Dead Dog Rising
My father has not slept with any sort of confidence in over one and one-half weeks. The dog is dying, see; he's dying in that pacing way. He's thin and gray and moving like he has big plans—the kind that wake him in the night to say, Let's go! Let's break away!
His claws have grown and since his pads are wasting, sucked-in, sunken soles, claws tap the floor, they keep the time. Click clack. Click clack. Click. That sound there—that back and forth—is what wakes my father and drives him mad. Click clack, he says, then skid, then sometimes, thump—which means the dog has lost it.
My father keeps a baseball bat for just this kind of thing, for if the night should make a sound—creak, slam, shattering glass— he'd grab that bat and head downstairs, so angry then, more so than scared. Get out! Get out of my stone house!
He gives the dog some Valium. He pushes down on his thin backside. He looks him in the eyes and says, You know me, Dog. I know you know me. The dog has made such big, big plans and hasn't got the time. He rises later in the night. Click clack, he walks. Click clack. Click.
My father, mad with sleep, or lack of it, or simply clouded, grabs the bat in his rough, dry fist. Creak, shuffle, ominous thump. He runs downstairs in panic, fury. He is angry at the nighttime sounds. He holds the bat above his head. Get out! Get out of my stone house!
The dog is there, on sorry legs, with sorry claws. He looks toward the man, the bat, and says, You know me, Man. I know you know me.
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This story appeared in the fabulous Smokelong Quarterly along with an interview. I heart Smokelong! http://www.smokelong.com/interview/403.asp
YES! this is greatness.
Sitting here listening to this like a wide-eyed kid. Read it only once and I bet I could almost recite it from memory.
My god. I was immediately drawn to this by the title. I can't stop reading it.
"Let's go! Let's break away!"*
Deeply, penetratingly, sad. I felt for the dog and man - dying and living "in that pacing way"
"Packs a wallop," as my Uncle Mert used to say.
Thanks, folks!!
How terribly sad and touching. Well done. *
Oh I recognized the title of this and remember it so well from Smokelong, Kate! I absolutely love this story. The prose sings and it's just so sad and deep and wonderful: "The dog is there, on sorry legs, with sorry claws." Wish I could give this one ten stars. *
Thanks Kim and Kathy!
yes
Beautiful with an ache and tragic in such a subtle way. Five stars are all I have on me, so there *****
This is great. Really enjoyed it!
Thanks Gary and James!!! (Even though James is only giving me 5 stars... how very stingy!) Psyche. I write psyche because I am against emoticons. :) Ack! I'm against that!
Oh hey Jamie! Thanks! We posted at the same time.
here you go. I found two more stars behind the dryer. **
Ah, thanks, James!
wonderful piece. really love the form and the pace of this. the repetition of the "stone house" line...i like smokelong better now though they've never shown any appreciation for what i have to offer. (sigh)
Prose with a singing voice. A painful tableau. I'm clapping with both hands. *
Dag! Thanks both Marcus and Jack with horns!!!
This is very well done, Kate.
Click clack. Click.
Bang! Powerhouse story.
*
Thanks you thank you!!!