‘A Dog’s Wish’

Tammie Birdwell came into her passion for photography late in life. She found photography and was diagnosed with autism around the same time. She is self-taught and she gets better every day.There is so much beauty in the world, she doesn't have a niche.

A Dog’s Wish

How the stars prick the sky, shredding its blue-black comforter, each competing for sparkles. Leo on his haunches. Proud as ever. And at his heart, winking, is the brightest star. It’s tranquil all by itself, like me. Ares, the lamb, won’t show himself till winter; I’ll greet him when he comes. The brilliance of an ink sky, speckled with eyes. On this hill I dream. What an amazing invention the universe truly is. Sweet spring lingers before my nose and I deeply inhale. What more to say? No, I will not ruin this moment with more terms, more words and abstractions that amputate reality. No artificial frames for you. You must imagine it; if you wish to box up such a majestic experience with words, well then, be my guest. Me? I could sit here and stare all night; and most likely I will. This nightscape is not silent; howls punctuate the pulsing of crickets. My gaze sinks to the large and awkward cross below, proclaiming its stature above the diverse headstones.

Oh how they miss out, cocooned in their domiciles, like stunted caterpillars. Never transforming. Like a complacent zombie hoard, stiffened in their unachieving rigor-mortis homes and apartments. I’m transfixed by the winking treasure above, while they sit there on their couches, bathed
by the screen’s soft blue pulse. Still, perhaps even with all my freedom, I am not so different. I hunger. They hunger. I am attracted to beauty and warmth as they are in their lucid moments. And we dream. That’s what connects us—our dreams.

The food they leave out for me is good, I suppose. And dead. I prefer the thrill of the hunt. The chase. The giddy feeling of conquering my prey, standing over them, winded, panting, but high on adrenaline and life! How delicious to sink my lengthy teeth into an artery, to feel the warm uneven jet of salty thickness splash my muzzle. And how my tongue races to the rescue like an ambulance, always arriving just in time to assist in the cleanup.

They named me Rusky and this is my story.

The school bell rings, signaling our obedient walk to our classrooms, our stations. Here in my homeroom with the other level threes, we should be able to sit through the first lesson by now. It’s supposed to teach patience and obedience. We must sit, soundless, whimperless, for fifteen minutes. Torture, we used to call it. But all in all it’s not so bad. I don’t think any of us care much anymore for the concluding treat. I won’t deny them, but couldn’t they spring for something healthier? A buddy of mine told me they have organic treats in the private school up the street. Homeroom is still torture for some...

Our days proceed from course to course: Recognition of Keywords (including our names. Stupid! We all know our names); Premise Walks for Pairs (walking us through the grounds on leashes with an animal we typically don’t get along with); Automatic Sitting (sitting when our lead sits); Community Commands (including some real winners like “Make friends!”); Navigating Distractions (walking past various “distractions” [fire hydrant, unleashed squirrels, other animals...] and testing our reactions—this is one of the tougher classes). Humans think they’re so superior because they’ve trained themselves to hold up their purposeless noses, listen to fancy classical music and not give in to temptation. A friend, the same friend who’s treated to organic snacks, just started a class in

Epicureanism—something about focusing desires, avoiding pain and trusting the senses; now that’s something I can get behind. What’s the point of all this mental and physical stiffness, stubbornly avoiding pleasure?

Our school’s main purpose is to birth a real-world lions-and-lambs reality. In addition to dogs and cats, we have squirrels, a toad, panther and tiger. I know, it’s hard to believe, but we are part of this project, a project to demonstrate love, or at least tolerance, among “unreconcilable” differences. Most
of us know it isn’t really possible, not the way humans imagine it, but I still like it here. I don’t skip school, like some. But still, there’s a certain foul arrogance among our humans. I guess I should be proud that I’ve made it to level three. Marco is still at level one, but I’m confident that he’s ready to
pass to level two. I feel it in my bones.

Tigro’s a level two. He’s a beast, literally. I don’t see him ever making it past level two. Any distraction sends him mad; what an animal.

There are things I can’t do, but it’s more accurate to say I won’t do them. I don’t want to achieve level four. The level fours think they’re so superior. They get along, I guess. But let me tell you, they have some serious psychological issues. They can’t get excited about anything. Like big furry zombies. They can wait all day, in each other’s diverse company, listening for every sound until they hear their master’s command. No, I play the game. I do just enough to get by. I show them I’m making progress and then just as they’re about to send me to level four, I do something bad, like shit on the doctored lawn.

Humans feeling the need for us to get along says so much more about them than us. I mean, really—what does it say when you need to see an animal submit before you, repress his desires. How does that serve, affect, a human ego?

At lunch we break for the supervised courtyard. Marco sees me and scrambles over. He wants to play. He always wants to play; that’s why he always gets into trouble. A branch between his teeth protrudes nearly a foot from either side of his snout. He’s slavering, nearly knocking over classmates first on this side then that, as he bounds toward me. He’s a beagle and not all there; I don’t like to admit that. He invariably stops himself by plopping down his rear, now skidding across the manicured lawn, just like his butt has sprouted a pair of wheels (I think he’s secretly scratching his rear).

His owners feed him way too much, leaving his bowl out night and day. He’s way too dependent on his free food and his body confirms it. They say pets look like their owners, but it’s only because humans shape them in their own image. Don’t laugh. It’s tragic, really. Anyway, Marco doesn’t have the discipline to stop eating. If it’s within sniffing distance, his body stiffens and there’s no stopping him; believe me, I’ve tried. But he can be stopped. Just like he’s being stopped now. It’s Tigro of course. My stomach curls inward when I think of his wide furry face, his long haphazard whiskers—spiders frantically attempting a jailbreak from his meaty head. And Ribbity stands by; always grinning. The demonic duo. I feel sick and my nose goes dry. Tigro—who enjoys seeing us shake and shiver and writhe in black-and-white pain, and sometimes we wet ourselves on the waxed school hallways.

Tigro’s breath stinks to high heaven. Chronic Halitosis, they call it. But what a clinical, safe word for such putridity. It’s a lesson in positive thinking (or being utterly oblivious) that he somehow gets away with this flaunting of his foul internal world, spilling out into the common environs, like an infected physical appendage. As dangerous as a nuclear weapon. If Marco or I possessed breath with such an otherworldly stench, it would be the walk of shame for us—day in and day out. Nobody would let us forget it.

I pity Marco. I’ve been there under Tigro’s hot and heavy death-reek panting, just like poor Marco is now. Tigro has him pinned against the base of a wide elm, just out of sight of our trainers. Marco doesn’t put up a fight; he never does. Now that he’s pinned against the tree he falls over, all fours sticking up as if he’s praying away a ball from hitting his face. Marco’s wooden bit has been replaced by a lolling tongue; it’s all placation now. His nose is animated and twitching and he’s begging Tigro with his eyes to just please let him be. He can’t get any lower to the ground. I can barely stand the tension. I wet my nose; it’s hard to describe the scent of this kind of fright, but you can think of it in parts metallic, acrid and putrid. I’m not foolish enough to move against Tigro. I just want this to be over; something tells me to wait it out. Be patient and “wait,” just like they’ve trained me as a level
three.

“Ribbity, don’t you think Marco needs to learn a new lesson today?” Tigro says. He has an audience; all of the domesticated level threes and fours stand around doing nothing at all. But we’re all listening with perked ears and sniffing for updates. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.

“Well?” says Tigro, his stripes flashing in the sunlight.

“I think he does,” says Ribbity, with a voice not entirely convincing.

“Well now. I love when we’re in agreement. If you think he does, then show us,” says Tigro.

There’s a pause, broken only by a squeal from Marco. Ribbity’s bulbous eyes dart to something imagined in the distance; he doesn’t want to be here either. Tigro gently places his mouth around Marco’s right outstretched forepaw, and begins to exert pressure. Marco cries out. I utter a sympathetic yelp from the sidelines. Marco squirms and attempts an escape; Tigro catches him by the scruff of his neck. “Now you,” he says.

With that, Ribbity, who now demonstrates how well he responds to commands, begins to secrete—a little at first—a milky white bubbling substance that we all know as bufotoxin. This is expressly against the rules of the school, by the way; this could seriously injure or even kill Marco. If the trainers knew this was taking place, Ribbity would be kicked out of the school immediately; he knows this, and is willing to risk it, apparently for Tigro’s approval and love. The milky white substance foams from his chubby glands, creating a comical image—the froth just behind his eyes gives him a sick grandfatherly appearance. He turns his right side menacingly toward the supine and captive Marco.

“Do it. Do it. Do it!” The level-one and -two cheers grow. The scent of Marco’s palpitating terror is sticky, overwhelms my muzzle and nauseates me. Just as Ribbity begins to rub against the terrorized Marco, Brian—a trainer—runs over.

“What in good God’s name are you doing?” he asks.

We scatter. I look to the trees. I cry softly; I may throw up. With all my level-three training on getting along with my fellow animals, I was powerless to help my friend. I retch in a patch of new tulip bulbs, nearly throwing up. I don’t want to face Marco. How can he still call me his friend? I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with my head buried under a patch of freshly-dug earth.

I’m paired with Lucy on our premise walk. She’s one of the exceptions. My blonde fur contrasts so beautifully against her body of night.

“Tigro wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she says.

“What? You know his father is Beelzebub himself,” I say.

“I know what I know; I possess excellent intuition. Everyone tells me that,” Lucy says.

“But you’re new. You don’t get it. Yet.”

“Oh, I get it,” says Lucy. “My owners always tell me about my extraordinary native understanding of things.”

Owner. I would never in a million years call Daniel my owner. She’s already internalized all of this. But I can’t help staring at her fine black feline face, and her svelte black tail. I pick up my back leg and scratch behind my ear; I realize I do this in uncomfortable moments, or when I’m aroused. Lucy is led away by a trainer. I watch the sultry way she switches her strong tail back and forth as she walks.

An amazing panther to be sure. Everyone says as much.

It’s my duty to walk Marco home. I avoid what happened at lunch entirely. I tell him we’re going to take a detour today. We’re going to get happy, I say. He doesn’t know what I mean, but follows me just like he always does, just like he never saw me standing at that elm watching his nightmare and not even lifting one paw to stop it.

“Keep Out. Danger!” the sign reads.

“Jump,” I say. He looks at me sheepishly. “Go ahead.”

I jump first over the chain-link fence and after some cajoling (I say I’ll give him one of my non-organic treats tomorrow), he jumps, ungracefully, over the fence, striking one of his back paws against the metal, causing the fence to sing. We saunter deep into the construction site, passing concrete remains
and a mostly-broken facade of bricks, like a spellbound standing carcass.

“I don’t think we should be here,” says Marco.

“Relax,” I say. “Nobody’s here. The workers never work past three o’clock on weekdays. Anyways, I think we both need an escape. Trust me, you’ll feel better.” I want to give him this gift;yes, and it will make me feel better about myself.

Marco follows me, head nearly dragging the dusty earth, glancing up at me with wide eyes of fearful questioning. We get to our destination. The sweet smell of benzene wafts up to meet our snouts from a leak in a pipe.

“Smell that little angel dust, don’t you? Isn’t it just like heaven?” I say.

Marco grins. “Reminds me of lavender.” He sighs.

“Yeah, I know. I could sniff this all day. Right?” I smile. “Tell me, Marco. How can zombies have such good teeth?” I ask.

Marco cocks his beagle head, as if to say WTF?!

I repeat. “No, really. I’m serious. How is it possible that zombies’ teeth can be so perfect?” I realize I’ve cocked my head as well, mirroring Marco’s statueism. Neither of us move. It’s like an old Western doggy showdown. I’ve never liked uncomfortable silences, so I continue. “Their bodies completely fall apart, but their teeth are so strong?! Wouldn’t they be more like geriatric patients, shuffling aimlessly, gumming and drooling their victims into submission, like a bewildered pack of rabid grandmas?”

Marco’s head cocks again and says, “It’s not the teeth, it’s their jaw muscles that would fallapart.” He stares at me. I realize he’s entirely correct. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Right. It’s the jaw muscles. Right, Marco.” I fall over, grinning.

We continue sniffing in silence. Marco lies down next to me and we settle into our own separate dreaming. We must have fallen asleep as the night now bleeds through and obscures our surroundings: enormous pipes strewn across the sandy ground; a bulldozer; numerous planks and bundles of equipment. I feel the darkness closing in. I hear the cacophony of Tigro and Ribbity, and wonder if I’m still dreaming. Even the way they talk is grotesque; Tigro can’t help spitting with any enunciation. I give Marco a look to be still. This no longer resembles a construction site, but rather a graveyard. It must be the light playing tricks, but I see tombstones ringed around us, blocking our escape. Home is distant. I recall another exit. Marco follows, obediently. I soon realize I don’t know where I am. We’re lost. I feel the worry and fear that’s crept into my German Shepard bones.

“Oh! We need to go down there,” says Marco, snout working overtime. I’m unconvinced, but I don’t have a better plan. We cross a stream and enter a dense patch of wood, along an overgrown path. Owls hoot and crickets pause their oscillations as we pass. A fox screams in the distance. Something smells familiar. When we exit the trees I realize he’s right. He actually knew how to get us home!

Marco saved us. As he’s walking, I lick his nose repeatedly and excitedly to show my deep appreciation and newfound respect. As he continues walking it seems he’s grown a few inches. It turns out Daniel, my owner, didn’t miss me. We’re no longer permitted to live in the same building as our owners, but I’m used to it. I collapse in the backyard as if I’d been there the whole time.

This must be one of his busy days.

“Hey boy. Did you walk that poor Marco home again?” says Daniel.

I look at Daniel with understanding eyes. He continues, “Did you take special care of him? We all know he’s a special needs doggie, right?” I feel bad for Marco. How did he ever earn such a misguided reputation?

Daniel enters the house. I hear the screen door clap the wooden frame. And then there’s silence. I’m soon fast asleep.

The next day the animals talk about a party that happened the night before, at Ribbity’s house in the woods. Or, rather, word is Tigro had the party at Ribbity’s house in the woods. The house apparently is wrecked. I go to Marco’s house.

“Did you hear about the party?” I ask.

“I did hear about it. I saw Lucy earlier; she went,” says Marco.

“Ah. OK,” I offer.

“She said they trashed the place,” says Marco.

“I heard. Hey, let’s go check it out. Let’s see what a mess it is. You know Ribbity is just freaking out right now. Wouldn’t you want to see that?”

We saunter over to Ribbity’s house in the woods. Even from a distance we see Ribbity hopping frantically all over his yard. His house is not trashed; it’s demolished! I was never too impressed with his house anyway—made of large rotting logs. It’s always been shabby—various growths all around him. But hey, I guess it works for him. I’ve seen him at night, all snuggled up in there, his limbs tucked under his pudgy body, his deadly bufotoxin glands resting. But that was during more peaceful, restful times. Now, he’s hopping mad. So upset that he doesn’t appear to know where he’s hopping or what he’s hopping on. With every jump he breaks off another remaining piece of his rotting-log house, cursing on every third hop. It’s quite cathartic to see, at least for me.

“Hey, Ribbity. What happened?” I ask.

“Leave me alone,” he says. “This is what happens when you try to be nice and generous. What a mess. And do you think they cared at all in the morning. Why No! Of course not. They all suddenly had to get back home for something important. I can tell you yesterday that they didn’t have any damn thing so important going on. Now, I have to clean all of this up, and rebuild my house! This is the last time I’m ever doing this, ever ever again! Do you hear me? Have I made myself quite clear?”

“Clear as a whistle,” I say.

Ribbity just looks at me, glances at Marco, and deflates. His scent begins to change. “I’m sorry. I’m terrible,” he says.

Marco, always one to avoid conflict, says, “That’s OK. Really. I know you didn’t really want to do that yesterday.”

The silence is unbearable. I feel that Ribbity’s on the verge of divulging something secretive and important. I’m not disappointed.

“You’re right, Marco. I didn’t want to do it. I’m such a coward around Tigro; I can’t help it. It’s really bad,” says Ribbity. “I’m trying to do better.”

“I get it,” I say. “I also just stood there yesterday. Marco, I’m so sorry too.” It feels good to commune in this humble honesty.

“It’s OK guys. Tigro’s just not to mess with,” says Marco. An idea strikes me. “We may have a way to solve this. What if the three of us stand up to him?
Unified. Maybe then he’ll get the message that his campaign of violence is unacceptable.”

“Or maybe he’ll chew us and spit us out one by one,” says Marco.

Ribbity mulls it over. “Not a bad idea,” he says. “Let’s give it a shot.”

At school on Monday, I’m filled with giddy confidence. This will be the day we solve our problems. We’re going to stop Tigro’s endless run as bully-of-the-year.

At lunch the bell rings and we rush out into the courtyard. Marco has another stick in his mouth, awkwardly trying to run and hold it simultaneously. When I turn I see Tigro blocking my path—wide, angry, impassable.

“Do you want to repeat for me what you told Ribbity yesterday?”

“What?” I say, my confidence slurping backwards into a microscopic hole I didn’t even realize existed. “Nothing. I said nothing.”

“That’s not what Ribbity said. You mean to tell me you didn’t say anything about turning against me?” Tigro says. His long whiskers twitch. I’ve been outed, but I resolve not to tell a lie. “You know, you are a terror to everyone here. Do you realize that?” I tell him.

“Lucy likes me,” he says. He knows this is a stab in my heart.

“It’s just because she’s new,” I say.

“Do you think you can really stand up to me? I mean it’s like you’re a comedian all of a sudden.

How about if I stand up to you? How do you feel about that? Yeah, I like your idea, Rusty. Let’s make this fair. How about you stand up to me. And then I’ll stand up to you. Let’s see what happens if we make this even-steven.”

I see his claws in full protrusion; it’s all slow motion now and I’m powerless to make it stop.

Tigro wastes no time. He slashes my nose. The razor sting is unbearable. My eyes are so filled with liquid I can’t see anything. I feel the warm blood droplets. Now it’s running fast over my snout, down my blond fur. I’m not thinking; I run away yelping and crying. Brian embraces me.

“What happened, boy? Did you get into a fight? What happened?”

Why do humans always say shit like this. No, you idiot. I didn’t get into a fight. I just got my ass kicked! I say this to no one.

“Who did this to you?” asks Brian.

I look at him with a look of incredulity; I’m able to make out some of his face, my vision slowly returning. But I’m angry and ashamed. He knows very well who did this to me. There’s only one asshole that could have done this. Let me give you a hint, he’s a big fucking Tiger in a lion-lambs fantasy school filled mostly with dogs! These are the times I sincerely wish I could communicate with humans through speech. I would lay into Brian so badly. My god, the shit we have to put up with as animals.

Brian temporarily bandages me and sends me to the infirmary for treatment. They stitch up my nose. They give me extra treats (still not the organic tasty kind). They excuse me from all classes for the rest of the day. I get to eat and sleep. For now I’m in doggie heaven. Lucy sees me, her jaw hanging. “What happened?” she asks.

“Tigro happened,” I say.

“What did you do to make him so angry?”

I just shake my head and look far away out the window. My stomach is churning with rage. She gets the message and walks away. I’m doubly hurt now. I wanted her to care for me, to do what I would have done if she had been damaged the way I am now. I must face it; Lucy’s just not into me. OK, Rusky. Now your fate is in your paws, and yours alone.

Tonight after Daniel goes into the house, and I see the lights turn off, signaling that I’ll be unbothered for the rest of the night, I’ll storm over to Tigro’s house to confront him. This will end today.

As I approach his abode down on Witherspoon Ave I hear loud thwacks and bangs; the house shakes intermittently. I pounce on a crate outside his window and peer in. I see a skinny, angry, green man, stiffened by rage, holding a belt. He’s screaming at Tigro, who cringes in the corner, snarlin
impotently. The lighting is so skewed, I can’t make out his stripes. I see the thin green man crack the belt, like a lion tamer, and slam it against Tigro’s head. Tigro whimpers and cries. I have never seen Tigro suffer before. I know Tigro could kill his skinny owner if he wanted to, but he doesn’t dare. He ceases his whining; he makes no noise at all now. His fear sublimated, he suffers valiantly, stoically, like an ancient soldier. I remember the quote "It's not the events that upset us, but our judgments about those events." So strange; I’m seeing Tigro as virtuous, even as he’s whipped and cut and bleeding. He barely registers now the whips of the leather belt.

I understand it all now. It all makes sense. I run from Tigro’s house, weeping. This is the cause of his misery, the reason he’s such an asshole. It all makes too much sense. Strawberry Hill calls to me again tonight. I sit on my haunches and look up. What brilliant spectators, the stars. They laugh and twinkle and wink from above while they watch our imperfect and violent dramas down here on earth. Once again I find the largest of the stars, Leo’s heart. It hangs heavy above my head, perfect in its station. It too is obedient and waits on a command. I imagine the heart falling, slipping from its regal thrown, and crashing into this earth, ending all of our tragedies.

But it doesn’t. It just hangs, like everything is perfect, like the world is exactly how the world is supposed to be, like this is the way and no other way is possible, like our little Christian community really does believe that lions are ready to lie with lambs (or tigers are ready to lie with dogs), like God has it all in his paws after all, like everything works itself out over time, like what more could we ever want or need. I tell myself something tonight—and tell myself never to forget it—so often when something’s wrong it has nothing to do with you. And everything to do with that someone else. And you will never know all the wrongs that surround you, and all of the causes. Compassion then is key. I am a shepherd. No dog is an island. Each of us change the world through our insignificant interactions on this planet, and the world is richer for it, even if those interactions are bumpy, rocky, dangerous, charged. This is the way the world turns—each of us influencing and being influenced in important ways. This is enough. The world changes; Tigro can change. I resolve to reach out my paw and make friends with him, and Lucy too. After all, if I have to interact, I will do the best I can do. No one—not Daniel, Brian, Marco, Lucy—understands my dreams or my resolve that even the most dangerous among us can grow a bright and stable heart.

John Guchemand is an MFA candidate in University of Baltimore's Creative Writing & Publishing Arts program. You may find him furiously writing and reading stories against life's sundry deadlines, while attempting to balance family and work.