Hereunder

Poultry Geist

Another XAT.

It happened so fast -- the awful screech, the flash of black, the fluttering of feathers. Then, Diane turned to see her beloved Marsala mortally wounded and lying on the ground. She rushed to his side.

"Il pollo," he whispered, gasping for air. "Il pollo diavolo."

***

Dr. Picata greeted Diane as she entered his office. "Miss Marbella, do come in and sit down." She sat slowly, clutching a handkerchief, and he took his chair, opening a large file.

"Miss Marbella, I have reviewed the entire matter. What happened is indeed rare, but there are similar cases, especially one reported by a M. Tetrazini in 1855. You see, the Acona breed can be very aggressive when threatened.  Some rural Italian folk, especially among the Parmesans, even have legends of those ‘possessed by evil spirits’."

Diane dabbed her eyes.

"But," said Picata, lighting his pipe, "I understand they make a very good cacciatore."

Hector & The Tree Frogs

Our first XAT.

Hector looked up at the small creatures high in the live oak, which had grown silent on his approach.

"Of course!" he said, almost to himself, "Hyla cinerea!  That explains it.  We were looking for something amphibious but not for something arboreal."  He shook his head.  That also explained Captain Frank's apparently crazed dying words:  'The trees...  the trees are full of frogs!'"

Hector's companion, Shorty, nodded his head.  "Well, my friend, you've solved another mystery.  But, I gotta tell you, with all this sleuthing I'm famished.  Why don't we hustle back to town and grab one of Mike's famous footlongs before he closes shop."

"Well, alright...," said Hector, scratching his head.  "Though, I worry about all the nitrates." 

Shorty slapped his friend's back heartily. "Don't worry, Hec, you'll live--".  Or, maybe not, thought Hector, ominously.

As the pair turned and walked toward the old logging road, the chorus of cacophony awakened from its quiescence.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris XII

Lay up all night remembering all of these things:  the days at the pound; Bo, the dog philosopher; Sophie, the beauty he walked out with. 

Remember who you are, she said.  Hard to remember what you never even knew.  But, even so, it could be that this dog had forgotten.

The first lights edge through the casement and give the slab a pinkish hue.  The floor boards begin to creak above.  The air reveals a slight scent of chlorinated/flourinated water vapor and liquid soap -- cheap fragrance, sodium laureth sulfate, yellow #5.  Sniff deeply.  Resolve to remember.

Soon, the Alpha Sap herself appears before the gate and regards this dog, arms unfolded, a skeptical crease in her face.  The tail is moving at a friendly swing; the posture is standing but mildly submissive; the affect is attentive -- mouth partly open, tongue slightly out -- indicating subjectivity to her whim. 

"Sit", she says.  First thought:  'hold on a second mistress...  there's no free lunch here -- where's the quid pro quo?  -- where's the liver-flavored treat fashioned into the tortured, shrunken shape of a idealized bone?   Squelch this thought, then bend the hind lengs and drawn them in.    Sit. 

"Good Dog..." she says, almost in surprise.  Then, she says, "Speak."  Alright.  Conjure a well-known canine curse in bark-words -- untransalatable to the Saps but relating to ancestry -- and she seems pleased.  She opens the gate and this dog promptly sits at her feet, awaiting her next random command.   

In the evening, the Beta Sap himself is stretched out on the sofa -- ah, to be stretched out thereupon in wonderful comfort.  But, there he is, looking tired, haggard, and distracted. The Flat Images In The Box flip through fires and floods and pestilence and death.

Pad over and offer him the head.  He pats it and says, "Good Dog."  He seems slightly comforted.  Return  to be bean bag and sniff the fresh duct tape. 

. . .

What could be sweeter than laying in the yard in the summer when the lights have faded. The grass is fragrant and soft. The drafts blow gentle and warm. The insects murmur in the air, on the ground, and under the ground.

Dog years have passed since the cold enclosure.  The dog days have arrived. But, even during the heat of the full light, there’s a little house for shade. A bowl of water. The Sap have put a new collar around the neck that shrieks when this dog wanders too close to the edge of the yard. But, what dog can’t live with that.

Look up in the black above and follow the pin-lights as Bo instructed. Yes, there’s the tail, the back legs, the trunk, the fore legs, and, there, the head.  The Big Dog; the brightest star in the sky.   And, nearby, a faint dwarf winking its bright, milky eye.

Yes, Bo, I remember.

The End

The Consolation of Canis Majoris XI

Joyful dreams of reunion – panting, licking, bounding like a goofy Labrador pup.  Then, awakened by the unmistakable clink of a metal gate.   

The lights are just beginning to show, and this dog is still caged; but, there is Bo walking past, led by a Sap handler, with the visage of Sophie by his side.

“Hey, Bo, what’s up?  Your Saps come for you? Where are you headed?  How about letting this dog tag along.”

Bo turns his head.  “My time’s up, Phil.  I’d like to take you along, but...,” his bark trails for moment, “you can’t come where I’m going.  But, I’ll figure a way to keep in touch.”  Then, he continues down the corridor to a dark door.

Sophie, long-haired beauty-apparition that she is, turns her muzzle slowly and whisper-barks, “Remember.”

. . .

Later, the Saps do come.  Make a great show of their arrival:  straining against the leash, yapping, lapping the Sap pup faces.   Start getting into the corn syrup residue around the mouth corners.  Then, strangely, keep licking out of pure affection.

The Beta Sap says,  “Looks like they really missed that stupid mutt.”

The Alpha Sap looks unimpressed.  “I was hoping we wouldn't find him.  Then, we could get a cat.”

Another dog would have taken that comment as grounds for attempted Sap fragging.  But, this dog takes it in short stride.  She knows not what she is saying. 

In any case, showered with strokes and treats on the way home.  And, once there, a bean-bag wherein to retire -- beats the cold concrete.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris X

At next light, Bo is bright and barky, while this dog is a bit dazed, hunting for an appropriate water closet.

"So, Dog," he asks, "where you from?"

"Don’t know?"

"What stock are your folks?"

"Can’t be sure." The head is hung in some embarrassment: not only a son of a bitch and a bastard, but a mongrel to boot.

"You look like a mix to me. But, there’s no shame in that. Have you ever met a purebred who has a lick of earth sense?"

"Come to think of it, no ."

"Well, you seem to have some smarts." He scratches himself thoughtfully. "What do you know about the Sap?"

"Can’t figure them out for the life of me."

"They’re a strange breed, I’ll admit," he says, "But, let me give you some background." For the rest of that light and the next, he educated me on the whole wonderful, troubled, despicable tale of this species: their losses, their triumphs, their falseness, their cruelty, their virtue, their beauty.

He even told me something of their special yapping – Latin – which he called a “dead tongue”, but one which held many of their secrets, beginning with their own taxonomy.

“So, Bo, tell me:  how do you know all this stuff?”

“I once had a wonderful master,” Bo says, “who raised me from a pup.  On fine days, we would wander through the woods – I tell you, the smells we had in those woods.  In the evenings, he would light a fire and I would curl upon the rug.  The Saps have a scratching on thin sheets of wood.  Signs and ciphers.  Smells of bleach and fiber and indigo.  He would look at these for hours.  And, he would talk to me.

“Over the years, I got to understand some of their secrets – a few of the ciphers – they tell of something lost, something yet retained, maybe something regained.  Hard to figure.”

“The old master died, and, eventually, I ended up here.”  Bo turns his head away for a moment.  “But, anyhow....  My advice is: learn a few Latin yaps,” he says, “And, you’ll be way ahead of most Sap.  But, even so,” he adds, “Even so, you’ll never get them fully figured.  Don’t try to get beyond the limits of your own wisdom.  Remember who you are.”

“Who?”

Bo heaves a sigh.  “Hard to figure.”  He gazes at his gnarled joints.  “If you follow those Sap scratchings....  Well, on the one paw, it seems that, in the end, we’ll be outside with the fortune-tellers, fornicators, murderers, and idolaters; on the other, we might still get the scraps off the master’s table.

“But, then again, there's Sophie.”  His eyes go milky, and he begins to puff again.

Watch for her early, and you will have no trouble;

You will find her sitting at your gate.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris IX

Sense a stirring and a fain murmur. Listen. Slowly open one eye. There is Bo: seated; head erect; eyes fixed; bathed in strange light. He is breathing out short puffs of air, making sounds that this dog did not then understand:

She it was I loved and searched for from my youth;

I resolved to have her as my bride,

I fell in love with her beauty.

Cannot move. Slide the eye to see a long-haired beauty of dog – or an apparition – luminous, resplendent in the gloom (where do these words come from) – Sophie.

She approaches Bo’s cage and lays before him, regarding him for several moments. Finally she says, "Have you forgotten again who you are?"

"Remind me," he says, in short puffs.

"Do you remember the aim and end of all things?" she says.

"I remember that you told me; but, I’ve forgotten the details." Sophie turns her muzzle as if in kind puzzlement.

"Poor hound. Your grief has blinded you like a newborn pup. When black clouds come, even the brightest star can give no light. And, now you are bound in chains, in the darkness. Therefore, I will remind you of the light."

Such a barking, mellifluous discourse she gave that these ears had never heard from any beast. Recalling the tales of the great dogs – good and bad – who had gone before: Ceberus. Anubis. Sirius. Soter. CuCullain. Bernards’ giant. Rejoining against the wiles of Fortune. Instructing on the aim and end of all things.

"Jackals, ruthless and cunning, eat red meat," she says, "While you, faithful and helpful, eat little more than corn meal. They roam the earth in cruelty and licentiousness; while you remain in captivity and servitude. But, do you for a moment doubt that they have already been rewarded in this life, whereas you will be rewarded in the life to come?"

"No," says Bo. "I do not doubt."

"You must recall that the Sap are in trouble. And, through no fault of our own, we share in it. And, yet, all things in the universe are ordered for the good. And, you have your place in this order. Remember who you are."

Bo nods.

"And, do you remember the brightest star in the sky?"

"Yes," says Bo, "Alpha Canis Majoris. The Dog Star."

"Watch for it, then, good hound." Then, she vanished, and the gloom returned.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris VIII

Awaken with a strong recollection of the days at the pound.

Had been out on a lark on a fine summer day: on the trail of fifteen different wild and wonderful things, until, suddenly collared and enclosed in a Wheeled Motor Box, then jostled and terrorized by the Motor Box whine and roar, then led to a large cage.

In the cages across the aisle are a standard poodle, sniffing then turning up her nose, a hairless Chihuahua, fretting and shaking, a dark pit bull, pacing and occasionally stopping to curl a dark lip and to fix a fierce look.

To the right is a large, old, gray-brown hound. He lays, looking out at nothing in particular; his eyes are milky, but still bright.

Ask him, "Hey, pop, what is this place?" He turns his head slowly toward me.

"It’s a pound," he says, "A place for dogs and others gone astray." He gazes at this dog for a moment. "Name’s Boethius. Bo – for short," he says, "What’s yours?"

"Phil. Really, it’s embarrassing."

"Ah, ‘Phil’" he says, "Guess you’d say, a kind of lover."

"That’s a laugh: sure haven’t seen much love lately. But, hey, what happens to this dog?" He looks this dog over with his bright, milky eye.

"Well," he says, "You’re well-fed and tagged. Your Sap should come around soon and take you back, once they notice you’re gone and track you down."

Ask him, "But, what about you? How long you been here"?

"Too long."

"But, what about your Sap. They couldn’t track a skunk, but what’s the hold up?" He turns his head and stares into the empty space between the rows of cages. For a long time, he says nothing. The lights go out, and this dog dozes.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris VII

Vibrant dream. Not a chase dream – not the fierce pursuit of a small, squealing meal. Thankful for that. Sometimes awaken in an embarrassing posture – supine, with the legs straight up, churning in an impossibly slow canter. No. This one is a fine dream. And, so real.

Peering through the bars of the cage to see Sophie, long-haired beauty that she is, bathed in the fire-light of the furnace; her coat sheens, tawny and white; her muzzle, long and regal; her body, lean and well-proportioned; her haunches, rounded in strength; her scent, like a field of wild flowers in spring. She lays before me, her fore-paws straight, her hind-paws drawn behind her.

"What troubles you, good dog?" she says, in soft growl.

"Isn’t that apparent? Locked in a cage all night, enclosed most of the day. Looking out on the wide world, but unable to roam it. Alone. Why should this be? Sure, this dog has its faults, but never has bitten a Sap. Guarded and watched for them. Loyal, true, helpful to them, except for the occasional incontinence issues.... Also, the bean bag thing."

She has a kind regard. "Poor pup. You’ve put your faith in Fortune, fickle bitch that she is. You’ve forgotten who you are. Remember the Dog Star." Then, she rose, as if to a great height and her visage dissolved as the furnace fire was extinguished.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris VI

Wake up in a low, slow growl. A good growl. What is it?

Feel a small space of warmth around me; but, everything else is cold: behind me, above me, beyond me. Remain still. The ears, which normally are up, are up, and then some. Listening closely for some clue. Listening. But, it’s just a far-off whining, and then a rising but distant grating. Nothing.

Then, realize that this dog has got to go. But, everything is cold: resolve to hold it and return to sleep. Draw the legs and head into a tighter curl.

...

It's no good: can't hold it.

Long since learned this: dare not simply bark an honest, forthright bark. This provokes nothing but a jarring clamor and the appearance of Himself wearing what looks like a death mask, with a furiously matted head coat, cursing and muttering indecipherably. A good chance, under these circumstances, that he’ll swing his foot at the underbelly, just as the old bladder is about to give.

Instead, begin with a muffled, tentative bark, steadily increasing in frequency and volume, until there is a stirring above. Pause for a moment, then continue until there is the soft creak of the bed coils and the hard creak of the floor board progressing above and down the stairs.

This is very much how they wake themselves. They have a box that emits a continual siren until one of them reluctantly rises. Take this as further evidence of their troubles.

He comes shuffling and scratching, but not cursing, and opens the gate and the door. No dog enjoys going out on a frigid night. In the first place, the ground is invariably frosty and sharp, and the air is biting, and the poor plumbing takes a while to get going. In the second place, there is always the tension that a small, striped, furry face will appear from behind a bush, and one, in mid-stream, will be forced to make chase.

Fortunately, no face appears.  Watch Himself, standing just inside the door, his eyes closed, weaving slightly.  One day, in his drowsiness, he'll allow this dog to follow him back to his den and crawl onto the foot of this bed, stretched out in wonderful coziness.

The Consolation of Canis Majoris V

Laying as low as possible: prone, belly and chin flat on the concrete, ears straight back, eyes cast upwards penitently. Willing to go so far as to pee – but, that’s the source of the problem. The Alpha Sap is gesticulating wildly: alternately pointing at a spot on the carpet and wagging her finger. Can act, but can't keep this up forever.

Yes, yes. Dog sees spot; no need to point it out again. Did she forget that Beta laid down a full bowl of cool water before leaving for several Sap hours? When forced to choose between a hard, splatter-sure surface, and an absorbent one, a dog will always choose the latter. But, nevertheless, sorry, so very sorry. Note, again, the submissive posture.

But, she continues, issuing a torrent of words. Most are directed at no-one in particular, some apparently at her Maker, though she doesn't seem in a prayerful mood. Some, of course, are directed this way: chiefly, "Bad dog! You are such a bad dog! No!" These are interesting words; remember to consider them in the crate. There will be time.

...

In the cage, much time for reflection. "No," she says. "No" is the universal negative. Heard it many times since the pup-days. But, curiously, seldom hear a universal positive. Feel like telling her: "No, no, no! Did you ever think to say 'Yes'?" But, even if she would listen, it would be a cheap shot. Know very well – and she may too – that the world is a "Yes" with relatively few "No's".

Bo would say that we never heard No's in the Garden days, when our ancestors ran free. In those days, Bo said, the Sap had only one "No", but said "Yes." A big no-no. Now the Sap live with many "No’s".  Even so, "Yes" is primary, wide, open.  Saps who think like this are called "optimists"; but, dogs find such labels tiresome.