André Alexis - Fifteen Dogs

Though his blindness took time to efface the world, it was as traumatic as if it had come between one moment and the next. Prince was under the wooden staircase near the top of Glen Stewart Park when he realized that he could no longer see a thing. That is, he was well away from any of the homes that were ‘his.’ So, now blind, he had to make his way through the Beach to … where, exactly?

Being an old but obviously bright dog, Prince was welcome in a handful of homes where he would be fed, petted and sheltered. The humans in these homes were all kind — none was as overbearing as Randy had been — but Prince had not wanted to be stuck in any particular house, choosing instead an independence that allowed him to explore his territory, to compose his poems in solitude, to encounter the world on his own terms. Also: after a few days, he inevitably grew tired of the behaviour his presence elicited in humans: cooing, fur rubbing, rolling about on the ground with him, smugness, condescension, chirpily rendered orders

— Here, boy! Here, boy!

— Roll over! Roll over!

and fluttering-voiced addresses

— Who’s a good boy, eh? Who’s a good dog?

No matter how much he tried to accept that their behaviour was dictated by their nature, Prince sometimes found human attention so distracting that he couldn’t think straight. For this reason, in summer, he often stayed out, sleeping in whatever makeshift den he could find — bushes, benches, boxes, etc. In winter, it’s true, he was forced to seek shelter, staying here or there for weeks at a time. But even in winter Prince tried to keep a certain distance from humans. Now that he was blind, with whom would he stay? Whose company would he choose, knowing that he might be with them for good?

There were only two homes he seriously considered. One belonged to a woman in a small house, far away from Glen Stewart and so far from the beach that he might not experience his beloved lake often enough. She was kind. She allowed him more freedom than any other human had, content to feed him and let him alone, patting him when she imagined he needed it. The woman smoked, however, the smell of cigarettes almost obliterating all others. And the ‘feel’ of her was sometimes frightening. From time to time, it was as if she longed to kill something. So the woman’s place would not do as a permanent den. That left the house on Neville Park. It was on the edge of his territory, not far from the lake. The humans in it — a woman and three men — were all kindly disposed toward him. Even better: none clung to him or condescended. They put food down when he was there, let him out in the morning, let him back in the evening. The female paid the most attention to him, but he could bear her affection because she was not often demonstrative.

In general, humans were — as far as Prince was concerned — overly emotional and emotionally obvious. You could tell a human was angry from three blocks away, and that’s without the creature growling, lunging or baring its teeth! They were beacons of emotion and it was often disruptive being near them. There were, of course, exceptions. Certain humans were unreadable or unstable. They could change mood in an instant, going from kindness to murderous intent without warning. He was very nearly kicked to death by one such, a man talking to himself on a park bench who called him over in a singsong voice and then kicked him hard in the ribs when he was in range. It was lucky for Prince that people had been around to protect him, but the incident confirmed his belief that humans were all — save Kim — potentially lethal. Naturally, this belief was at the back of his mind when he chose the house on Neville Park. The woman and three men had never been cruel to him, though there was always the chance they could turn.

Grey though the world was, it was still alive with scents: new scents, old scents, scents that were landmarks and others that, in their vividness, threatened to lead him astray. The trees and the beams of the wooden steps and bridges gave off a familiar and comforting smell — principally, dog’s urine. As well, there were plant smells that he knew and could situate: this garden (at the edge of the park) with its flowers and weeds, that one with its vegetables. There was the smell of creek water, mud, dust, small animals, perfume, human sweat and bodies. He could, he felt, make his way to Queen Street, because his sense of smell was almost as acute now as it had been when he was younger. The real difficulty, he thought, would come not with the terrain itself but with the usual hazards: the humans in his way, dogs sniffing at him, and so on. But he fell down the first flight of steps he came to, smacking his head on the landing, his bearings momentarily lost.

How frightening it was to fall directionless into that grey nothing! Prince yelped instinctively. Once he’d recovered from the shock, however, he found that the pain was bearable — he’d known worse — and the fall taught him to be more cautious. Glen Stewart Park, familiar though it was, was hazardous. So he moved more deliberately, sniffing out every smell, listening for any danger, putting one paw cautiously in front of the next, trying to anticipate the flights of steps and the changes of direction the walkway took.

But he fell down the next flight of steps he came to as well. This time the pain was severe. It felt as if he had broken something inside. He yelped, then struggled to stand up. And when he was up on his legs, he was unsure of which direction he was facing, there being no up no down no to nor fro. The only good thing — if you could call it a good thing — was that he’d fallen off the wooden walkway and into the grass beside the spring that ran through the park. He would not have to worry about stairs, so long as he stayed beside the water. If he went in the right direction, he would find one of the roads out of Glen Stewart.

Despite his tendency to introspection, Prince was something of an optimist in hard times. Having a task to perform liberated him from himself. So it was that, now, having to make his way out of the park, he ignored his blindness — or, rather, accepted it — and went on his way as deliberately as he could, unsteady on his feet, his journey distracting him from worry. He made his way to Glen Manor Drive without too much trouble. He knew this stretch of ground (its smell and feel) so well that he scarcely had to think, his body doing the thinking (or remembering) for him. He found the path that rose up from the park to the road and then he followed the road down toward Queen, walking unsteadily on the sidewalk, looking like a drunken creature, until he came to the first corner.

Crossing a street was distressing in the best of circumstances. Glen Manor Drive was not busy — it was seldom busy — but cars always came at you so quickly. He had seen what they did to dogs who did not get out of the way. Their bodies were crushed into the road and left to rot until not even the hungriest things — blackbirds or maggots — would eat them. He preferred to cross at stoplights with humans around to shield him. Here, now, there were no lights and he was on his own and he could not help going slowly. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk for a long time, listening intently, and then, because he had to cross and knew it, he stepped onto the road, sniffing and listening, backing up suddenly on hearing a noise that might have been a car, almost losing his direction, before somehow making it to the distant point across the street, relieved to feel the step up to relative safety. And how wonderful to smell the great red house, its grounds, where he was sometimes fed and petted. He knew exactly where he was! He briefly considered begging at the house but he didn’t want to risk being delayed there. So he went on.