don’t we take him to a vet?”
“None open,” the man says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spitting over his shoulder. “He won’t make it anyway. All’s we can do is put him out of his misery, mate. Here, lay him down over here.” The man points to the only spot of grass in the entire yard over behind the broken, steel clothesline. It occurs to you that the spot of yellow grass may be dead because it was the dog’s favourite spot to piss. This saddens you, bringing the death of the dog, and its previous life, right to the forefront of your thoughts. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. Your guilt and sadness triple in an instant, yet are still dwarfed by the confusion and fear that are now dominating your brainwaves.
Apart from the small grassed area, the rest of the yard is entirely dirt, or mud, really. The rain had filled every hole with dark, dirty brown puddles. You can’t help but step ankle deep
into a few of them – the mud filling your boots and socks. The scene resembles a recreation of no-man’s land from a Hollywood war film. If it wasn’t for the grey, timber fences, the old man, the dead dog and the lack of explosions you might swear you were on the frontline at Gallipoli. To be honest, you would probably rather be there than in this backyard with this man at this moment.
You lay the dog down on the wiry, yellow grass, desperately trying to avoid its eyes. You can’t. The pain you felt through them is just as present as before, but there is something else that hits you like a solid kick to the coccyx. It is fear – pure, unbridled, existential, catastrophic terror. This dog is deathly afraid of death. It must know it is about to die.
Handing you the shovel the man makes a strange sound that you think is him holding backs tears. You shoot him a sideways glance but he is already glaring at you with a look of condemnation that says, ‘you killed my fucking dog, arsehole, now the least
you can do is bury him.’ You pierce the earth with the blade of the shovel and stomp down on the back of it as hard as you can. The second time you do this the man stops you, putting his strong hands on the handle of the shovel.
“You reckon he wants to lie there in such immense physical pain and watch you fuck about digging his fucking grave? Do him, mate. Do him a favour.” The man says this to you in a voice that you hadn’t heard come out of his mouth before. He sounds like a different person – more calm and relaxed; excited, even. He gestures towards the dying dog with his head and shuts his eyes letting out a deep exhale through his nostrils.
You walk over to the dog and stand above him. Raising the shovel above your head you feel a little bit weak at the knees but you prepare yourself for the necessary action. You made your bed, now you gotta lay in it.
With a solid thwack , the head of the shovel comes down on the dog’s, caving in its skull and sending a couple of small brain and bone fragments around the yard. “Don’t worry about them, mate. We’ll just chuck ‘em in the hole with it.” You wonder whether the man referring to his dog as ‘it’ is a way for him to disassociate himself with his deceased friend, or maybe he’s just one of those owners. To be honest, he freaks you the fuck out and all you really want to do now is get home and get drunk to forget about all of this shit.
“What was his name?” you ask.
“Ah, Rex. Poor old Rex, ay.”
The dog is dead. Rex is dead. Now, the hole must be dug, and it’s quite obvious that this guy wants you to dig the grave as well. Is this the normal etiquette for having run over someone’s pet?
It takes you a good half hour to dig a suitable sized hole. The rain has softened the ground so that it wasn’t the hardest hole you’ve ever had to dig, but the circumstances have obviously skyrocketed this situation to one of the strangest. The man left you outside alone for a good twenty minutes while he went inside to do god-knows what, emerging with a cup of tea for himself – no hint of an offer to make one for you. When he tells you that the hole’s big enough you hand him the shovel and ask if he wants you to place the dog in the grave for him. The look on his face says, ‘of course, you idiot. Haven’t you realised already that this is all you? It’s all your fault, so you kill the dog, you dig the hole, you put the body in the grave and you bloody well bury the thing.’ Of course, you think. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll do it.”
You look at the man before dropping the first shovel-load of dirt onto his dead dog. You think that he may want to say something, but he doesn’t even look upset. He sips his tea, blowing on the top the way a flute player purses their lips to funnel the air into the instrument. The steam acts ferociously in the cold air of the night, rising up through the sideways-falling sleet that has remained constant throughout the entire burial process. After a nod you know the man is ready and you begin to shovel the pile of dirt you’d just dug up back on top of the dog.
A few more shovel loads and you’ll be out of there; home, showered, warm, and into some night-cap whiskey. The thought excites you so much you begin shovelling faster, disregarding the man’s hurt feelings for the first time of the evening.
With the final load of dirt on top you pat the mound of mud down hard with the bottom of the shovel. A little too hard, you think, and you look at the man who doesn’t
show any sign of disrespect. He has a semi-pleased look on his face that makes you feel sick. “Sorry again, buddy,” you say to him as you walk towards the side gate, feeling his eyes on your back as you exit with the staggered haste of an injured bank robber.
The next day you find yourself driving down the same street, as you usually do most days. You think to yourself about how annoying it’s going to be to remember last night every time you drive down this bloody road now. As you approach the strange stranger’s driveway you notice a kid posting up lost dog posters.
You pull over.
A few possible scenarios rapidly rush through your mind but nothing is clear or obvious. Part of you wants to knock on the guy’s door to see if he can explain anything, but the rest of you never wants to go anywhere near that house again. Then you notice the kid’s dad walking up to him, a stack of posters in his hand.
You exit your car and approach the boy and his father. They both appear quite intrigued by your presence.
”Ah, g’day guys. How’s it goin?” They don’t reply, the dad just nods politely, obviously wondering whether I had anything important to say to them. “Shit. So you lost your dog have ya? That’s a bugger. What was his name?”
“Jimmy,” says the young boy with a sniffle. He seems overwhelmed with sadness and simply cannot look at you directly. A rush of anxiety washes over you.
“Poor old Jimmy, ay,” you manage to say as you consider turning around and going back to your car. Would that look weird? All of this looks weird - this whole entire situation. You can’t look either of them in the eye. You stare at your feet, only now noticing a tiny, little droplet of dried blood on the grey curb. This must be where the old man handed the dog wrapped up in your towel. Everything looks different in the light.
“I know how you feel. Nothing worse than losing a loving pet like that. Just terrible.”
The dad pipes up. “I don’t think we’ve lost him. He’s run away before and he always comes back. He’s probably down the park or something. He’ll be alright mate.” The dad rubs his son between his shoulders and the boy gives his father’s leg a sheepish hug, hiding his face in shyness.
“Have you asked ‘round the neighbours?” You point at the old man’s house. “They might know something.”
“Yeah well we’ve asked a couple but nobody has seen him. This bloke here,” the dad raises his arm towards the house you’d just gestured at, “hated Jimmy anyway. He’s a bit of a mean old mongrel, isn’t he?” He pats his son on the head who continues to embrace his father’s leg in confirmation. “No point asking him. We got faith in these posters, don’t we?” He rubs his sons back again and the boy replies with a nod of his head and a pout of his lips.
“Well, I only live round the corner. If I see him I’ll be sure to give you guys a ring. Don’t worry about that. Ya reckon I could take one of them with us?” You bend down and reach out a hand to the boy’s posters. He hands you one. “Thanks mate.” Get out of there as quickly as you fucking can!
“Good on ya, mate. Cheers for that,” says the dad to your back as you briskly walk back to your car. You can’t help but feel crippled with guilt – a quality that has remained prominent within you since you hit the dog.
Walking back to your car you take a closer look at their poster. You need to have a closer look to be sure that it’s the same dog. Jimmy and Rex may not necessarily be the same dog. You also think that inspecting the poster may make you come off as more genuine and concerned.
Please help us find our dog. Ran away last night during the storm. Answers to his name ‘Jimmy’ which is written on his collar. Please call 0413 759 383. Thank you.
You stew this over all day at work. You can’t remember ever feeling so guilty, frustrated and confused about anything in your life – apart from your ex-wife, but that bitch is another story. You need closure. You need the truth, and you know that the only way to find out is to dig the dog up and have a look at its collar, apart from confronting the old bloke about it, but that thought terrifies you more than exhuming the dog’s corpse. What the fuck have I gotten into here? Jesus Christ. Am I fucking dreaming or something?
After work you return to the street. The lights in the old man’s house are on. You sit and wait, drinking whiskey to muster up some courage. You consider knocking on his door and telling the guy that you dropped something important, like a watch, into the hole before filling it up. Fuck that! He’d see right through you. He can’t be home when this happens. He’ll hear the digging. He must be out of the house if this is going to happen.
You light up a smoke and sit in the still silence. The anticipation mounts and mounts, and you almost pack it in
and head home about twenty times until at around 1am you see the old man’s door open. He emerges with a big bag in his hand and something else you can’t quite make out. You slink down and hide, peaking one last look as he walks away from you. A leash, why the fuck is he carrying a leash with him? Disposing of fond memories, maybe?
It’s time to go.
You sneak around the back as stealthily as you can. The backyard looks different to the previous night. For one thing it is dry, but you also notice that the old man has tried to tidy up the mound of dirt you created last night. He has spread more dirt around and shifted a few things. Without the thick muddy holes and rain puddles you struggle to remember where your hole was exactly. When you find what looks like the right mound you start digging. The ground is a lot firmer and harder to dig up than last night.
It doesn’t take long for you to find the dog. You can see its fur amongst the dirt. I didn’t realise thing’s decayed this quickly. The things almost a bloody skeleton already. You brush off as much dirt as you feel necessary and find the dog’s head. You remove the collar. ‘Joe-Joe,’ it says. You drop the shovel and almost fall right into the hole you’ve just dug. Joe-Joe has light-brown, fluffy fur. Joe-Joe is almost fully decayed. Joe-Joe is not Rex… or Jimmy.
A new possible solution to this sequence of events creeps into your mind but before you can properly consider that you have to find Jimmy. You move a few metres and dig another hole. This time you must dig deeper, but you do find a dog. Another dog. Another different dog. This dog has no collar and is almost completely decomposed. It definitely could not be Jimmy. You move closer to the clothesline and dig again, as fast as you can possibly manage. If this guy comes home now, you may be the one ending up buried in the next hole.
The third hole uncovers Jimmy. His smashed-in head makes you think about the boy, probably sound asleep next door, having a pleasant dream about his missing, faithful friend. You reach for the collar. ‘Jimmy,’ it reads.
Fuck… me…
You hear a door shut from out the front and you drop the shovel again.
The faint sounds of an excited dog’s claws scratching on tiled floor rings clearly in your ears.
15TH MAY 2015