André Alexis - Fifteen Dogs

It was disturbing to imagine the death of his fellows. His pack would die out: a desolating thought, despite his hatred for the others. Then again, he had no idea what effect the garden of death would have. It was possible that Atticus’s pack would merely be incapacitated, allowing him to flee the coppice. In either case, Benjy could see no other route to freedom. All he had to do was lead those who’d killed Dougie to the proper place. The garden itself would do the rest.

The following morning, as they all set out from their den, Benjy drifted toward Ellis Park Road. That is, he made a show of sniffing tree trunks that led in the direction of Ellis Park Road. As if the gods themselves approved of Benjy’s intentions, on this summer morning the trees along the way were redolent of fascinating urine. The pack moved inexorably in the direction of the house that had hinted of death.

Benjy worried, as they approached the house on Ellis Park, that the garden would bring neither death nor incapacity, that it would bring mere discomfort. If so, he might well be punished, if they blamed him for their foray into the garden. The campaign called for subtlety. He had to lead while making it seem as if he were following. So, he did not strike off in the direction of the house. As they approached the place, he sniffed at the air and barked in a way that might have meant any number of things: ‘I am hungry’ or ‘I have seen a small creature’ or ‘I am one of you and happy to be so.’

Atticus growled. But Frack and Frick had by then sniffed something out for themselves. They headed toward the back of the house, and the others followed. There they found what was indeed a garden. The smell of ‘greening’ predominated, but it was undercut by enticing counter-currents: cow’s flesh, yeast, sugar. The garden was not immediately accessible. It was enclosed by green chain-mesh fencing. There was, however, a door with a latch that Frack easily opened. In no time, the pack was among the lush flowers, vegetables and half-buried goods.

The dogs — all except Benjy — were quietly ecstatic. Along the fence, away from the vegetation, there were pieces of meat and bread. In a far corner, there were chicken breasts and, even, rotting fish! The dogs — all except Benjy — ate their fill. Benjy ate air. He bit at furrows in the ground and made a show of eating, his tail raised and wriggling, until the others had finished. Satisfied, the pack left the garden and made their way back to High Park, wandering about until the sunlight faded and they returned to the coppice.

The first night in their den was so uneventful, Benjy might have said the place they’d discovered had not been a garden of death at all. No one died. All slept soundly and, in fact, returned to the garden the following day and the day after that. (There seemed to be an endless setting of meats, fish and bread.) On the third visit, Benjy’s will was tested. Hungry, unconvinced the place was dangerous, he was tempted to eat the meats on the ground. But he ate nothing, choosing instead to bear the pangs a while longer. As they were walking back through the park, scavenging for scavenging’s sake, however, Benjy noticed that Frick and Frack were walking in a strange way: wobbling, as if they were about to lose their balance. More than that: the dogs — all save Benjy — had begun to bleed from their muzzles.

That night in the coppice, Benjy was kept awake — and terrified — by the yelps of pain (which he imitated), by the weak thrashing about of his agonizing pack mates (which he aped), by the humid breathing of Frick, Frack and Rosie. When the sun came up, he allowed himself to sniff at the bodies, to take in the death he had brought them. Though Frick, Frack and Rosie were not quite dead, their bodies lay nearly motionless in the coppice. They could neither rise nor communicate. Wary and cautious, Benjy did not abandon them until the following day, when he was certain they were dead.

Atticus, it seemed, had gone off somewhere. Perhaps he had seen death coming and wished to face it on his own. Whatever the case, Benjy never saw the pack leader again. Judging from the agony of the others, however, he was certain the dog was dead.

Of this massacre, Majnoun heard only the sketchiest details. Benjy told it as if some strange sickness or other — one that had spared Benjy himself — had almost completely undone what had once been a strong pack. Just think, said Benjy solemnly: of the dogs who had been in cages on the night of the change, there now remained only two or, perhaps, three alive. Two or three dogs who knew what he and Majnoun knew. For some time, they were quiet.

— I was sorry to see so much death, Benjy said at last.

— Yes, said Majnoun, so much death would make one unhappy.

— Is there water to drink? asked Benjy.

+

Majnoun was too astute not to notice and mistrust the vagueness in Benjy’s account of their pack’s final days. But his mistrust was part of the mixed emotions he felt for Benjy. Along with a vague antipathy, there was fraternity. Benjy was the last, or nearly so, of his pack. Majnoun felt a sense of responsibility. As the stronger of the two, he perhaps naturally felt this, but part of him would also have preferred Benjy be elsewhere. He felt apprehensive about something or other, but before deciding what to do with Benjy there was the matter of teaching him human language, as he’d promised.

This proved more difficult than Majnoun had imagined. He himself had begun with a vocabulary of some hundred or so human words. He had then patiently acquired more. He had thought of simply teaching Benjy a vocabulary of essential words and phrases ( food, water, walk, don’t touch me , …) and then telling him about context and nuance. This was, in fact, how their own original, canine language worked: universally understood woof s whose shades of meaning were conveyed by posture, tone or situation. But how was he to teach Benjy that, for humans, certain sounds both did and did not mean what they were supposed to mean? For instance, Majnoun could not imagine a word more fundamental than food or the words related to it: eat, hungry, starving . He could not easily think of a word about which it was more crucial to be clear. Yet, one evening he and Nira had been in the kitchen together. He had been on the floor, head on his paws, listening as Nira read to him from a newspaper. Miguel came in shirtless from the bedroom and asked

— Are you hungry?

— I could eat, Nira answered.

— What could you eat? asked Miguel.

— What do you have in mind? asked Nira.

— I have sustenance in mind. What did you think I had in mind?

— Well, said Nira, if it’s only sustenance you want … I was thinking I had just the food for you, if you don’t mind going south.

— I see, said Miguel. In that case, we should retire to consider the menu.

And instead of eating, they had gone to the bedroom, closed the door behind them and, as far as Majnoun could tell from the sounds and odours, they had mated. This had puzzled him for some time. Not because Nira and Miguel had mated, but because they seemed to have conflated two very important things: eating and mating. This struck Majnoun as preposterous. Better if Miguel had come in speaking of some trivial thing (like cleaning the floors) and that had meant he wanted to mate. It would have been just as bewildering, but not, somehow, as significant. He began Benjy’s lessons in human language with a warning.

— Listen, small dog, he said. Humans do not always mean what is meant by the sounds they make. You must be careful.

— I am sure it is as you say, said Benjy

though Benjy was not at all concerned about the nuances of human language. He wanted only to learn it, seeing how well Majnoun had done for himself. That is, Majnoun’s situation was enviable, and Benjy assumed this was down to Majnoun’s command of the human tongue.