The Dust Of 100 Dogs Part 18

"Mum?"

Yes? What?

Wow, Fred, you must have really lost it now.

"Shut up."

Can't see any women in your head but a dead one, eh?

Fredrick, what are you doing? Are you telling me to shut up?

"Shut up! All of you!"

Fred opened his eyes, but his mother still spoke. She's not She's not our our type. You won't find a Livingstone sort of woman in this b.l.o.o.d.y place, I told you. type. You won't find a Livingstone sort of woman in this b.l.o.o.d.y place, I told you.

"I said shut up!" Fred screamed, and Rusty stopped whining at the front door. "Well, if I have to go to the bank, I'd better have a drink first for my nerves."

That's good, Fred. Don't think about that stupid girl anymore!

He fixed a drink and sat down again, facing the beach.

You have to do do something about this, Fred. Something something about this, Fred. Something must must be done. be done.

"I know."

You have to do it today. today. You can't go banging that Jamaican anymore and thinking it's normal. It's not. There are cures for these things. You can't go banging that Jamaican anymore and thinking it's normal. It's not. There are cures for these things.

Oh yes! his mother echoed, sitting naked in a coral Rolls Royce parked on the beach. his mother echoed, sitting naked in a coral Rolls Royce parked on the beach. There are ways to get rid of such unspeakable thoughts. There are ways to get rid of such unspeakable thoughts.

You should go see a shrink.

Oh no! his mother said. his mother said. No professionals necessary! Fredrick, just come to the club with me on Sat.u.r.day and you'll have your pick of lovely, well-bred daughters. I promise you. They'll be No professionals necessary! Fredrick, just come to the club with me on Sat.u.r.day and you'll have your pick of lovely, well-bred daughters. I promise you. They'll be dying dying to meet you! to meet you!

"Shut up! All of you! Shut up!"

After two more drinks, Fred felt numb enough to begin the journey to Black River. He gathered his things and went downstairs. When he opened the door, Rusty raced past him to pee on the nearest flowerpot. Fred tried to order the dog back inside, but Rusty was already in the vegetation so Fred closed the door and left. "Starve, for all I care," he said.

He drove the single-lane road out of Billy's Bay slowly, daydreaming about finding the bikini girl. As he drove past a row of cheap hostels, he scanned the porch railings for a glimpse of coral. He saw nothing but drying beach towels, so he drove on, muttering about finding the girl and teaching her manners. As he approached the large market town a half hour later, he felt pensive.

He found a parking s.p.a.ce near the bank and gathered his things from the pa.s.senger's seat. Walking slowly, trying not to seem as paranoid as he was, Fred made his way to the bank while looking at the concrete beneath his feet. "She can't hide from me," he muttered. "I own this place."

He reached the double gla.s.s doors and slid through them into the air-conditioned foyer, quickly pa.s.sing an armed guard on his way to the manager. "I'll teach her a lesson someone should have taught her years ago."

The next thing he knew he was falling backward, grasping all of his papers to his chest, trying to see what had just hit him. When he looked up from the polished granite floor, he saw a beautiful young tourist rubbing her forehead and scowling at him. The jolt had s.h.i.+fted her white T-s.h.i.+rt only slightly, but enough to reveal a small portion of the coral pink bikini strap hugging her shoulder.

Hector, the owner of the hostel, let me eat from his kitchen and put it on a tab because he knew I was nearly out of cash. There were two others staying at the house, a guy from Australia (who I never saw due to all his energetic sightseeing), and a couple from Berlin (who only spoke German and had an annoying habit of laughing too loudly).

That first night in Billy's Bay, I stayed in my room feeling sorry for myself while I unpacked. I put my shampoo in the shower, my toothpaste on the sink. I sorted through the now-wrinkled mix of clean and dirty clothing from my army bag and put the clean ones in the dresser in the room. I pulled out my little purse and counted my traveler's checks. I made a small note, of how many I had left, on the envelope that held my return tickets. I unfolded and refolded my father's shovel a few times. I tried to feel excited, but I couldn't even leave the room. As I was attempting to fall asleep, the Germans laughed and laughed in the next room.

"Where are you?" I asked Emer, again.

She didn't answer, so I skinned them sloppily just to spite her.

The next morning, I took a walk up and down the beach. It was wider now than it used to be, fifty extra yards at low tide. The beach I remembered was rockier, and covered in thick vegetation. Now it stood in a mixed state of erosion. They'd removed many trees, and then piled tons of extra sand to cure what they'd caused. The few homes that scattered the coast were set back into the remaining trees. Some had walls around long, well-groomed gardens that led onto the beach, and some had no barriers at all but groves of sea grape trees.

I walked until I found the village Hector had told me about. It wasn't really a village-it was two tourist shops and a few beach-side food huts. In the short time I sat eating a plate of jerk chicken, three different women approached me aggressively, with their hands covered in aloe, commenting on my fair skin and my sunburn. Each time, I flinched and asked them to stop. It took me five minutes to explain to the last one that I didn't owe her twenty dollars. I tried to stuff hot chicken wings up her nose and shove a boiled eel down her throat, but it was just no fun without Emer.

I returned to Billy's Bay and spent the rest of day pacing the beach. It seemed simple. An even hundred paces from the rocky head on the western point led me to a grove of trees. Another hundred paces brought me past the trees to a gla.s.s mansion, half covered in blooming bougainvillea. My fortune lay between those two points-within those hundred yards-at the base of an incline.

As I walked, I tried to remember things that were long dead and gone with Emer Morrisey. I saw Seanie in my mind, lying dead on the beach, and my stomach tightened. I paced the length, one hundred fifty paces exactly, and searched the tree line before me. I would have to get closer to find what I was looking for.

I wasn't five minutes into my walk the next morning when a jumpy Doberman approached me and a man appeared on the deck of the gla.s.s house. When I first saw him I got an awful rush of adrenaline, the way I do when someone cuts in line or a Quiz Bowl match is about to start. And when he waved I felt threatened somehow, as if he were some sort of bad omen. The dog was great. I've always liked Dobermans (having lived as one twice, I have insight into their goofy, loving nature). It was the man who worried me-especially now that I'd paced enough to know that my treasure was somewhere near his house.

As I walked homeward along the beach that night, the huge orange sun dipped lower and lower into the horizon. It was a moment I can't explain. Emer flickered inside me, and I longed for what she longed for. She ordered me to take a sunset swim, so I did, and it was like wrapping myself in a warm blanket of familiarity-even though I'd never once swum in an ocean as Saffron Adams.

Hector and I left for Black River early the next day. He dropped me in the center of the morning market and gave me two hours to check it out. I figured there was ample time to get to the bank and get a few things, so I pointed to a meeting place on the opposite side of the one-way road, and he sped off.

The market was loud and it smelled of day-old fruit and damp cardboard. There were busy Jamaicans moving tall stacks of pallets from stall to stall and women yelling at me from behind their goods, announcing the discount they would give and demanding I try on their hats and jewelry. I continued toward the town center and crossed over a wide bridge. The river was crammed with boats carrying tourists, fishermen, and children, and the water had a thin layer of gas on the surface that shone like mother of pearl.

No sooner had I arrived at the bank and felt the relief of the air conditioning than this old guy, rus.h.i.+ng in the opposite door, walked right into me and nearly knocked me over.

He looked up at me from the floor. "My apologies," he said in an English accent. "I'm very sorry."

I bent over a little, covering my face, and rubbed the intense pain on my head where his chin had hit me. Then Emer Morrisey came alive and I got instant goose b.u.mps.

He scrambled to get up. "Completely my fault," he said. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

I was still rubbing my head, which was starting to throb. "Okay."

I got in line and looked over at him periodically. He looked like somebody I knew. I figured I'd seen him in the village, or maybe I'd just seen him on the street and it hadn't registered.

It wasn't until we met again, less violently, on our way out, that I realized who he was.

"Do you need a lift back to Billy's Bay?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Would you like a lift?" he said, annoyingly louder.

I squinted at him, confused.

He smiled and nodded, then stuck out his right hand. "We should start again. My name is Fred. Livingstone. We saw each other yesterday on the beach, remember?"

I squinted harder, until he did a lame reenactment of his wave. "Oh. Right. The gla.s.s place."

"And you are?"

"On vacation?" I said hesitantly.

He didn't like that. "Are you sure I can't give you a lift?"

"No thanks. I have one." I had an overwhelming urge to carve my initials into his back.

"How about dinner tonight?"

"No, thanks," I said. I wanted to rub salt into the S S, into the A A.

"Oh. Well. I'll see you later then," he stuttered, and left quickly.

My whole body felt cold and nervous, like it did when I saw Junior on the road on prom night. Did an old guy like that really want to take me to dinner? How did he recognize me after only seeing me from a hundred yards away?

And why did I feel like Emer was back now, twice as strong as she ever was, commanding me to kill him on the spot?

DOG FACT #6.

Bad Habits Your dog is capable of doing some pretty awful stuff. It's up to you to maintain consistent affection, training, and discipline in order to prevent your dog from doing awful stuff. However, sometimes this is not enough. Some dogs are just born bad.

I've done it all. I've bitten letter carriers and chased cars and tractors and bicycles and tanks. I've worried more sheep than a shepherd can count. I've chewed on everything, from homework to framework to the family cat. I've even fought and killed my own.

Back in 1958, I was a Pit Bull Terrier bred by an alcoholic ex-con who called himself "The Master." He was one of those in-and-out-of-prison guys who came to crave the systematic abuse he'd been a victim of his whole life.

When the Master brought me home to his rundown wood-s.h.i.+ngled house, I was nine weeks old. He threw me into a filthy coop where the only other occupant was an aggressive Jack Russell who was always injured. A few times per week, the Jack was pulled from the cage and taken to the barn for an hour, and then deposited back in the cage, bleeding, missing lumps of skin and hair, and soaked with urine. Once he had healed and felt a little better he'd nip at me, and that made me mad. It made me mad enough that at two months old, I nipped back and took the little twerp's ear off.

The Master began "training me" then-starving me, beating me, chaining me, and teasing me. Twice he stood me on a concrete pad an inch deep in water and ran electricity through it, making me jump and howl. Sometimes he would shoot me with his BB gun all afternoon and then spray me with salt water. And other times, he would throw me, hungry, into a ring with a drugged rabbit or cat and I'd tear it to pieces.

One week when I was still a pup, I was brought to watch some older dogs fight at a neighbor's barn. The Master invited a bunch of his friends because they liked to drink beer, bet, and watch dogs kill each other. Before the real action started, they had a "warm up." It took two minutes for my sire, a two-year-old Pit Bull Terrier champion, to kill my old cage mate, the Jack. They'd muzzled the Jack with a few strips of duct tape and he never had a chance. This was my destiny, the Master said. I was to follow in the footsteps of my father and make him lots and lots of money, which is exactly what happened.

I kept winning and winning, and he kept betting and betting, until I'd killed at least a hundred dogs. Some had their snouts tied shut or their teeth pulled out. Some were already so injured by the time they got to me that I couldn't figure out how they could call it a fight fight, but I fought anyway.

Fact was, I knew it was wrong. But once my canine-self got accustomed to life as a killer, I just couldn't stop. When they busted the Master two years later, they found me-crazy with rage-tied with a short tow chain, ribs showing, and they couldn't get near me without landing two tranquilizer darts in me first. Then, they put me to sleep on the spot.

Your dog doesn't have to be a killer to be dangerous. A nip leads to a bite. And regrettably, biters are rarely cured. You need to be responsible for what your dog does, and this requires serious consideration. As hard as it is to face the act of euthanizing a pet, think about how much doggie prisons would cost. Aren't we feeding enough incurable scoundrels already?

What great things would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?

Robert H. Schuller

As the Vera Cruz Vera Cruz neared a port on the westernmost island of the Bahamas, Emer's crew didn't notice the three men standing on the dock with loaded pistols. The s.h.i.+p was in need of serious repair-her sails perforated by Spanish chain shot and her hull covered in thick sea growth that made her move too slowly through the calm water. The men worked to steer the s.h.i.+p in, secure it, and then reported to David that they had landed successfully. neared a port on the westernmost island of the Bahamas, Emer's crew didn't notice the three men standing on the dock with loaded pistols. The s.h.i.+p was in need of serious repair-her sails perforated by Spanish chain shot and her hull covered in thick sea growth that made her move too slowly through the calm water. The men worked to steer the s.h.i.+p in, secure it, and then reported to David that they had landed successfully.

David crept silently from the cabin, leaving Emer to catch up on rest she surely had missed the night before. When he approached the gangplank, the three men began to walk toward him. He could sense they were trouble.

"Who are you?" David asked.

"I am the new governor here. This is my friend Mr. Thomson." The third man stood behind the other two, running his fingers through his thick black hair.

"What do ye want?" David asked.

"Are you the captain of this s.h.i.+p?"

David stared.

"Are you the captain of this s.h.i.+p?" the governor repeated.

The other two men began to walk toward David, and he held out his arms so they were unable to pa.s.s.

"We have serious business with your captain."

"Let me fetch him for you," David offered, but the men pushed past him and walked toward the s.h.i.+p.

Emer was dragged out of her cabin, up the ladder, and out to the deck. She'd managed to dress herself in a long-sleeved nightdress, and David was relieved.

As the two men pushed her down the plank, the governor leaned down toward Emer's ear. "What's your name, woman?" he whispered. Emer told him, feeling defeated. All that killing, and still nameless! Surely a man guilty of the same horrors would have his name in history books already!

The governor spoke loudly so that the entire crew could hear him. "Emer Morrisey, you are under arrest on this tenth day of March, 1663, for piracy and murder! You shall be tried, and then you will hang from our gallows where many other scoundrels have suffered the same fate. To these accusations how do you plead?"

Emer wrestled with the two men. One tied her hands behind her back with thick hemp rope while the other tried to keep her from jumping off the gangplank.

"Woman! How do you plead?"

The two men pushed her to the base of the plank and onto the dock. The governor asked again, "How do you plead?"