Graeme Gibson - Communion

And so he reaches up to unlock the door. Does it tighten as he reaches, touches the bolt? What will it do, it seems calm. It stares at his hand. The metal is cool on his fingers. He pauses a moment. His long body in the aisle, his head resting on the linoleum, he does not move: his arm is raised as in a salute. His fingers are cool on the metal. What will it do, is it smiling at him? It appears that the dog is smiling at him. He slides the upper bolt and the mouth opens imperceptibly, the lips are drawing back in a smile. Still its head rests on the floor of the cage, his head in the aisle. It watches his falling hand to the lower bolt and the eyes seem blank again, from far inside a sound begins, a cry. Perhaps it doesn’t understand. It occurs to Felix that he should have raised himself from the floor before opening the bolts, before the dog, realizing something new, something unexpected was happening, began this terrible noise . . .

What to do? The stiffening body, that cry, the bristles jagged on its spine, he doesn’t know what to do! He lies with his hand on the second bolt and imagines rising to his feet, crouching to slide it open, opening the door. And the dog explodes, hurling its eighty pounds against him, bursting from the cage with snarling froth and pain, the noise! the terrible noise and pain . . . That’s a real possibility. And yet. He’s loth to stop now when he’d been so sure: it had seemed exactly the right time, the dog expectant, responsive, waiting his hand, the perfect moment, the gesture, the friendship . . . It seems too bad. Really too bad. It stares intently at his hand which rests uncertain still on the bolt. The sound in its chest is like an electric motor. Felix doesn’t know what to think, he doesn’t know what to do and since there’s no easy way out, he stops thinking. It nearly always works. His mind is empty, his eyes are closed. Time passes. It becomes clear that he isn’t going to undo the second bolt. It always happens. He opens his eyes. The room is the same as he rises to his feet. His voice has begun to soothe, placate again as he reaches for the upper bolt; he’s hardly aware of the dog. His mind is empty. There’s a vague regret, of course, a sadness, but he’s used to that.

He stands with his fingers on the lock and if he thinks at all, he finds it difficult to believe he ever really intended to stick his arm in there. The morning has made him sleepy. Bright sun on the windows and the room is uncomfortably warm. He wonders, for a moment, what he’s doing here. Irresolute in the distinct and separate noises all around him, he wonders what he’s doing in this airless room with cages in tiers, with shuffling animal bodies and the heat . . .

“Why yes, of course I can help you.” She knows alright, that’s clear enough: she sees, she must, his eagerness and imperceptibly she’s smiling. “I’d be delighted hah, no trouble at all.”

“After work.” She stands on both feet, her legs slightly apart, balancing evenly on both feet, she leans toward him. Are you sure it’s . . . ”

Jesus “Yes, I’d be . . . ”

“About what time?”

“Five.”

“Five-thirty?”

“Certainly.” It’s already after work, they’re returning from the kennels.

“It’s very kind of you doctor.” She’s called him doctor! “It’s hard, you know. When you don’t know the city.” She doesn’t know the city, doctor I don’t know the city! He stares intently at her face. Steady. Steady. Returning from the kennels, or even better, they decide to have a drink and then another. Is she married? There isn’t a ring, but she looks married. Her face watching him, she’s new in the city: her eyes knowing him, he hopes she’s married. A drink in some nice bar then, her breasts heavy on the table as she leans for a light and before long it’s too late, the kennels are closed. She wants it as much as he does, that’s pretty obvious, he can tell: her breathing’s shallow and more rapid . . .

“I’m sorry,” smiling. “What’s your name? I don’t know your name.”

“Anderson.” Does she pause, or it his imagination; is she evasive? He’d like that. “Mary Anderson.” And smiling brilliantly, is that sweat on her lip? Married, a bit of danger, he’d like that. “I’m sorry, I should have . . . ” Her eyes, more calculating into his.

“Oh no, that’s.” It’s sweat, he finds it irresistible, she’s sweating. “I’m Peter Walters.” That’s very nice.

“Hello Peter Walters.”

“Hello Mary.” He eases off the counter, no need for that, and his day expands with sweat on her lip, her breasts, his mouth, hands, his . . . No dinner, no. He passes quickly over a supper of some kind, candlelight, very nice with wine, but why not drop by my place for a nightcap? Why not? A smoke, he searches in his pocket. They’re by the ashtray. “Would you like a cigarette?”

Thanks. Reaching. Reaching “Thanks,” she’s in his bed. A wildcat. Her fingers touch his hand as she inhales, she agrees to everything, maybe she’d. He’s always wanted a . . . Fantastic! No question of that lingering touch: steadying his hand, on his face more like it, his eyes, now tracing intrigued the line of his mouth and he can try it, yes, she’s not like the others.

Poking into his bellybutton, scraping index fingernail up his thigh and the certainty that she won’t be horrified, afraid, it’s right up her alley, fills his head with blood, it glints in his eyes . . . His legs are like rubber, he can hardly get out of the room to put it on.

Peter Walters on his hands and knees, fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl at the bedroom door. It’s cunningly designed. A canine mask covers his head but leaves his mouth, his own fangs free: dog skins have been tailored to fit over his shoulders and along his back to the bushy tail. Surprisingly white underneath, blue-veined at the belly, he’s naked from mouth to thighs.

A flesh-coloured strap buckled under his chin, another across his chest, two more between his legs, hold everything in place; sleeves to the wrist for his arms, to the knee for his legs, are secured by elastic. It’s beautifully made, it never slips or binds: the straps at his thighs tend to chafe in hot weather, but only because he’s plumper now.

There’s a piece of wire in the tail (he thought of that himself), stiffly it rises behind him, jerking from side to side as he crawls towards her. He snarls. She understands immediately, she understands! She moans. His small red penis rises like a finger as she moans. He howls, she whimpers. Raising his face in gratitude, his muzzle to the ceiling, he howls and howls! With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed, she whimpers more excitedly, she rises on all fours, she . . .

Chaos in the room behind. Good God, turning to the door “Excuse me”, what in hell? A madhouse, they’ve all . . .

“What’s that?” Her eyes, oh doctor . . .

“Just a.” The husky, the fucking . . . “Excuse me.” Smiling professional, grimly smiling. “Just a minute, it’s just.” And Peter Walters through the door to restore order. “Don’t go away.” Darting his head back, her breasts, smiling “Don’t go away.” And then between cages with animals launching themselves against their doors, swelling and spitting, it’s a madhouse, a crazy ark because of that goddamn dog and Oswald. What’s he done to it? staring, muttering privately. What if she leaves? hardly a glance for Oswald standing and it’s another fit of course. A bad one by the look of it. Totally hysteric, and that’s enough, it’ll have to go: the dog is completely out of control. Horribly contorted it screams, howls, and Walters decides to make the phone call. There’s no curing it, and they might even pay extra for a specimen as strong as this. The great white body crashes repeatedly against the cage as he watches: the whole tier shudders, but the bugger should collapse anytime now. Really stupid, a frenzy of stupidity, what brings it on? Growing weaker, it stiffens brutally, the foam at its mouth is red with blood, it falls jerking to the floor, it shakes, and flutters, and then lies still . . .