The priest walked slowly away from his cell. His steps were heavy as his fingers worked slowly at his collar. God wouldn’t have let that happen if He was as benevolent as what the father was taught to believe. The God he was taught of wouldn’t have let his four-year-old niece be raped and killed in the sadistic manner she was. God? In his eyes now, there was no god.
He walked from the rectory and down the street, angry at his brother, angry at himself, and angry at any and all deities. Hail Mary, full of grace, he thought as he fingered the pendant in the sachet at his side; save me from this goddamned place.
It was there, at the corner of Tale Avenue and Aéro Boulevard, that the once devout man renounced his vows, tossed the Rosary into the gutter, and picked up the first whore he saw.
There the sachet sat for the rest of the night and most of the next day, soaking in the stale rain water that sat stagnant and collecting filth. To any passerby, it was just another piece of trash.
About noon, a mutt was sniffing around for dropped food when he found it. His wet nose picked up on the smell of the damp leather, hand stitched and beautifully crafted. Good Boy – that was his name among the homeless tramps he shared the streets with – nudged it cautiously. There was no telling what it could be. It might have something sharp, like the claws of the cat that used to live next door to him when he had a home and his name was Rufus. It might also be something that would make him sick, like when Good Boy found the silver stick. He chewed on it, succeeding in getting black all over his snout and spent the next week vomiting up everything he ate no matter what it was.
He almost died, Good Boy remembered anxiously. All dogs go to Heaven, nick-knack patty whack, give him a bone! In fact, if it wasn’t for The Lady, Good Boy would be Dead Boy. His tail wagged as he remembered her nursing him back to health as best she could. She even scrimped enough money up to get him to a vet – those freaky humans with their prodding and butt-thermometers. But he was alive, and Good Boy was thankful for it. That’s why he stuck by The Lady.
Good Boy batted the thing once more, just to see. It skipped down the gutter as the dirty water splashed after it. The smell of decay, damp, and urine stung his nose. Good Boy involuntarily shook his head at the stench. If it wasn’t for The Lady, Good Boy would have split from around here a long time ago. His original humans had moved away from the suburb they lived in, and Good Boy had intended to find them. He missed his little boy and older girl who used to play with him and sneak him food when their humans weren’t looking.
Good Boy had succeeded in getting about halfway across the state when he lost the trail. Good Boy didn’t want to give up, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the scent anymore. That was a sad day for him, and all he did was cry and whine. That had been so long ago – about a year, from what he could figure in his doggy way. That’s how long it took him from being Pretty Boy to Dirty Boy. Good Boy was an American Eskimo, and he was well groomed. Over the time he transformed from Rufus to Good Boy, his once white, silky fur had become a dingy brown-gray and matted. He stank from being out in the weather all the time, and he had lost quite a bit of weight. That was also when The Lady came into his life, and Good Boy thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad here with her.
Thinking of The Lady, Good Boy jumped and yelped happily. She would be pleased to get a nice gift that wasn’t rotting – or at least it didn’t smell like it was rotting. Without a second thought, he scooped it up in his mouth, ignoring the horrible taste because it was for The Lady.
He weaved in and out of the other people that were walking on the street. Most of them ignored the dog, and those who didn’t would call mean things after him. Good Boy had learned to steer clear of those types of people. They were usually The Beaters, and Good Boy didn’t deserve to be beaten.
As he ran, he remembered just after he started his “quest”. He stopped to sleep for the night, and he woke up to a horrible human boy much older than his own who tried to set his tail on fire. Good Boy – who was still Rufus then – became Bad Boy and bit the little brat. He snarled and growled as he backed away from the human, and the boy looked scared. But truth be told, Good Boy was the one who was scared. He was so scared, he thought he might have peed, but then he remembered that he wasn’t inside, so it was ok. It was without a second thought that Good Boy picked up the pace and left that neighborhood.
When he neared the busy street that he needed to cross to get to The Lady, Good Boy dropped the small thing in his mouth. He huffed and sneezed and shook, desperately wanting to get the awful taste off his tongue. Good Boy knew he was as curious as those devilish cats, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know what was in there – wanted to make sure it was worthy of The Lady because she was so nice to him. With his front paw, he batted at the sliver-ish clasp on the front. That’s what was keeping it closed; he tasted the metal on his tongue when he had it in his mouth.
A low ding-ding caught his attention, and Good Boy picked the small package back up in his mouth, shuddering again at the taste. The leather wasn’t so bad, and if he could focus on that, he felt he could make it all the way across the country with it between his teeth. Unfortunately, it was sitting in the gutter. And the taste of ick overpowered the taste of cowhide.
After he crossed the street, he turned left and shot behind a warehouse that wasn’t used anymore. That was usually where The Lady stayed, especially when the weather smelled like rain. The dog wiggled into the building through the broken door and took off again. He was getting excited, and he would have barked happily if it wasn’t for the gift in his mouth.
Good Boy streaked back and forth across the three levels of the warehouse, but The Lady was nowhere to be found. He whimpered sadly, but remembered the soup kitchen and the nice hotel kitchen workers not far from it who would sometimes invite him and The Lady inside to eat some. Maybe she was there, Good Boy thought, and this time he did drop the thing and give a couple short, happy barks.
His eyes went to the window, and he whined in the back of his throat. Good Boy hated to be outside at night alone. That was when not only The Beaters came out, but also the Fire Freaks like the boy from before. And the cats. The cats were just as bad, and Good Boy had learned to stay away from them after one of them took its claws to his poor snout.
With that thought, he dropped the thing and laid down on it so no one could take it while he slept. It would be safe for The Lady under his belly tonight, and tomorrow when he woke up, he would scoop it back up in his mouth and find her.
Good Boy slowly drifted to sleep for the night.
The sun was high in the gray sky by the time he woke up the next morning. There was still rain drizzling, but Good Boy wiggled back out of the broken door with the thing in his mouth. He stopped not far from the corner, lifted his leg, and did his business. Good Boy was a good boy, he thought happily to himself. He still messed outside so that their shelter wouldn’t stink. Good boy, he thought; good boy.
The soup kitchen wasn’t that far from the warehouse, and Good Boy made it there quickly. He stood up on the window and looked inside to see if he could see The Lady. He bobbed up and down and looked left to right, but he couldn’t see her anywhere.
Instead of getting discouraged, Good Boy wagged his tail. There was still the hotel kitchen down the block. Maybe when The Lady went to the soup kitchen, all the spots were taken, so she had to go there for some food. He fell back on all four legs and took off down the block to the hotel. It was a good shot.
But when Good Boy got there, his tail tucked itself between his legs. While the workers still gave him a plate of scraps, they were asking him where his companion was – where The Lady was. Good Boy ate the food but only so the nice people wouldn’t get sad and think that he was turning his nose up at it. Good Boy was thankful, and he stayed around for a while. When the workers took their breaks, they would bring him water and play with him or rub his belly – and Good Boy really liked that. His back leg shook, and he yelped happily.
Eventually, the sky became dark again, and Good Boy got worried. What if The Lady was sick or hurt? What if someone had taken her to the pound? He stayed at the back of the hotel kitchen that night with the thing under his belly and cried himself to sleep. Would he ever see The Lady again?
The sun was shining and warm when Good Boy woke up next to the door. He stretched happily, stood, walked around in a circle, and plopped back down again.
The Lady – his Lady – sat in a wicker chair next to him, reading on the front porch of their new home. In the front of the book, his Lady had placed the trinket that was inside the thing he had found about a year ago. She used it to keep her place, and Good Boy thought it was pretty as the clear crystal caught the sun.
He remembered back to when he thought he lost her. Good Boy stayed outside the hotel kitchen for almost a week guarding the thing that he found. He was determined to give it to his Lady. He wasn’t going to give up and surrender like he did when he couldn’t find the scent of his former family. He wanted to keep his Lady. He had grown to love her, and Good Boy was sure that she loved him.
Eventually, when Good Boy was sure that she was either dead or locked up in the pound, she came back to get some food. He stood, unbelieving, as she came closer to him, and when he was sure it was her, he started to leap in circles, chase his tale, and bark ecstatically. She ran to him, fell to her knees in a puddle, and hugged the smelly dog, cooing and thanking God he was safe.
Good Boy trotted back, picked up the thing, and brought it to her. He dropped it at her feet and nuzzled her hand as if to say, “Go on… it’s for you.”
His Lady picked it up gently and looked at it in awe. She patted him, cooed another “Good Boy”, and opened it. Her face lit up, and Good Boy barked in joy. He had done something good. He had pleased his Lady.
She pulled out the Rosary gently and smiled. Clutching it to her breast, she pulled Good Boy into a tight hug and muttered “thank you, thank you,” over and over again into his fur.
It wasn’t long after that that his Lady was able to get a job at a church not far from the hotel kitchen. The people there were nice, and they let her bring Good Boy in with her while she cleaned. His Lady gave him a bath soon after, saying that he needed to look good, too.
A little longer after that, when she had saved up enough money, they moved into an apartment. It was small and cramped, but it was home, and Good Boy loved it. He was proud of his Lady, and he always tried to show her.
Down the road some more, she had saved up more money, and they bought and moved into a house. Good Boy had a yard now, and he and his Lady played in it every day. Before they moved in, his Lady gave him a gift. It was a collar with a tag on it. While Good Boy couldn’t read, he understood when she told him that his name was on it and he was home now.
Good Boy nuzzled his Lady’s hand when she patted his head. She cooed and smiled when he licked it, and they got up to play some ball. The Rosary was placed gently into the book, and that was set next to his leash. Good Boy didn’t have a care in the world. He was home. He was loved.
Writer’s Statement
I had originally started this in a whole different direction, and somehow it ended up from the dog’s point of view. The dog, in the original one, played a very small part. I didn’t even have a name for it. This exercise was one that we did in class with the prompts and the objects, and I was looking over my notes for this one in particular. I liked a little how I started it, and I wanted to finish it. (The idea of a clergy losing his faith intrigued me – especially because I was sitting across from Mitch at the time.)
My note on the paper said that: “dog takes to homeless woman; she finds faith and gets life together.” And I was totally going to finish it off like that, but then I caught sight of Casper (pictured left) and Aspen, two of my sister’s dogs, both American Eskimos, in a picture that flashed on my computer slideshow. Casper passed away about a year or so ago, but Aspen is still alive, and my niece and nephew are still very attached and in love with them. I looked at the picture, and I thought that I should at least give the dog a name. So, I did. And from there, Good Boy took over the story, and I just let my mind do with it as it wanted. I didn’t even bother giving the homeless lady a real name in this story. So the roles were reversed, but I feel that having Good Boy be the main focus had it turn out a little better than if it would have been the lady. I feel now that going with the lady would have made it sound clichéd and overcooked. I feel that chewing on a Sharpie© would be something Aspen would do because he’s a little on the special side, so writing it from Good Boy’s point of view made it more real for me. I can’t honestly say why – aside from seen the pictures – I thought it would be better to do it from Good Boy’s point of view, but I did. While I was writing it, I asked myself if it was still believable, and I feel that it is. I just sort of sat back and let my mind do most of the work.
I feel that what makes a piece good in the genre is the ability to suspend our disbelief (who would want to read something they can tell didn’t happen? Make it as outlandish as you want, but you should be able to make it seem true.), and the author has to be able to accomplish that through using various tools such as but not limited to personification, anthropomorphism, foreshadowing, flashbacks, and rich character development. An author also has to allow their mind to take over sometimes and not force something to come. If your mind wants to take you in a different direction, come hell or high water, it’s going to get its way.
I feel that A Kind of Flying and Bottle caps does that really well; those were the two that stood out to me because they seemed more like memories than stories. I liked it quite a bit for that reason. When I read novels by Koontz or King, I get drawn into the story, and that’s what makes me forget. But AKoF and BC read to me more like Rose Madder by Stephen King. I can relate to them in very strange ways because I was somehow that person or knew a person like that. I didn’t read it like I would a Koontz book, but like I would a memoir. I like how the authors are able to pull me in using simple tools, and I hope that Good Boy’s story was able to do that at least a little.
No comments:
Post a Comment