Stephen Dixon - Frog

On the street, walking the dog. Has no dog but imagines he’s one. Has one. Woman passes. “Nice dog you have there,” he says. “Nice dog you have too. What’s its name?” “Airedale,” he says. “But he’s no Airedale.” “I always wanted one, my father would never let me have one, now that I’m old enough and on my own to have one I have no money to buy one, so decided to call him that. Actually, I did have an Airedale once. Part. Do you have time to listen? We lost him when I was a boy. It’s a sad bad mad dad story. Actually, he lost him. Wanted to get rid of him so gave him to a friend to get rid of but told us he’d run away. The dog did. I shared him with my two brothers and sister, you see, but he was really me. Mine. Since I took care of him for the most part. The hind part. What’s your daddy’s name?” “My doggy’s? Scott.” “For Scottie? But he’s no Scottie. Course he is. Only kissing. Kidding. Excuse me.” Puts his lips and arms out. “You wouldn’t want to, would you?” “Won’t your doggy run away?” she says. “Right. So what happens? Happened? Just that for a moment he looked big for a Scottie, that’s what I meant when I said he wasn’t one. I have a Scottie too, so to speak. A nephew named one. Scott. He’s not a Scot though. He’s a Litvak, or would be one if he’d been born where all his great-grandparents were born, or is that the other thing?” “What other thing?” “Litvaks always go with something else. One steals horses, the other owns them. That’s what my dad used to say and sometimes used to say his dad used to say it. People who have heard it would know what I mean and which one does what and possibly what’s the other’s name. I was also never very good in school at explaining what I mean. What’s your name?” “Scott.” “Come on.” “Sarah.” “With two t ’s or one?” “Sarah. Two t ’s.” “I did have a dog. We all shared my dad. But you can’t say — I know you’re not saying — that losing a dog at the time you lose it would have to take second place to losing a dad, that is, if you’re a kid. But I had to do the dirty work the last six years with him. Not had to. Did. Holding his prick inside the urinal for his piss, cleaning up his shit, taking his anger because he hated being so helpless and sick. Those things can scare. Scar. But you’re going. Gone. I’ve probably nothing more to say anyway and if you do I’m sure it’s not to me. Story of my life? And how could we, since you’re already down the street. Say, nice dog you have there, lady. What’s its breed? Is it on special formula diet? Has it been spayed or fixed? Does it get enough exercise a day and at least fifteen minutes of it free run? Is there a Scottie newsletter as there is for Airedales? Quite the society we live in, right? More news than noses. Everything you never wanted and then some and not only what money can’t buy. And I didn’t even get to ask its name. His.”

He’s walking his cat. Cat walks beside him. He stops, cat does. His wife used to do that when they had four cats. Before she was his wife. When she could still walk like that. Long walks with the four cats, all originally hers. They’d take them to Maine for the summer in two pet carriers, mother and son in one, sisters of these triplets in the other. They’d meow the whole way if a window was open or the side vents were opened wide or vent blower was on high or when a big truck or bus passed. Then they’d howl. “Can’t you shut them up?” he’d periodically say. “It’s disturbing my driving.” And under his breath, sometimes she heard or some of it and would say “What?” or “Speak up,” he’d say “Gas them, for Christsakes,” or “If it was up to me I’d throw the dumb assholes out the window.” They had to stop every two hours or so so the cats could use the litter box. Siamese. She walked them to the beach and along it and back. Up there, shore . They walked single file. Wife first, before she was his wife, when she was able to walk like that. Son second, sisters after him, mother last. He’d watch them go and come back from his workroom window. Sometimes when she saw him she held up the mother cat and waved her paw at him. He waved back once, another time stood up and made a sweeping bow to the cat, but usually he just sat there looking at them, no expression change. He wonders what she thought of that then. If any of the cats lagged behind, she’d whistle and they’d run, mother not so fast, and if the son stopped short and quickly turned around in a crouch to hiss at the others, one of the sisters — one who wasn’t going blind and was always second in line — would race straight toward him and at the last instant leap over him, sending him scurrying. She also walked to the top of their road, they’d follow, single file, and sometimes along the town road a short while. When a car came they dashed into the bushes, only came out when she called them by name and they’d resume walking, same single file. Then she walked three of them, when the son died. Two, when the mother died. But much slower now, not so far, not down to the water, up to the road, but just around the grounds. Sometimes she fell or couldn’t go any farther or was too tired to and she’d call him and he’d run out and help her back to the house, cats behind or beside them, no particular order. A few times he heard her but didn’t want to lose what he was working on so didn’t respond. She later said she fell before, couldn’t get up for a while, or couldn’t move another inch — her legs suddenly stiffened or collapsed on her or there were these terrific spasms — and called him, several times, she supposed he didn’t hear because he was in the toilet or showering or out back or down by the water, managed to get herself up, but it was a struggle, and back to the house, which took all the energy she had left and so much time. He’d say he was at one of those places she mentioned, or would make up another one — the heat, so without even knowing it he fell asleep at his desk, or stomach cramps, he heard her but was flat on his back in bed and couldn’t for the life of him get up or even yell — and was sorry he hadn’t been there to help. There’s only one cat now. One walking beside him. She’s blind, walks into things a lot, they step on her tail or push the chair back on it more often than they used to, so maybe her hearing’s also bad, uses its whiskers and bumping head to tell where it is and what’s in front of it when it wants to get around. His wife doesn’t walk with it much anymore and when she does it’s with two canes or a walker. ‘The lame leading the blind,” she’s said, “or the crippled or impotent or useless or whatever you want to call it. The washout.” But she’s glad he walks with the cat, since it’s getting some exercise and fresh air and she doesn’t like it outside unless someone’s with her. There are coyotes, bears, hawks.

He walks his horse. Once rode a horse. Or the horse rode him. In summer camp. His folks gave the camp extra money to teach him to ride. It’s what he’d wanted to do for years. Saw himself as a future Canadian Mountie or a cowboy shooting a rifle in the air while leading the last great cattle drives, but both where he ends up marrying a beautiful pinchwaisted lady who knows how to ride. Horse was big but he wasn’t afraid to get on it. When he was told to mount, he said to the riding instructor, a young wily-looking guy, tight Levis, no shirt, tatoos, huge arm muscles, bandanna around his neck, no fat, “Left side you get on it, right? Or right side, maybe I forgot.” He either had it right or he didn’t, right now he couldn’t say which side the rider’s supposed to get on or why, but he needed no assistance. Foot in the stirrup, grabbed the part that sticks out of the Western saddle, hoisted himself on. It was so high up. Why’d it seem so high? Or why didn’t he think it’d be so high? Already knew the horse was big, and he was a little guy. He supposes, for some reason, he saw himself sitting at the horse’s eye level — and maybe when its head was bent over a little — rather than his own. It was scary up there but he didn’t show it. “Try not to fall,” the instructor said. “You can break your neck and be paralyzed for life. It’s happened but was never my fault. If you do fall, try sliding down the horse’s side but away from the hooves, as one kick from that mother and he can squash your head for good. That’s what happened with a few of my people learning too. I didn’t feel too bad because I told them not to and they thought they knew more than me, so they got what they deserved.” Now he didn’t want to ride. Afraid of the horse and being up so high and didn’t trust this guy. But the money was paid, couldn’t be returned, his father would give his mother hell over it, since he felt they were paying too much for this camp as it was, and word would get back to his bunk he’s a sissy, so he stayed. Was also afraid to get off and be hit by a hoof and this guy seemed so tough and mean he didn’t want to ask him how to. “Giddyup,” the instructor said. “What?” “Best way to learn is to start galloping right away, I say. Same like tossing you into a pool. That’s what I’d do if I was teaching you how to swim. Hold your head down under water, even, so you know what it is to hold your breath. You learn riding instincts right away, how to hold yourself in the saddle, use the reins right so the horse knows you’re not scared and the boss, so he tells the other horses in the stable — I’m not kidding you; they speak. You might get thrown but you’ll at least have that out of the way and if you don’t give your horse some fun like that he’s going to get angry at you. But if you want—” “I do, thank you.” “Sounds pretty chickenshit to me, but OK, we’ll go at a walking pace first. I’ll follow you. Give him a couple of heel kicks to get him started.” Howard kicked it gently. “Harder, harder, what do you think it’s got horse hide for? — like this,” and kicked the horse’s rear. Horse sort of snorted and grunted and then bolted off, galloping or cantering. Just going very fast. He pulled the reins and horse went faster. Yelled “Grab him, call him, I can’t stop him.” Horse went off the path, down between some trees, branch slapping Howard’s face, up onto another path, instructor behind him somewhere yelling “Pull the fucking reins, you stupid shit; the straps — pull them with all your might and then hold on tight.” “Did.” “Hard.” Pulled them very hard and horse stopped, stood almost straight up, his front legs sort of making a boxer’s jabbing motions at that bag they practice timing and maybe punching with, a punching bag, then came down hard on his front hoofs twice and Howard fell off, immediately scooting away on his hands and knees, but the horse was already some thirty feet away, eating grass. “You stupid idiot, you OK?” the instructor said from his horse right above him, slapping at some bugs on his chest. “Why’d you run off like that?” “Me? Why’d you swat my horse?” “What I swat?” “Swat, kick, like it was a football you were booting.” “What are you, fucking nuts? It was you. But go around lying like that to anyone and I’ll come take your dumb face and stick it in the freshest horseshit.” “All right; I kicked, you didn’t.” “You still saying I did?” and he threw one leg over the horse as if he was getting off. “No, I’m saying that’s what I did and you didn’t; kicked. But too hard — not the way you told me to — I mean.” “That’s because you don’t belong on a horse. You could’ve broken its leg, run him into a tree or rock and your pop would have paid plenty for it, enough for ten pansy campers at your camp for a month. I’m taking your horse in before you kill him. You get to the stable any way you find and tell them you don’t want lessons anymore, if I was you. I know I’m through teaching you.” “Truth is, I don’t want to ride anymore. Just not for me.” Instructor rode off pulling Howard’s horse. Look at those stupid muscles, he thought. I hope the mosquitoes kill him, no shirt. He sat in the grass, ripped out a blade and chewed on it, ripped out handfuls and yelled “Fucking pig. I’d like to tear your head off. I would. Give me a fucking chance. Give me a gun. I’d sneak up on you at night, even if you were sleeping like a baby in bed, and blow your fucking dumb head off.”