Dogmatic Personalities

            by Sienna Swan

 

It’s feeding time again, and the boys are all crowded at the front of the pen, peering down the aisle for the first signs of the woman with the food.  Jim keeps to the back of the pen, sitting on his blanket, occasionally giving his toy a half-hearted squeak. It’s rush hour on the freeway outside, and every few seconds the beams of headlights penetrate the window across the aisle, throwing light across the enclosure, before disappearing. A couple of cages down, Mussolini throws himself at the chain link, bouncing high in the air, puffing breath from his moist nose and muttering curses. His tiny brown and white body springs up, down, up, down, while his cage mate flattens his ears and growls. The rest of them are beginning to pace, some yelling insults at the door where the woman should be.

            “Where the devil is she?” yelps Henry, a string of drool dangling from his jowls, his paws raking at the fence.

            “ God only knows, but heaven help her if she doesn’t come soon,” squeals Kaczynski. The door at the end of the aisle opens, and a plump woman emerges, clutching a large bucket on each side, equipped with scoops and a catchpole. Everyone goes ballistic, flinging themselves at the fences, losing all sense of composure. Genghis, normally so dignified and pompous, has begun to spin in circles, his long body folding in on itself, his claws scrabbling on the concrete below him. Everyone is yelling, screaming to be noticed, to get first dibs on the kibble that is now being poured through the bars onto the floor. In all the excitement, Kaczynski has spilled his water dish, and the slobbery liquid has seeped its way into Jim’s pen, creeping its way to his blanket. He shifts to avoid it, and then lays his head down with a sigh. He’s not interested in food anyways.

 

 

 When Jim Jones first found himself inside the body of a basset hound, he was enclosed in a plastic crate, the floor strewn with wet towels and what smelled like his own urine. The ground felt impossibly close, and every sense seemed to be on overdrive. Looking down, he saw two squat, short legs attached to round, red paws, covered in short, soft fur. Peering through the bars, he could see an aisle of concrete, some cages, and then, suddenly, a thin, stubbled face peering in at him. The face instantly disappeared, and a rough, loud voice reached his sensitive ears;

 “ Ooh boy, we’ve got another cleanup. I’ll tell you one thing, there’s no way in hell I’m covering this one. This dog’s got piss all over him. Listen buddy, do me a favor and lick yourself clean or something. Isn’t that what dogs so? Look at him Mark, he’s dumber than a box of rocks, he’ got this dumbass look on his face!” Before he could question just who he was referring to, he felt something being clipped onto his neck, and before he knew it, he was being dragged forcibly down a long aisle, his stout body fighting motion with every fiber. Unintelligible barks and yodels echoed from the cages around him, more foreign to him than anything had ever been. Suddenly, from amid the cacophony, a gruff voice belted out an alarm.

“We’ve got a new guy! Hey, hey, HEY CAPONE!! Did you- I said we’ve got a new one!” Turning his head to the side, Jim saw a small, wiry miniature pinscher, leaning against a dividing fence, trying to get the attention of his neighbor, a midsized bichon frise.

 “Dear lord!” Jim had exclaimed “are you human too?!” Feeling an immense relief, he struggled to fight off the persistent tugging of the leash for a few seconds more.“ He speaks!” cried the pinscher, “ What did I tell you, Capone? Did I not say that another would come? Was I not correct in thinking that we were not the only ones? Am I not seeing and hearing this fine man…Er…beast with my own two eyes?” As Jim was dragged away from the pen by the woman, he heard Capone respond with a concise 

“Shove it, Stalin,” and then it was all barks and howls again, all incoherent sounds and desperate calls. After a humiliating flea bath followed by a painful and demoralizing examination by a rough handed vet, Jim was led by the woman back down the row of cages, and delivered unceremoniously into a pen next to the pinscher. Through the night, they discussed their predicament, and how it had come to be. Like Jim, Stalin and Capone had simply woken up in their new bodies, aware of who they were but completely changed, with no idea why. Not all of the dogs were like them, in fact, they seemed to be the only ones; Jim’s cage mate, a blank-eyed Labrador, had done nothing but wag his tail slowly since Jim had gotten there. There had been others before Jim; Cortez had made a brief appearance as a wiemeraner, Pol Pot had come right after Capone as a golden retriever, and Ivan The Terrible had lived as a bristly terrier right across the aisle for several weeks. But they were all gone now, vanished in the night, leaving Stalin and Capone left to draw their own conclusions.

 “No idea,” grunted Capone through a mouthful of kibble. “My guess is, they got taken by a family, they found a way out, or they fought until they got to the outside.”

“Well…” interjected Stalin “ you never know...they were tough boys though. My bet is that they outsmarted our captors and managed to escape. I’ve got some plans of my own, would you like to see them?”  Pawing aside his tattered blanket, Stalin uncovered a series of frenzied marks that had been scratched into the concrete floor, apparently with his claws, which were worn to the quick. Feigning interest, Jim listened to Stalin’s elaborate plan, while Capone rolled his eyes and flicked his ears in the background. After a while, Jim had excused himself to sleep, and, curling up on a soggy, ragged blanket, Jim had covered his eyes with his silky ears and ferverently hoped that when he awoke all would be normal again.

 

            “Order! I said ORD- Henry, there is time and a place for personal hygiene, and this is not it! - Gentlemen!! We are gathered here to discuss our plans, present and future! I stand before you as chair-dog of the Committee for Intelligent Liaisons and Lectures for Empty-headed Riff-raff. Something has got to be done to educate and make peace with these loutish commoners, and we must be the ones to do it! If you are not with me, you are against me, and I will take the appropriate measures to ensure that you pose no threat!” Stalin, quivering with passion, is perched precariously atop an oversized stuffed rabbit, addressing the rest of the group with his usual high pitched whine. Several more have joined their ranks; Henry VIII arrived a day after Jim, and Mussolini and Kaczynski arrived a few days after that. They are all gathered in the exercise pen, and while the normal dogs sniff around and chase each other across the asphalt, they listen to Stalin rant, rolling onto their backs and letting the harsh sunlight hit their pink stomachs, while flies buzz on the piles of feces around them.

            “Oh yeah? And what makes you think you’re …well, let’s say...up to the job..am I right boys!? Right?!” Kaczynski looks around for laughs, and after receiving none, he turns to Stalin, who is seething with indignation. “ I mean, you’re technically not even a man anymore, I don’t see how you’re planning on getting any of this done…look at you, you’re the size of a rat, I mean seriously, who do you think…” The rest of the group quickly disperses; Stalin’s recent neutering is still a sensitive subject, and they know that this will not end without a scuffle. Jim wanders to the edge of the enclosure, where weeds have fought their way through the cracks in the cement and are waving their leaves alluringly. Through the chain link is a view of the freeway, beyond is a hill where identical rows of houses glint in the sun, their windows reflecting the cars on the road. Jim halfheartedly chews on a plastic bone, then spits it out; he’s not in the mood, and it tastes like rubber. Across the yard, he hears yelps as Stalin launches himself at Kaczynski; though he is only a fraction of Kaczynski’s size, Stalin is quick like a snake, and knows how to inflict pain. Turning towards them, Jim sees Stalin riding Kaczynski’s broad back like a bronco, his teeth firmly latched to Kaczynski’s scruff, while he squirms and leaps with discomfort. “QUIIIIIIIIIIIITT IITTTTTTTT!!!!” He yelps, his voice panicked. “ I WAS JOKING! UNCLE! UNCLE!” Stalin leaps off as Kaczynski flings himself to the ground, surrendering completely. The man in charge of exercise time comes running towards them, catchpole in hand, and loops Kaczynski around the neck roughly, cinching the loop until Kaczynski’s eyes bug out and he begins to gasp for air. He drags him across the cement, Kaczynski’s legs scrambling for traction, and yells

“ Hey Claude, we got a fighter over here! This rotwieler just tried to kill little Chewy! Pickin’ on dogs a quarter of his size! Mean bastard!” Kaczynski is dragged through the door and into the dark indoors, and Jim curses their stupidity. This had been their first outdoors time in weeks, and it was soon to be their last; bad behavior means less luxuries. Capone mutters obscenities under his breath as he and Henry are attached to a double leash; Henry’s bulldog jowls leak copious amounts of saliva, and there is no doubt that by journey’s end Capone’s curly fur will be slathered in spittle. As Jim and Genghis are led side by side into the cold building, Jim glances back to the empty yard behind him. A seagull has landed and is pecking at the blood left by Stalin’s attack; a wind ruffles its feathers as it picks at the red spots. A sharp yank on the leash jerks Jim into the dim light of the building, he is shoved back into his pen and the Labrador wags its tail again, looking hopefully at him. Genghis yelps and curses as the volunteer steps on his paw, and yelps again as she knees him through his cage door. Kaczynski is nowhere to be seen.

            The next morning, Kaczynski is back in his cage, only now a red sign reading “aggressive” hangs from the door. The catchpole has left a ring of raw skin around his neck, and he has a welt on his snout.

“Listen, man, no hard feelings, right?” says Stalin, with a friendly grin on his face. “I mean, we were just jokin’, and it got out of hand, you know. It happens.” Putting his paw on the fence, Stalin continues, “ You know I didn’t really mean for that, right? Just a joke, a spat between friends! We need to stick together to make this work. Teamwork! That’s the name of the game! It is imperative that we stay a team!”

 “Don’t listen to him, you fool!” Exclaims Genghis, his patchy fur dappled with light from the window; “You saw him out there, he was like a madman! He aimed to kill!” Kaczynski looks up from lapping at his raw hind paws, and shoots them both a reproachful glance. “And you!” Genghis continues, turning to Stalin “Nothing to be ashamed of, boy. Nothing! You remind me of myself when I was a young man! Such fury!”

 “Oh, I wasn’t ashamed...just trying to keep the peace…important to have allies...you know how it is,” replies Stalin, but he retreats to the back of his pen, snaps at a Pomeranian to get off his blanket, and curls up, nose tucked under paw. The silence lasts for hours, with only the occasional whine or yip from the dogs down the hall. Later, a man and a woman walk slowly down the aisle, stopping at every other cage, kneeling and petting and calling to the animals within. They are accompanied by the food woman, who ushers them from dog to dog, pulling them from some and pushing them towards others.

            The couple stops at Kaczynski’s cage, and the woman pokes her fingers through the bars and coos. Kaczynski licks her fingers and gives her watery eyes, pleading for adoption with every cell in his body. The woman is melting, and he can tell. He places his paw where her hand leans on the fence, touching her through the chain link. She breaks.      

“Roger...Roger, come here! Look at this one! He’s big, like you wanted! Look at that face!”

“Dear Lord, I think he’s got her!” grunts Henry. Everyone has gathered to the front of their cages, hoping that they will be the next ones to get attention. The food woman rushes up, hands fluttering

“OH ma’am! Watch out for Dexter there…he’s aggressive” The woman springs back, but looks doubtful.

“ I don’t know…he certainly seems sweet” she says, but follows the food woman to the cage where Capone sits, looking perky and hopeful.

“Now Tinkerbell here, he’s a real lamb…yes, don’t let the name –or his looks-fool you, he’s a he. But just look at that face! Bless his cotton socks, he’s just the sweetest little thing since sliced bread! Cute as a button!” Capone’s shiny eyes narrow, and Jim can see his blood begin to boil

“ AL!”  He whispers from a cage over. “SUCK IT UP! You can get out of here! Just keep your cool! You can take it!” But Capone is beginning to splutter indignantly

“TINKERBELL! Do you hear that! Tinkerbell?! Hundreds of men I’ve killed, hundreds! Most feared man of my time! And she comes in here and calls me Tinkerbell?!”  His lip begins to creep up his gum line, and the woman proclaims

“Look! He’s smiling! He is pretty cute…look at- OH!!” Capone has launched his eight pound body full throttle at the fence, tiny jaws snapping, curly hair flying, and a ball of fury, all white fur and pink mouth. The woman leaps backwards and begins to walk down the hall, towards the door. “ I think we’re done here…thank you for your time.” And with a wistful look at Kaczynski, she steps out the door, the man in tow, letting in the sound of mewling kittens and the bright light of the entrance room.

Kaczynski fully recognizes this opportunity past, and he spends the rest of the day sprawled across the floor, staring ahead, ignoring Stalin’s attempt at civility; Stalin has spent the last couple of hours yelping a seemingly endless loop of ‘plenty more fish in the sea’s’ and ‘independent dogs’ and ‘it’s not over ‘till it’s over’s’. When evening falls, and the traffic outside slows to a crawl, and the horns start to blare as they do every day, a man comes in and slips a collar gently, more gently than usual, around Kaczynski’s neck. Kaczynski, perking up for the first time all day, looks a little wary, but allows the man to lead him down the hall and into the door at the end of the hall, which swings open wide. The dogs catch a glimpse of a table, two chairs, of some people, of tiles and metal, and most of all, a luminescent, almost unearthly glow emanating from no single source, a white light buzzing and spilling onto the floor of the pens.  The door swings shut all too soon, and the boys are left speechless; all except Stalin, who simply proclaims

“He’s done it! The old bat’s done it! Don’t you fools see? They came back! They’re back for him! He’s done! Homed! Out! OUT!”

“I sure didn’t see those people in there...other people, but not the people.” replied Henry skeptically. But Stalin’s enthusiasm is contagious, and soon everybody is celebrating, their hopes buoyed, some toasting Kaczynski, some cursing him lightheartedly. Stalin, convinced of Kaczynski’s success, is redoubling his escape efforts, scratching at his floor plans and letting out jubilant yips and squeals. Somebody breaks out some milkbones that they had saved, and they start a tuneless chorus of howls that only sort of sounds like an old Irish bar song. This starts the other dogs barking and carousing, and soon two men come out with their voices raised, telling the dogs to be quiet or else, clapping their hands loudly and letting out monosyballic reprimands to quiet the noise. Reluctantly, the dogs close their snouts and one by one drift to sleep, each dreaming of pelting through open fields and prancing in icy streams, of rolling in dead things and drinking from puddles, their limbs twitching unconsciously, uncontrollable in their sleep.        

In the morning, Henry, Mussolini, and a few other normal dogs are gone. Stalin chalks it up to good luck coming in threes.

“Mark my words, they are out of here”  he proclaims, mouth full of  kibble. He is trying to bulk up, prepare himself for his escape, and is currently eating his cagemate’s share of the food. “ The little bastards were too cute for their own good. You can bet your collar they’re in a home right now, cuddled on a couch, having the time of their lives. Someone probably came this morning, at the crack of dawn, and just snatched them up. Now they’re livin’ the easy life. But that’s not the life for me, men. I belong on the open road, free to do as I please. That’s me. Never take orders from no one. But today’s the day, my men. Today is the day I become a free man.” His plan was long, involved, and risky; Jim never had the patience to listen to it in its entirety, he knew he was doubtful. Something about biting a leg, breaking a window, and hitching a ride, but he really couldn’t be sure. By this time, Stalin’s rant had become as familiar as the grey walls around them, as the chain link in front of them, as the dirty blankets on the floor; something to be tolerated and ignored. Jim held little hope for Stalin’s plan, but wished him well none the less. Anything to bring a little excitement.             

New dogs had filled the spaces of those that had disappeared the night before; one, a large lab with a bloody paw, was licking at his injury with infuriating steadiness, a never ending metronome of lapping. Jim was suddenly reminded of the piano lessons of his youth, when he had hands, of  the old woman standing behind him counting out the keys with the same predictability. He remembered little of his former life, only bits and pieces, blurs and stills, but he knew that he was not the same man. He had remained essentially the same, but things were missing, things that had formerly defined him. He no longer felt the need to control, to conquor, to possess. He didn’t much care about power, about popularity or about money, his mood remained fairly steady, with no crashes or swells. He suspected the same of the former men, the dogs around him. They seemed whole, but hollow, as though they had been robbed of essential qualities, no matter how vile. They didn’t live up to their reputations; Jim saw very little evidence that any of these beings around him could be capable of genocide, of sadistic cruelty, of really anything above basic functions. They were all flat, dull, monotonous, only Stalin seemed to retain the spark of a past life. Nobody but Stalin had any passion, any zest. The thing Jim cared about most right now was the two times a day when dry tasteless pellets were poured in front of him, and he got to experience the feeling of teeth crushing, of gullet contracting, of organs at work. Thinking about this, lying with his back to the wall, Jim sighed, and sent his gaze over to Stalin, who was poking his tiny, copper nose through the mesh of the door, eyes wide and ears cocked. He had been howling and squealing for about an hour now, desperate to attract he attention of one of the men, to allow himself an opportunity for escape. So far, no one had come.

“He’s coming!” Stalin yipped. “It’s time! It’s finally time! I’m going to do it, watch me, I’ll do it. Just distract him, I’ll make it work, just distract him while I slip out. It’ll be quick. This time. Quick and real and fast and then I’ll be out!” Sure enough, footsteps echoed down the hall, towards their pen. But instead of stopping at the pen in front of Jim’s, instead of  clinking open the door and bending over ,falling into Stalin’s trap, allowing him a chance, he keeps down the hall, stopping at Jim’s gate and sliding over the lock of the door. Entering the cage, he bends down and slips a loop of nylon rope over Jim’s neck, sliding it until it is snug. Leading Jim out of the cage, he nudges back Jim’s cage mate, who is leaping and bounding at the door, desperate for a little fun. Jim  stands in the aisle, letting his leash fall slack, and wonders about what awaits him. A family of four had passed through earlier, but they had shown no particular interest in any dog, choosing to stare straight ahead instead, walking quickly towards the ‘cat room’.            Maybe it was them, he thought, staring down at his wrinkly, fat toes. One of his nails had split, and it hurt as he pressed it on the cold concrete. The man begins to lead him down the aisle, not yanking as he usually does, but letting Jim walk slowly past the cages. As they pass Stalin’s enclosure, he lets loose with a torrent of curses.

“You low down dirty cur! You yellow bellied sack of excrement! You waste of space! You promised me! This was MY day, MY escape! You swore to help me! You said you would! Why is it YOU? I’m better, I’M the better dog! I’m small! I’m cute! WHY NOT ME? Why is it never me??!! Well, enjoy your fancy new home, you traitor! I hope they crate train you! Think of me while you’re in your fancy new house, sipping on cold water and eating soup bones! Think of me enjoying my life, out in the wild, out in the open! I hope you rot, you son of a bitch! I mean it, I really do!” Jim tries not to pay attention, he doesn’t really believe Stalin’s threats; the pressure has gotten to him, that’s all it is.

They reach the door at the end of the hall, and the man and Jim enter, into the bright white room with the metal and the table and the light. The room smells strongly to  Jim, of chemicals and sweat and maybe fear. There is one familiar face and three unfamiliar ones, all looking at him. One of the unknown men is looking down at some papers, occasionally making marks and notes with a pen.  Jim is lifted onto the metal table by a woman, while the man who led him in disappears out the door, trailing another leash after him. The woman is now rubbing his ears, scratching his chin. Jim submits, and rolls on his back. All thoughts of Stalin dissolve as begins to scratch at his stomach, making his leg kick uncontrollably. Jim masks his embarrassment my standing up quickly, but gives her hand a lick to show his appreciation. She is now offering him a treat, which he accepts, beginning to wag his tail. He is starting to enjoy this, bathing in her attention as she begins to scratch him again, telling him he’s a good boy, squeezing his silky ears in her hands.  The man looks up from his paperwork, and asks her if she’s ready. She turns away from Jim, and begins collecting things from the counter in front of her. Now the man is scratching Jim, though in a more perfunctory than he would have liked. His hands are not nearly as gentle as the woman’s, and Jim finds himself thinking of other things, about what the food will be like at his new home, about where he and the woman will go on walks, about where he will sleep, about what it will feel like when he has to ride in the car on the journey home. The woman returns to his side, putting her hands on his back, letting him lay down, pushing his back down towards the table. He wags his tail. He feels the man put a hand on his scruff, and then he feels a cold metal prick on his skin, the feeling of cold liquid in his veins. His mind drifts off again, and his eyes droop shut. He feels the woman pat his side and move away. This is all part of the process, he thinks, his mind sluggish. He’ll be home soon, eating. Maybe there’ll be a cat there.  A feeling of calm washes over him, the most feeling he’s felt in months. Not bad, he thinks to himself, not bad at all. A pain in his chest flares, then fades. He hopes the car ride isn’t too long.