André Alexis - Fifteen Dogs

It was also for this new manner that he was hated. Not only did dogs like Atticus dislike Prince’s perversions of their tongue, but neither could they deal with the implications of Prince. Here was a form of status — given through admiration for Prince’s ability to speak and perform — that was so new it was difficult to think how one might combat it. What status was one to give to a dog whom one admired, but whose talents were so different than the traditional canine ones? What influence on the pack should the strange-speaking dog have? Was he dangerous? None of these questions was easily answered and so, in the end, it was fear that turned the conspirators against Prince.

His second exile — so strange and bewildering, coming as it did in the midst of a dream — was almost as devastating as the first. Prince could be forgiven for thinking that no world wanted him and, for some time, he suffered from what might be called depression. He wandered about the city finding ways to keep himself and his language — the language whose unofficial guardian he now was — alive. Yet, once again, despite his exile and bereavement, one could legitimately call Prince ‘fortunate.’ In the absence of home, of Kim and of his pack, there was at least one thing he loved, one thing that would be with him always: his pack’s language.

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As it happened, Prince’s relationship to the language of his pack so influenced his outlook and personality that, as his time on earth drew to a close, Apollo grew increasingly uncertain about how the dog’s life would end. This uncertainty affected him — god of plague and poetry — more than it did Hermes. Apollo was annoyed that a poet, of all things, might cost him his wager, but he also found it inconvenient not to know if he would win his younger brother’s servitude. If there was one thing he disliked, it was losing to Hermes.

— Listen, he said to his brother, this creature has lived most of its life in exile. It’s been unhappy for years. It can’t have anything but an unhappy death. Why don’t we settle our bet right now. If you like, I’ll forget you doubled the penalty. Let’s say you only owe me a year.

— No, said Hermes.

— You’re sure? I mean, if I were you, I’d jump at the chance.

— If you’re so sure, why don’t we triple the bet? asked Hermes. Let’s make it three years.

— You’re not being serious, answered Apollo. You haven’t been serious from the start. The premise was wrong on the face of it …

— Are you trying to reason with me? asked Hermes.

— There’s no need to be insulting, said Apollo. I’m simply pointing out that you weren’t being serious when you made this about the moment of death. If you asked a human to choose between a wonderful life with a terrible death or a miserable life with a wonderful death, which do you think it would choose? The moment of death is not important.

Hermes smirked.

— You are trying to reason with me, he said. In answer to your question: the young would choose an exciting life; the old a happy death. But none of that matters, since you agreed to the terms.

— You’re right that it doesn’t matter, said Apollo. This dog will die as miserably as the others, and I’ll use you like a goat for a few years.

Apollo was upset, however. And as happens when the gods are angry, he took it out on a mortal. In this case, Prince. Though the dog was in the last months of its life, though Zeus had forbidden his sons from further interfering in the lives of the dogs, Apollo surreptitiously intervened in Prince’s life. Making use of a handful of sand, he sent down afflictions to make the dog — now in its fifteenth year — suffer.

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Over the years, Prince had explored much of the city, but he knew its middle and south best, preferring, in the end, the stretch of Toronto bounded by Woodbine, Kingston Road, Victoria Park and Lake Ontario. Dividing his time amongst a number of houses and masters, he had come to think of the Beach as home. He knew it intimately and loved some of its pleasures; for instance, going down from Kingston Road into the vegetal secret that was Glen Stewart Park. Then again there was the feel of the lakeshore in winter (the sand stiff) or the smell of it in summer: metal, fish, the oils that humans slathered on themselves.

Prince knew any number of safe paths through his territory: escape routes, shortcuts, diversions. He could — if he had to — sniff his way from Kingston near Main all the way to the bottom of Neville Park, from Kew Beach east and north to where Willow and Balsam meet. Certain streets he knew better than others, of course. Kingston Road, for instance. What a crooked loveliness! The way it meanders among the senses: strange spices, the humid entrances to Glen Stewart Park, fresh bread, unpredictable exhalations from houses, the staid and chemical smell of concrete buildings, the shimmer of streetlights and stoplights and all the illuminations of evening, the humans with their

— Tsk, tsk, tsk … here, boy!

a hand as it travels in the fur of your back as if searching for something, the sweetness of an unlikely perfume. Kingston Road was always familiar yet somehow always strange. Then again, what about Beech or Willow? They were among the avenues he did not know well. He recognized them by their smells and the way their names looked on street signs, but they were little more than ways to the lake, ways that shimmered in his memory: stretches of green and grey, lawns and sidewalk — dubious, hard to recall. But knowing a territory is knowing what is left to know. Beech and Willow were part of what Prince had left to explore, part of the Beach’s great wealth.

Just as importantly, the Beach was where dogs were usually kept on leashes. This was a relief, because although, like Majnoun, Prince had learned to defend himself, he disliked having to subdue other dogs. For one thing, every dog dominated was one fewer to whom he could speak or teach his language. On occasion, he allowed himself to be bitten, but this was no better. Dogs who assumed they could dominate you made the poorest listeners. Then again, as he got older, it was more difficult to deal with those who were aggressive. So, odd though the thought was to him, Prince was grateful for leashes.

Then, too, the Beach was where humans, for the most part, left him alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, like keeping large balls in the air or gliding on shoes with small wheels or plunging themselves into the lake — whose waters reeked (marvellously) of urine, fish and a thousand dirty socks. The most serious problems Prince had with humans came when he was forced to defend himself against a dog that belonged to one of them. Humans could be brutal in defending their dogs and, what’s more, Prince knew there would be difficulties if he bit one of them. So, on the rare occasions when humans attacked him, Prince ran for it, bolting over territory he knew as well as he had ever known territory.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Prince’s most moving poems were about the Beach. ‘The Lake Comes to the Fringe,’ for instance, was composed in 2011, during the summer before his death.

The lake comes to the fringe

while lights go up around the bay.

Somewhere near, cow flesh is singed.

Smoke floats above the walkway.

I’ve eaten green that comes up black,

risen cold from torrid mud.

I’ve licked my paws and tasted blood.

What is this world of busy lies?

Some urban genie feeding food to flies!

With the Beach, in his final years, Prince had found a home again, at last. Cruel and unbiddable, Apollo took it from him.

To begin with, Prince lost his sight. Blindness descended on him over the space of two days, after a gust of wind sent sun-poisoned sand into his eyes and ears. At first, it was as if a grey mist hung over the world. The mist was thin but persistent: a softness, halos around sources of light, things in the distance vanishing as if behind an approaching white curtain. Then, the mist grew thick and close, as if it had turned to fog. Finally, all was grey and Prince could see nothing: no lights, no halos, no cars, no people, no buildings. Only a grey that was grey like grey blinkers over his eyes.