The door of the double wide swings open to a subtle and growing brightness and the soldier steps into the day.
He stands on the steps made of four-by-six pieces of wood and says, “Come on Rodney.”
A black and white bull terrier follows him. Bolting into the yard he jumps as he approaches an eight foot poll anchored in concrete. Rather than the large ball children bat around at recess a tennis ball is tethered to the end of a rope attached to the top of the poll. The dog expertly catches that ball and begins to spin. He is a small dog but his head is massive in proportion to the rest of his body. His jaw clenches and he twists and twists letting the rope pull him up as it tightens. When its energy is full Rodney let’s it go and spins and spins as the rope unwinds. The soldier does push-ups half a dozen paces away. They’re both doing their physical training for the day.
An hour latter, when the sun has flushed the earth with light, the solider comes out of the double wide again, ready for work in drab military fatigues. A sweet young woman with brunette hair stands in the doorway holding a baby. The solider kisses them both. The woman watches as the soldier kick starts his motor cycle and races off to train other soldiers on the base. Other men would be late leaving at this hour but this soldier will risk getting a speeding ticket.
“We’ll need to get ready soon.” The mother tells the baby, who coos and farts and giggles. “That’s right we’re going to lunch today with daddy.”
She’s drying the baby off when something enters the house unseen. The thing has been toying with the dog for sometime now. Playing with his mostly loyal doggy sensibilities. Flipping switches in his little brain, opening doors that shouldn’t be opened. It enters the dog.
The mother and child are on the bed when the dog jumps up and begins nipping and barking at the boy.
“Back Rodney!” The mother pushes the dog off the bed.
Rodney jumps up on the bed again. “What’s wrong with you dog.” The mother picks up her baby boy, he’s already wrapped in a large blanket. She retreats to the other side of the bed, the towel dangling from his feet. The dog nips at the blanket trying to get at the boy. Inside the dog, whatever it is, runs around with a bull horn shouting; usurper, usurper, destroy the usurper, destroy, destroy, destroy the usurper, usurper, usurper, destroy the usurper, destroy, destroy, destroy the usurper. It’s wearing a weather torn suit, and it’s laughing as if this sort of activity is the most fun it can have.
Through the thick towel the dogs teeth eventually purchase on a bit of flesh from the boy’s back. Whatever is inside the dog goes ecstatic with the rush of doggy endorphins and begins to bang its head against the side of the animals cranium. It’s naked now and doing unmentionable things, the whole time it’s face etched in a monstrous grin, thin lips stretched ear hole to ear hole over pointed teeth. The baby sees this. The mother does not. The baby is the target.
The mother kicks at the nipping, rage filled animal, rushes into the bathroom, puts the now screaming baby into the tub. Locking the door behind her she turns to face the snarling animal. She punches it in the mouth. Her fist twisted sideways down it’s throat she is able to push it out of the trailer.
The doctors at the hospital tend to the mother’s bloodied wrist and they put three stitches into the baby’s back.
That night the solider puts a plate of food at the edge of the woods behind the trailer, and as Rodney finishes his last meal the soldier puts a thirty-thirty round into the dog’s head. The dog shell is empty and whatever was in it jumps into a raven perched on a power line above. The raven screams. The soldier buries the pet at the edge of the woods.
Thirty-five years latter the boy is a man living alone. The scar on his back is faint if visible at all. The dog has long since decayed and whatever spirit it had was dispersed back into the great doggy spirit, the animal spirit that is only what’s good about the beasts.
But the devil hounds are still active made of something less organized than flesh, something able to invade sinew and neurological connnections. The scar may be faint but the boy was marked, nothing to be done for that but to fight. Hard to fight what can’t be seen. Hard to fight what’s inside. A difficult battle to wage without loosing yourself. The man thinks to himself as he ponders how to finish the story. How can he? He doesn’t know at thirty-five if he’s half way or two thirds of the way, or maybe even 99% through the story of his life.
What he does know is that the devil hounds have been after him this whole time. Mayhem, rage, fear, drunkenness, loneliness, rebelliousness, morbidity, and a host of others. All nipping at his heals. He feels better equipped now of course but he has never stopped engaging with them. Never stopped imagining, never stopped the conversation so loud in his head it must break out his lips-this looks odd to others of course, why is he talking to himself? He doesn’ t care. They’re not in this battle.
Demons or chemical imbalances in his brain he often wonders. Why must we think the two are mutually exclusive? Isn’t all language a metaphor? And aren’t metaphors mystical things?
He tells his mother and father they must not fight his battles anymore. He is not a baby. Parents now have their own war to wage and he must wage his.
This activity starts to bore him. This taping and pecking away at the granite in his head to try to come to some resolution. Hit publish and be done with it.
Not yet.
Just a few more words.
Just a few more clear thoughts, to keep the monsters at bay.
September 5, 2012
boudreauxbicentennial
Healing Conversations 