The dog’s name was Junk, but Grandmother wanted him to be called Grey-hound. In the end, when she was around, we just said “Dog,” but she insisted on calling him “Greyhound, Greyhound,” pronouncing the name as if to train him—and train us too.
He was a black dog, big and sharp-featured like country dogs. But he was old. His blind eyes leaked yellow pus. He moved as if his legs were made out of wood. His fur had started feeling like a water-damaged rug.
But he was a good dog, and much loved. Grandfather would pet him and give him bites of his own food. He used to say there was no dog in existence that was more intelligent. Grandmother would burst into laughter. “Oh, isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Greyhound is so clever. He can recognize a person’s color. Even at night.” Her laughter sounded like broken glass inside a rickety chest of drawers. Grandfather did not laugh. He wouldn’t even move. He kept his head so far down it looked like he already knew that joke or the joke triggered something secret in him.
Grandmother’s shrill sniggering sounded painful alongside Grandfather’s silence. I looked at Junk. Would he rub his nose so affectionately up against me if he still could see?
Grandfather came out of the house with a rifle in his arms. He had a somber expression on his face, different from the way he looked on “hunting days.”
“We have to kill that damn dog,” he said.
For the past week Junk had been coming home with bumps and bruises. That meant there was a stray dog trying to take over Pine Island. It had happened a couple of times before, but the strays had always been defeated and Junk kept his authority. This time too he went to battle, but now he was old and weak. There was no agility in him. He couldn’t see. When we called him for dinner, he came bloody and limping. A failed warrior. Poor Junk.
“What are we gonna do to catch that dog?” I asked, ready for a fight.
“We’re going to wait for it. We’re going to let it find us.”
I felt disappointed, almost mad. Why did everything noble and interesting in the countryside have to end up being so passive, so slow?
We let Junk lead us through the pines and the brush. It was hot as hell, but in spite of that we were wearing long pants. “Because of the poison ivy,” Grandfather said. Junk limped along, blind, but navigating masterfully past the trees. He had that secret power that some possess from having lived always in the same place. Junk knew his land, and with calm ease he guided us through the woods.
I was hot and starting to feel irritated when Junk froze. His ears pricked up. He tilted his head, first to one side, then to the other. He stood stock-still. He looked like the RCA puppy: a perfect portrait of the act of listening. Junk couldn’t see, but he could hear better than anybody. And he could pick up smells. He made a move to the left. I guess it was an attempt to turn quick, but, despite his intention, it was a wobble. He realigned his body and barked. It sounded more like a cough, a slow cough but fierce in spirit. Junk barked several times. He was invoking someone. And he didn’t have to wait very long to get an answer.
The other dog jumped out of an ivy-covered patch right in front of us. It had looked to me like there wasn’t anything there but weeds. But that was where the dog rushed out from. It looked like a demon, the mix of equal parts evil, growls, and teeth. I stood still but sensed Grandfather making a move. He raised his rifle. The dog was white with caramel spots. A large dog, with a long and pointy nose. It was frowning and showing its fangs. It had horrific teeth that seemed to jump out of its mouth with every bark. Its eyes were intense and shining. It was magnificent and beautiful, but the belly, the belly was hanging very low. It was flaccid, and pink spots of hairless flesh shone through. It was a bitch and had recently given birth.
“Damn!” I heard my grandfather say. I thought he had lowered his rifle, decided not to shoot. How was he going to shoot a momma dog?
Seconds later a gunshot sounded. It pierced my ears, echoed through the pines, and scared off the birds. After that came a deep silence. I’ d shut my eyes with the noise and the fright, but also because I couldn’t stand the images flashing in my mind: the dog’s head blown apart, the caramel hair covered in blood, and those terrible teeth now scattered all over the ground.
But he hadn’t shot her. He shot above her. The dog was still standing, tense and motionless. She was staring at us. Grandfather took a couple steps. Junk wobbled toward the bitch. Grandfather saw this and rushed ahead. Junk did not see, of course, but the other dog did, and leapt on them both. The pointy nose stretched forward, its whole body making a perfect straight line. It was at that moment that Grandfather hit her. He slammed the rifle’s tip into the base of the animal’s skull, and the bitch fell dumb at his feet.
He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and shook it open. He twisted it quickly and tied it around the dog’s snout. Junk leaned over her. He was barking and sniffing. I thought he maybe didn’t realize what was going on. Grandfather tied the front legs together with his belt, tight above the knees. And then I heard the whimpering.
I don’t know why I hadn’t heard them before. I think they had been making noises for a while. I only tuned in to them when Grandfather got up and went to them. In the place where the bitch had jumped at us from, there were eight puppies. White, cinnamon, caramel. They were newborn; their eyes weren’t even open yet, and they couldn’t walk. They were whimpering with tiny voices that made something hurt inside of me. Grandfather looked at them for a long while, thinking. Then he made up his mind, and we went to get the car.
We put the puppies in a cardboard box in the trunk. We picked up the momma dog and laid her on the back seat. She felt as heavy as a brass bell. Was she dead? Where were we going to take her? Those questions crossed my mind, but I didn’t feel up to asking them. I kept myself to just watching.
During the ride, the dog woke up. She growled at first, and shook violently. But then she calmed down. I looked back at her, and she was awake. We turned off the dirt road that cut across the island and took Route 45 northwest.
Finally, I managed to get a question out: “Are we taking her to the SPCA?”
“The SPCA?” Grandfather asked. “No way. They’ d treat her worse than Junk. We’re taking her to Walt Beltman’s. His boy was selling puppies in town the other day. Maybe he’ll want these too. If we’re lucky, they’ll also keep the bitch.”
We were going fast, leaving behind the slow oil pumps bobbing their clumsy heads up and down nonstop all day and night. The road was clear, and the heat was making waves that looked like streamers spiraling up in front of us. Every time I thought we were going to reach them, they suddenly disappeared. The dog stayed still, but her tension took up the whole inside of the car. I felt pressed up against the door, against the seat. I felt the windshield practically on top of me. And in spite of everything, she was still way too close.
At the edge of town, we took a narrow, rough road that curved into the brush to the west. The car clattered along, and I was terrified by the thought that the knots holding the dog could come loose, and she’ d end up at my neck. “God,” I thought, suddenly feeling very small and very fragile. “My bones are covered in tender and easy meat; if the dog breaks free, it can attack us with its teeth, its fangs.” But none of that happened, and we got safely to an empty lot in the middle of the grove.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
We heard that over the sound of the car engine. A big burly man came over to us. He had a huge belly, was wearing a green and brown plaid shirt, his shiny reddish face grinning at us.
“Walt Beltman!” My grandfather greeted him as he got out of the car. “It’s me, Tannen. I came to see you to ask a favor if you don’t mind.”
“Damn, it’s you, W.E.!” roared Beltman and shook my grandfather’s hand. His hospitality was so brash that I thought for a second he might hurt my grandfather’s hand or wrist. He invited us into his house with a shout: “Inside!” The house was built on high pillars like a dock, but there wasn’t a hint of water around. The porch was big and white. It had a wooden bench hanging from the ceiling to swing on, plus I could see there were a table and chairs. When I noticed my grandfather head toward the house, I got out of the car to follow him. I felt a little afraid, but this Beltman man, despite his size, seemed friendly.
“Hello!” he said to me when I got up to the porch. His booming voice echoed in my ears while he messed up my hair affectionately with his giant hand.
“Hello,” I said and raised my eyes, expecting to see him, but instead I saw a dozen round eyes, all pale blue and watching me.
“Come on, come on,” Beltman’s voice kept thundering. “Let me bring you some Coke. Y’all have time for a Coke, right, W.E.? Emilyyyyyyyy!” he yelled. “Bring a few Cokes! And bring ice!”
His wife came out with a tray full of glasses and a huge pitcher of Coca-Cola so cold that it made pearls of condensation on the glass. She looked like she’ d just walked out of a commercial. Mrs. Beltman had large muscular arms, and her skin was a surprisingly delicate pink. She was wearing a floral dress that was a little tight over her bosom. She poured the Coca-Cola into the glasses with a precision that amazed me, with the best bartender style, and I guessed she’ d developed that skill because she had seven children, and all of them just as strong and healthy as her and her husband.
“You remember my wife Emily? This is W. E. Tannen, from over by Shreveport, Pine Island.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” she said, in such a soft voice that it made me think she might be hoarse, or maybe a little nervous. “How are you doing, Mr. Tannen? Long time no see. How’s your . . . ?” She hesitated. I looked at her face, and then at my grandfather’s. “How’s your wife?”
“Just fine, thanks,” my grandfather replied, with a calm but courteous demeanor. It was as if they were on a television show, reading their lines from signs. They said everything so properly, but I felt there was something hidden, something that escaped me and that could happen in the next scene.
“That’s good, I’m glad.”
She passed the first glass to my grandfather, and added: “What a nice surprise you’ve come to visit us.” After that, she passed one to her husband, while asking “This is your granddaughter?” and putting a glass on the table in front of me but not looking at me, and not waiting for an answer. “We’ve heard so much about her,” as she handed out glasses of Coca-Cola to her children, naming each one of them in order by age: “Dennis, Walter, Ryan, Will, Buddy, Henry, Trevor.”
“Well,” my grandfather said, clearing his throat, “the truth is that I’ve come to ask you a favor. This stray dog got onto our land, and she was provoking my dog. I was going to chase her out, but she just had puppies, yesterday or maybe early this morning, and, well, I couldn’t chase her out just like that. I have the puppies in the trunk . . . I saw your son the other day selling puppies in town, and I thought maybe he wouldn’t mind me giving him these too. To sell.”
Mrs. Beltman took a look at her husband, and Mr. Beltman nodded, smiling, but he didn’t say anything. He changed his position on the chair, turning his big body toward his eldest son. The boy was standing by his brothers, all of them pressed together in the far corner of the porch.
“Uh,” said Dennis to start with. He was a thin boy about fifteen years old, with a shock of red hair, coarse and dry as a brush, and freckles scattered all over his face. His voice cracked, but he went on anyway and said: “Yes, Mr. Tannen, I’ll take them. I’ll take them.” Then he shrugged his shoulders as if to seem casual about it, but he did it clumsily so it looked like a spasm. I noticed that all his movements were quick and almost violent, as if he had some added energy in his body that he couldn’t control. “I can sell them. Sure.”
“We’ll give you good compensation, W.E.,” Mr. Beltman added, and Mrs. Beltman nodded, echoing with an “Of course!”
“No, no, please,” my grandfather said, shaking his head and putting his empty glass back on the table. Mrs. Beltman immediately filled it up with the last serving in the pitcher. My grandfather went on: “The favor I’m asking you is even bigger.”
“Drink your Coke, girl.” Beltman’s voice was directed to me, so everybody suddenly looked at me. It seemed like Mr. Beltman’s voice had some special characteristic so that every time he mentioned anything, everybody turned to look.
“Thanks,” I replied, and I remembered to add “Sir” because of the custom in the country. I picked up my glass, all wet with condensation, and brought it carefully to my lips. They were all staring at me. I could feel Mrs. Beltman’s eyes focused on me with some sort of strange curiosity. I wondered what she saw in me. My ears and my cheeks blushed. My muscles became alert as if I were on the brink of a fight or an escape. I took a sip of Coke and put the glass back on the table.
After that I turned to look toward the other kids who were still huddled in the corner of the porch. As I’ d suspected, they were staring at me with those round and very blue eyes, wide open, not blinking, like bright glass marbles in a row. It felt like they couldn’t think for themselves, just stare.
Dennis turned toward my grandfather to see what else he had to say.
“Well, I brought the bitch too. I can’t have her on the island.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Dennis replied. “I can handle it.”
“She’s wild,” my grandfather continued. “I guess I should have killed her.”
There was a silence that Mr. Beltman broke by turning around, making an effort to control his heftiness on the spindly chair: “Dennis, you think you’re up to this?”
“What?” he squeaked. His voice cracked at the exact wrong time. “Me? Sure, sure I am.”
Dennis swayed from side to side with obvious nervousness; he was rocking his weight from one leg to the other and nodding. “I’ll take her,” he insisted. “It’s no problem, Mr. Tannen.”
His mother said proudly, “Dennis is going to study to be a veterinarian.” When she said it, he blushed, but then beamed. Mr. Beltman smiled too and declared loudly, “He’ll be the best veterinarian in the county.”
“He’s already reading books on the subject. He reads about all kinds of animals,” Mrs. Beltman went on. “Especially dogs.”
“Not especially dogs, Mom,” Dennis muttered.
There was another silence, an awkward pause that hung in the air. Until Mr. Beltman’s voice barged in: “Well! Go on, son! Go get her—let’s see what you can do!” He stood up, his giant body vacating the chair, and it was like the whole world rose a couple feet with him. Mr. Beltman headed toward the car with my grandfather. Dennis followed them with his short, quick steps.
“More Coke, Mom,” whined one of the youngest Beltmans. But the pitcher was already empty.
“It’s finished, son,” Mrs. Beltman replied in her soft voice, patting his small shoulder to comfort him.
After that she took the tray back inside. My glass was the only one that had any Coca-Cola left. It was full because I hadn’t drunk much. The boy looked at it, and then his gaze slid over to me; he looked at me, he looked at the glass, he looked at me, and his face had the question printed on it. I pushed the glass a bit toward him, and then suddenly all the children swarmed around us, paying close attention, though I couldn’t understand why. But I did understand that their nearness was like a challenge, a challenge to him, a threat to me. I felt I should stay still, and I did.
The youngest Beltman wanted to have my glass of Coke. So much so that it made me think that maybe he wasn’t allowed to have Coca-Cola. I would have pushed the glass a little more toward him, but something I saw in the other boys made me stop. I didn’t want to move, afraid to disturb the precarious balance that had arisen between us.
Then, one of his brothers pushed him. Another booed at him. The boy raised his arms to reach over the edge of the table. In the distance the men’s voices next to our Mustang could be heard; the noise of the car door opening, then closing. The child stretched his arms toward the glass, advancing stealthily, hesitating just before he touched it. But then he grabbed it, picked it right up, and with the near-full glass of Coca-Cola in his possession he flashed a proud smile to his brothers. He smiled at me too, as if to say: “I did it. I’ve earned it!” But suddenly his mother came at him like a lightning bolt: “TREVOR BELTMAN!” She yanked the glass out of his hands and smashed it on the porch in an explosion of glass and ice. The Coke made a brown puddle on the white wood.
“What did I tell you? What did I tell you?”
Her voice was still soft, but put the promise of punishment in the air. She sank her thick and muscular hand into the flesh of her son’s little arm, and she took him, almost dragged him, into the house. The screen door shut with a bang, and after that I didn’t hear anything else. When I remembered the other boys, they were nowhere to be seen.
The only people in sight were my grandfather, Mr. Beltman, and Dennis, next to the car with the bitch, still tied up on the ground. My grandfather and Mr. Beltman were talking, watching her, and I guessed they were about to make a decision about what to do with her. I thought that, instead of still being on that porch when Mrs. Beltman came back to clean up the Coke and the broken glass, it’ d be better to be with the dog. So, I came down the long staircase and headed toward the car.
When I was close enough to make out what they were saying, I heard Dennis arguing with his father. “But look at her belly, all stretched out—this dog is in no shape to do much. I’ d let her go, see if she feels all right here.”
“No, no,” my grandfather said, raising his hands to keep him from doing that. That gesture put Dennis off. He gave him a sharp look and said: “You don’t believe me, Mr. Tannen?” Then he turned to Mr. Beltman: “Dad, Mr. Tannen doesn’t believe what I’m saying about the dog.” His father, having to choose between a distant neighbor and his eldest son, chose the family bond and replied in a firm, confident way: “You are the expert in this encampment, so go ahead.”
Dennis leaned over to untie the dog. I was just coming up to them and got a little scared, but the dog stayed still. It wasn’t trying to get up or resist. Dennis struggled with the knot that my grandfather had tied around the animal’s snout. The dog wasn’t even growling. It was lying passively on its right side, waiting for Dennis to do what he was going to do and watching him. I realized that the situation looked chancy. I felt fear but kept approaching, like I was pulled by a magnet.
Dennis managed to get the handkerchief off the dog’s snout, and then my grandfather stepped forward. He wanted to stop things by pushing him away from the dog, but Mr. Beltman wouldn’t let him. He put his hand on my grandfather’s shoulder and smiled big, with a father’s pride. I got a little closer and saw that the dog’s mouth was opening and closing very slowly. A weird movement, full of danger. I suddenly knew that the dog was after him. I didn’t speak, I couldn’t speak. I took one or two more steps toward them, and Dennis kneeled down to untie the front legs. I saw that Mr. Beltman had also noticed that the dog was acting strange, that it was moving its mouth as if testing a weapon.
Dennis undid the belt around the front legs. Mr. Beltman started to react, but stumbled. My grandfather reached out to grab Dennis from behind. It was too late; the dog had already found its chance. One leg loose, the other with the belt hanging off it, and its jaws open, free, the dog bit him on the arms, the legs, the chest, and on that forehead full of Dennis’s red hair.
I stepped back. Mr. Beltman was jumping around and trying with weak movements, in spite of his physique, to touch Dennis. The other boys ran up from all over, but stopped short. Mrs. Beltman appeared on the porch, and her shrieks made Mr. Beltman start bellowing orders instead of taking initiative. “Dennis!” he was shouting, but his voice got lost in the dog’s growling and Dennis’s screams. The shot froze the scene. For a moment, the dog let go of Dennis’s body, looked around, and in that instant my grandfather shot it a second time.
After that we left without saying much. Dennis’s wounds were superficial in the end, and he bore them with pride. Mr. Beltman and my grandfather shook hands, which was a good sign, but Mrs. Beltman, after greeting my grandfather, didn’t even look at me. When we were walking to the car and she thought we couldn’t hear her anymore, I heard her say: “Walt, I don’t want him coming back here with that gook. I told you they bring bad luck and didn’t you see how . . . ?” But I didn’t catch the rest of her sentence because of the engine starting.
_____
Author’s note: This text is originally an exophonic piece, i.e. written by someone using a language as a foreigner. I write fiction in Spanish, a language I learned as an adult after relocating to South America from the USA. This story was published in my first book, Catástrofes naturales (Editorial Sudamericana, 1997).
