Page 11
Where are you now? What might have been?
Well, it didnt rhyme exactly. Maybe if I changed the first line to "O dog so clean. " If "been" were pronounced the British way. . .
No. Maybe "O dog, my Pal through thick or thin—"
Well! That was it, of course. Sometimes, through careful revision, a true poet finds his way to the perfect combination of words.
"Ive made an appointment with the vet," Emilys mother was saying. "He has to have a rabies shot before we can get the license. "
Of course she didnt know that I had already had all my shots. But I didnt care. Id have them again—and again and again—if it meant that I would be licensed, I would be legal, I would be theirs.
I bounded toward the stairs, intending to tell the news to Bert and Ernie, who would inevitably be found on Emilys bed, posing as pillows. Never the closest of buddies, we nonetheless did communicate from time to time. Pausing on the staircase, where I was still in full view of the inhabitants of the living room, Emily and her mother, I assumed a proud and regal pose, a pose of gratitude. Observe the dog! Hes yours! Youre his!
What a glorious day this is!
They paid no attention of course, because my poetry was inaudible to humans. But Emily did glance up, saw me posing there, and smiled. So I continued up the stairs.
Bert and Ernie were, as I had known they would be, curled up together, asleep on Emilys bed. I nosed them awake. They both yawned and looked at me with sleepy impatience.
"Whaaaaat?" they asked. "What do you waaaant?" The cats had a habit of speaking in concert, and their voices were reedy whines, very unlike the assertive, imperious way a dog speaks.
"Im to be licensed," I announced proudly, and with gruff humility.
Bert yawned again, and stretched. Ernie licked his paws fastidiously.
"Whhhhy?" they asked.
"Well, of course you wouldnt understand. Cats dont have to be licensed. But when a dog is chosen by a family—when a family commits itself to the lifelong care of a dog—"
Bert and Ernie looked at each other and yawned in unison. Bert began to tend his whiskers. Ernie languidly clenched and unclenched his paws, making claws appear and disappear in a shockingly exhibitionistic way. Through slitted eyes he examined each claw, assessing its beauty. It was clear that they were both jealous of me.
"—then the dog receives a license. Its a sort of public statement. An emblem," I continued, pretending not to notice that they were ignoring me out of spiteful envy.
"A license," they chorused in their smirking, pompous voices.
"I composed a poem for the occasion," I told them, and recited it dramatically. Observe the dog! Hes yours! Youre his!
What a glorious day this is!
Bert gave a throaty chuckle. "Poetic license?" he suggested, and Ernie snickered.
"Doggerel," Ernie commented cruelly.
Then they stretched themselves out again, entwined around each other. Their eyes became slits once more. Ignoring my presence, they went back to sleep.
Disgruntled, I returned to the living room, allowed Emily to rub behind my ears, and finally settled down, though I indulged in a few murderous fantasies about cats before I slept.
A frightening coincidence occurred when I was taken the next day to the vet. I recognized the building and the office as the same one that I had visited before, when I had been in residence with the photographer. I remembered sitting miserably on the same metal table, long ago, to receive the necessary inoculations that are part of a well-bred dogs life.
So I began, on entering the office, to tremble. My fear was not about injections, which I knew already were almost painless, but that I would be recognized. I sat huddled and shaking, but trying desperately to maintain my smile, because I knew that the changed facial expression would be my salvation. It was the much-photographed sneer that had been my hallmark. Without it, I could perhaps pass as a different dog.
I also tried to keep my unruly tail lowered, since its magnificence could give me away as well. It was not difficult, since I was nervous, and a frightened tail tends to stay limp of its own volition.
It worked. Although somewhere in the filing cabinets of that clinical setting there were records of a dog named Pal, no one made the connection. I became a whole new folder under the new name of Keeper.
Then, after Emily and her mother patted my head sympathetically, I was given a rabies shot and several others that would ensure the acquisition of a license. Sure enough, within a few days the meaningful little metal tag arrived and was clipped to a collar along with a separate tag bearing my name. For the first time I did not object to a collar. I had a home now, and a family, and the symbolic jingle-jangle of my tags reminded everyone, including the cats, of my status.
The cats winced when I walked past, pretending that their delicate ears were pained by my jingling. But I knew it was only their pride that suffered. They had no tags themselves to proclaim their standing. They resorted to sarcasm, always the weapon of lesser creatures.
"Hot diggety dog," they began to say in haughty, sarcastic voices as I jingled past. I thought it was unworthy of them and did not lower myself to give a reply.
Stay!: Keepers Story
Stay!: Keepers Story
Chapter 13
TIME PASSED AND I SETTLED COMFORTABLY into the peaceful life of a childs pet and a family member. I slept on the floor beside Emilys bed and licked her face to wake her each morning, ignoring the preening and stretching of Bert and Emie, who occupied one of the pillows.
Summer was an exquisite time. With school finished, Emily was at home each day, and together we played in the yard and explored the nearby meadows. I frisked about like a puppy, chasing butterflies and grasshoppers. Emily and I took turns hiding in the tall unmown grass and leaping out to surprise each other. Again and again I retrieved the ball that I had trained her to throw.
Now and then the pair of cats deigned to join us out of doors, but they always pretended to think that our games were boring and juvenile, and after a short romp they inevitably found a sunny spot in which to languish, yawning.
At the end of that idyllic summer, Emilys front teeth reap-peared, she got new shoes, and it was time for her to return to school. Each morning I trotted beside her on the dirt road, returning to the little brick farmhouse only after I had seen her safely to the edge of the schoolyard. There I waited, relaxing in the yard, guarding my household, during the day. Occasionally I chased a squirrel for amusement. I could see Bert and Ernie luxuriating on a windowsill, watching my playful antics with bored disdain. The cats rarely came outdoors. They were too concerned about muddying their paws or dampening their sleek fur with dew. Never in my life before or since have I met such a pair of vain and lazy creatures. Even so, I had an odd affection for the pair.
If the weather was unpleasant, I had simply to scratch politely at the kitchen door and Emilys mother would invite me inside. My bowl was always full of fresh water, and the kitchen smelled of herbs and newly baked bread.
What a happy, undemanding life! I remembered my lucrative days as a supermodel with no regret that they were ended, though I thought still of the photographer, when we were struggling to find our way in the world. I remembered dear Jack with affection and a touch of grief, but the days of shivering under flattened tin, of foraging for food in dumpsters, held no nostalgia for me. My earliest memories, of my sweet mother, remained a source of tender thoughts, and I forgave her for leaving us alone. I rarely thought of my quarrelsome, boisterous brothers at all.
It was only Wispy for whom I still yearned. Sometimes, watching Bert and Ernie, observing their admiration of and attachment to each other (egotistical though it was, since they were identical), I fell victim to an overwhelming sense of loss. Once, long ago, I had a sister!
Oh, can you imagine how I have. . .
I couldnt quite get the second line right, since the only rhyme I could think of, kissed h
er, wasnt really accurate. But I enjoyed working on it, toying with the words in my mind as I lay drowsily in the sunny yard.
One morning it was raining. Dutifully I walked Emily to school. She was wearing a shiny slicker and boots and taking pleasure in wading through some of the puddles that had appeared in the uneven road. I tend to be somewhat fastidious about my appearance, and damp fur is extremely unattractive, so I did not take much pleasure in the morning walk. Once, back in the city, I had seen a Weimaraner dressed in a raincoat; it had seemed foolish at the time, but now, dripping as I was, I began to wonder whether perhaps a doggy slicker might not actually be a desirable thing.
Back at the house, I scratched at the door and was grateful, as Emilys mother dried me with a thick towel. She had been making cookies; I could smell the dough. I shook myself to rearrange and fluff my still-damp fur. On the kitchen counter, a small television was turned on. I am not a television fan, although I do enjoy reruns of the old Lassie shows. There is something about Lassie—the keen intelligence, the aristocratic bearing—that reminds me of my mother.
Actually, thats what I was thinking at that moment: how much this scene was like an old Lassie rerun, with the dog entering the kitchen of the farmhouse, where Mom was baking cookies. Of course, there were no Siamese cats in the life of Lassie, and at this moment, Bert and Ernie were watching me through slitted eyes from their spot on the windowsill. There was also no television, I was thinking as I smoothed my own fur with my tongue, in Lassies kitchen.
I circled my spot on the braided kitchen rug, lay down, and yawned.
Suddenly I heard, in whining unison from the cats, "Its Keeeeeeper!"
At the same moment I heard Emilys mother say in a startled voice, "Keeper!"
I raised my head, of course. Never before had the three of them at once called out my name.
To my surprise, they were not looking at me. They were staring at the television. Not wanting to leave my comfy spot on the rug, I craned my neck to get a better look at the small screen. A commercial was playing. I could see the rear end of a dog, its tail dangling in obvious discontent, walking away with a sort of contemptuous gait. Then the camera showed a woman tasting some low-fat yogurt, its brand clearly visible on the label, from a small carton. The woman licked her lips and smiled. "Well," she said to the camera, "I like it just fine!"
Emilys mother started to laugh. She closed the oven door after sliding the tray of cookies inside. She reached over and clicked the television off. The cats rearranged themselves, examined their paws, and closed their eyes again.
"That dog looked just like you, Keeper!" Emilys mother said. "Did you see him? He sneaked a taste of the yogurt, and then he made a face. Did you see how he sort of sneered and walked away?"
Stay!: Keepers Story
I hadnt seen anything except the rear end of the dog. It had looked, except for a bent section of the tail and a small patch of discolored fur on the hip, astonishingly like my own rear end, which I confess I have viewed occasionally in a mirror by twisting my body around carefully. From the description of the dogs facial expression, I could picture the sneer. It had been my famous sneer.
But I was quite certain the dog was not me. I had never made a yogurt commercial. The photographer had found a way to replace me with an imposter, a look-alike, a wannabe.