Anthonology

GONE TO THE DOGS

In 1969 we were getting ready for the arrival of our second daughter, Cheryl. Our first, Penny, then two years old, was a charming blonde, blue-eyed, hyperactive child—but we feared she would be jealous of the baby. We had lost three babies before getting one we could keep, and we wanted everything to be as right as we could make it. There may be parents who take their children for granted; not so with us. So we decided to get a pet to take Penny's attention. The rule of thumb is, the smaller the child, the larger the dog should be. We don't tolerate animal abuse, but you can't watch children and pets all the time; a big dog that liked children should be best. We saw an ad for a grown female Weimaraner who loved children; we went to see her at the kennel, liked her, phoned the owner—and discovered we were too late; she had just been sold. We didn't want to disappoint our child, so next day we bought the most similar dog we could find: a Dalmatian. Similar in size and shape, that is; in color the Dalmatian stands out from all others. We named him Canute, for this was the breed of Kings, and he merged instantly with the family. I wrote him into a juvenile science fiction novel, Race Against Time, and all was well.

But we had made a fatal miscalculation. When the baby arrived, Penny took it in stride. It was the dog who was jealous. In retrospect it becomes obvious, but then it was a mystery. We had not owned a dog before, and did not understand dog psychology. Had we realized, we might have worked things out. Human misunderstandings can be that way too; who among us would not do some things differently if we could carry our present knowledge back to relive the event? There are few things in my adult life that I really regret, and this is perhaps the major one: that I did not understand. Canute came down with kidney stones, evidently the result of emotional stress. He had surgery five times to alleviate them, but in the end it was too much and we had to put him away. He had lost the joy of living, and while I will not kill an animal for food or clothing or sport, I will do so to alleviate pain and hopelessness. We got another dog who remains with us today, and we are far more conscious of animal psychology than we were. I still miss Canute; he would have loved it here in the forest. But if we had gotten that Weimaraner, who already understood about children, we might have avoided the tragedy entirely.

One day some years later a strange dog wandered onto our property. He was emaciated. Penny went out to pet him, but I warned her away, as he was a big dog and an unknown quality. Suddenly I recognized the breed: "That's a Weimaraner!" I exclaimed. No mongrel, but a valuable purebreed animal. I am not snobbish about pedigrees; our present dogs are mongrels. But I realized that a Weimaraner probably had a home, and would have been well cared for before getting lost. So I let my daughter pet him, cautiously—and he was friendly. We fed him, and he was ravenous. We couldn't take him into the fenced portion of our yard because we had another dog, a purebreed Basenji foundling who hated all other animals except our half-Basenji female; it would be death for the weakened Weimaraner. Fortunately we had neighbors who cared about animals even more than we did; they put the Weimaraner in their yard while we tried to locate the owner. They couldn't keep the visitor long either, because they had a dog who weighed 101 pounds and tended to overwhelm the Weimaraner, so this arrangement was strictly temporary. They called the visitor Waldo.

But Waldo was lonely. He couldn't stand to be by himself. He had to remain outside, and he howled. So Penny stayed with him for hours each day. She was then six or seven years old, and this was a considerable chore for her, but she has always had strong sympathy for those with problems, and she stayed the course. I was proud of her effort; it saved us much trouble and that dog much grief. We never located the owner, so finally we placed an ad in the paper and gave Waldo away. He was fortunate; the new owners had loved a former Weimaraner pet, and were very good to this one. We visited once, and saw that Waldo, now renamed Schatze, was happy. It was enough; we were satisfied that we had done the right thing.

The experience moved me to write a story, "Gone to the Dogs," about the possible origin of Waldo Weimaraner, the dog who had come to us too late for us to keep. It is one way I react to the ironies of life. Once I have written about a thing or an experience, it is mine forever. So I did it, and marketed this story—and no publisher was interested. It was about the last straw; I departed the story field, never really to return. So perhaps it is fitting that this formerly unpublished story concludes this volume; now you understand why I left this particular arena. I can sell my science fiction or fantasy novels for ten times the word-rate I would get for a story—if I could even place the story. I can prevent arbitrary editorial interference in my novels. It's a better situation, all around.

I have been criticized for inadequate characterization in my fiction. Now characterization is the essence of fiction, and I feel strongly about it. It is my contention that the typical critic does not comprehend the kind of characterization that I do, just as he doesn't grasp my position on style. I do not stop the story to pontificate on the psychology of the protagonist: I prefer to show it in his reactions. This story serves as an example. The human character is a blank; he is Anyman, behaving as anyone in that situation would. But the dog—watch how Waldo behaves, and you will see what I mean by characterization.

The pain came suddenly to my chest. For a moment I couldn't breathe. I fell back on the couch, gasping, pressing my palms futilely to my rib-cage.

Waldo came up to nuzzle my hand, his yellow-gray eyes looking up at me with concern, his clipped tail wagging. He was a beautiful mouse-gray Weimaraner with silky ears. We had found him as a stray, gaunt and lonely—and by the time we had given up trying to locate his original home, he was ours. He had put on twenty pounds, and was now a sleek, powerful, and affectionate dog.

But this agony in my chest—I was too young to have a heart attack! So it couldn't be that. If only my wife were here! But she and the children were away with her folks for the weekend. I was on my own.

I had to get to a doctor. I started for the phone, hunched over as the pain gripped my chest again, and finally got there. I dropped the phone book before I had the number, scrambled for it on hands and knees—and of course Waldo gave me a good slurp on the face.

Where had the dog come from, originally? I had often wondered. He had such perfect manners, but had never been trained to come when called. It was as though he had been brought up as master, not pet. But he accepted equality in our household with singular grace, and even condescended to use the leash for walks.

When I dialed the number, I got the answering service. This was Sunday afternoon—the worst time to catch a doctor! I could die before he came off the golf links and called back to advise me to take two aspirin and come in Monday morning.

One thing this experience was doing for me: it made me appreciate the position of an animal. A sick stray had no resources, and was dependent for his very life upon the dubious largess of strangers—even as I was now. Where was pride, at such a time?

I tried other doctors, but already I knew it was useless. I needed attention now, not during business hours! I wasn't even sure I could drive safely; if I had a seizure on the highway—

Waldo had been pacing the floor somewhat nervously. Now he caught at my sleeve with his teeth. "Not now, doggie," I said. "I'm sick—I need a doctor. Any doctor! I can't play with you."

Still he tugged. I lacked the gumption to resist. "All right—I'll let you out," I said. I hobbled to the door.

But Waldo, always a sociable dog, didn't want to go out alone. He took the end of the leash in his mouth, tugging it from its hook on the wall.

There was a faint, odd barking in the distance. Arf—arf—arf!

"I can't take you for a walk!" I cried. "My chest—"

I went back to the living room and collapsed on the couch. I could breathe a little better now, but only in shallow gasps; whatever was wrong was still wrong. If I didn't have it attended to soon—

Waldo tugged at my sleeve again, looking at me beseechingly. He whined. One of his floppy ears was inside out.

What was the use? I couldn't get a doctor. If I was going to conk out from some mysterious malady, I might as well do it while making my dog happy.

I snapped the leash to his collar and stumbled out the door, almost slipping on the back steps. The pain eased as I walked, fortunately. The fresh air was helping, and maybe the adrenaline. I let Waldo take the lead, not paying attention to the route. He took me through a devious pattern, sniffing out some trail that only he could perceive—and he seemed oddly nervous. Perhaps that strange barking bothered him. It was louder now. ARF—ARF—ARF! Was it an Arfgan hound?

I was getting lightheaded. If this lurking pain wasn't a heart attack, could it be a collapsed lung? What would my obituary say: died of a frazzled gizzard while the hound went ARF?

Something jogged my attention, and I looked up. I didn't recognize the neighborhood—yet we had been walking only five minutes or so. Waldo was striding forward now as if he knew what he was doing and where he was going. Still, I could tell he remained on edge. What was there to disturb his canine mind? I was the one who had the pain!

The houses here were not only unfamiliar, they were strange. They looked like huge, fancy dog houses. A man was in the front yard of the house we were passing—and I saw to my horror that he was chained. He had a heavy collar around his neck, and the chain was fastened securely to a tree.

I stopped. "What on earth—?" I demanded, facing him.

Waldo tugged at the leash, urging me on. But I held back, waiting for the man's response. It was prompt: he charged up to the end of his tether and jerked hard at the chain. "Stay off my territory, stranger!" he snarled. He was big and hairy and muscular and dirty and. I realized, stark naked.

"Uh, sure," I said, taken aback by the whole thing. I was hardly looking for trouble. Even without a hurting chest, I would have hesitated to tangle with an ugly customer like this. Also, I saw the door of the house open to disgorge a grossly fat Soxer, evidently attracted by the commotion. That corpulent canine acted just as if he owned the premises! I let Waldo pull me on down the street, while the chained man sat down and scratched at a flea.

A lady was coming toward us, walking her dog. She too was naked—and there was a brightly embossed collar about her neck. She was pulling forward, while the pretty little Sulky dog had the handle of the leash between her dainty teeth.

I stepped toward them, heedless of Waldo's attempted warning. Something was awfully funny here! "Lady, what—?" I began.

She wiggled her butt. "Well, now!" she said, eying me in an embarrassingly frank manner.

The Sulky gave a short "Woof!" The friendly woman veered away from me as if I had suddenly turned to poison. Amazed, I just stood there.

Waldo went up to the Sulky and made a series of barks and yips, and she answered in kind. Somehow it was as if they were conversing: he apologizing, she affronted but gracious. Then the female couple—canine and human—moved on.

I shook my head in perplexity. Something very strange was going on here!

Waldo tugged me on just as I had another chest seizure, so I followed him more or less blindly.

A few minutes later a trio of dogs came down the street. There were no human beings with them, and the animals walked as though they had complete right of way. Obviously the leash law was not enforced in this section of town! The first was a black and white spotted Damnation about the size and build of my Weimaraner. The second was a longhaired Sleepdog, with only his black nose sticking out from his face. The third was a beautiful Colleen, evidently being escorted by the two males.

Waldo barked at them in apologetic fashion, and the Damnation paused. The two exchanged woofs, and the Damnation turned his head and pointed briefly to the south. Waldo made a final bark that sounded like "Thanks" and led the way—south.

I began to have a phenomenal suspicion—but it was ludicrous, and besides, I wasn't well. I put it out of my mind.

In due course we came to a kennel. A small spotted Bugle bayed at the entrance, until Waldo explained with a few more woofs. We entered the compound.

Inside were benches on which assorted dogs sat. Each had a leash, and each leash led to the collar of a human being. Squatting naked on the floor.

Waldo took the last empty seat and woofed at me in peremptory fashion. Never before had he addressed me in that manner! My chest gave another twinge, so I just squatted down amongst the nudes and tried to look inconspicuous despite my clothing and lack of collar. What else could I do?

I looked about. A pretty female Scooty sat up at a desk as though she were a receptionist, and a squatnosed Plug stood by like an orderly. But the canines and people here in the waiting room were a strange collection.

An elegant Puddle held the leash to a fluffy-haired blonde that in other circumstances I would have liked to know better. But the girl had a bad rash on her skin. A short-legged Baskethound had a short-legged man—who had a broken arm. A whiskery Schneezer had a little boy with a bad cold. A furry little Chomp-Chomp had another long-haired woman who looked as if she'd been chewed on. And a Pox Terror had a man who seemed to be ill with the plague.

In fact, all the dogs were well-groomed and healthy, while all the people were sick. Waldo and I were no exceptions.

Every so often the Plug would bark authoritatively, and one of the canines would take his human into another room. Sometimes there were awful screams—human screams—and all the people would cower in fear. I was cowering with the best of them! How had I gotten into this?

A Growling Shepherd entered, dragging a shaggy man. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the man, so I assumed he was merely being brought in for his rabies shot.

Then it was my turn. Waldo led me to the other room. There was something vaguely awful about it, and my whole body was shaking with apprehension. There was a high table there, and I had to climb up on it and perch uncomfortably on the clammy surface. Until the Vet arrived.

The Doctor Dog entered—and I almost wet my pants. He was a huge Massive with jowls like those of a senator, and he must have weighed two hundred pounds. But it was his aspect more than his size that terrified me. I wanted to leap off that table and run, but the Massive showed his teeth and I was petrified. My chest hurt worse than ever as I labored to breathe.

The Massive took my shirt in his teeth and ripped it from my quaking body. I huddled there, unable to move. He sniffed me thoroughly, then gave a short, sharp, ominous bark. A little Peek&See trotted in with a huge horse pill in her teeth. She dropped it on the table next to me and fluffed out again. As the door swung open for her I saw through it to a black Lab-Raider making tests in the lab. This place was well staffed!

The Massive nudged the pill toward me. The thing must have been an inch in diameter! "Oh, no!" I cried, my voice coming out in falsetto so that it sounded like a yipe. "I'd choke to death on that monster!"

Waldo tried to calm me, but I was already on edge because of the screams I had heard coming from this room before I entered. I scrambled off the table and broke for the door. Undismayed, the Doctor woofed—and a giant shape loomed before me.

It was a Great Damn—I mean, a Great Dame—the biggest bitch I'd ever seen. She didn't even bother to growl. She just advanced ponderously, smiling with all her teeth, and I retreated, step by step. When I backed into the table I snatched up that horse pill and gulped it right down. The Great Dame woofed approvingly and turned her bulk about, going her matronly way.

They certainly knew how to keep errant humans in line! I was glad Waldo was there to watch out for my interests. I only hoped he wouldn't leave me in the kennel.

At last Waldo took me out. At the entrance we met a beautiful red Settler towing an Irishman. "Sure, an' I've never been here before," the man cried to me. "Is it bad?"

"Nothing to it," I replied, sticking out my chest—and you know, it didn't hurt any more! That pill had somehow fixed it, and I felt just fine.

Then Waldo urged me on, leaving Irish and Settler to their fate. Almost frisking, I trotted toward home, ignoring the mean human animals that guarded their canine master's lots. But Waldo remained strangely nervous. What was he afraid of? This was his world, wasn't it? Where the dogs ran things?

Two Police Dogs came toward us. Waldo whined—and abruptly I understood. This was his world—but he was in some kind of trouble with the canine law! So he had had to flee, going hungry in an alien world, until I had taken him in. To help me, he had ventured once more into this realm, taking me to a qualified vet. But some dirty dog must have checked his registry, and now the police had sniffed him out.

I am not a large man, but I'm a sight bigger than the average dog. My shirt was in tatters and I knew I looked fierce. I took a menacing step toward those Police Dogs, and saw them draw up short, seeing me unleashed. "Get your tails out of here!" I bawled fiercely.

It was too much for them. They were trained to handle unruly canines, but there was a psychological horror to a wild man. They retreated.

We ran down an alley, the Police Dogs following at a fair distance and baying out an all-points bulletin. Soon we would be surrounded and overwhelmed!

Suddenly there was a nondescript cat in front of us. This, too, was strange; my Weimaraner had never before chased cats.

Then I saw that the cat was not fleeing, but leading. She dodged around a Painter mutt working on a house, hissed off a slender Dayhound, and leaped right over a sleeping Balldog. She was showing us an escape route!

Could that have been Waldo's crime, here? Helping a cat? Now she or one of her friends was repaying the favor!

Abruptly we were at my door, and the cat was gone. I stopped to look back—and the neighborhood was familiar. No big dog houses or cat houses in sight, no chained, naked men. Just the conventional human suburban sprawl.

I knew it would do no good to backtrack; I would never find the realm of the canine masters. Waldo would not dare show his muzzle there again, either; they would be on watch for him. But now the favors were all even, and I comprehended at last the scheme from which my dog had come.

I reached down and rubbed his floppy gray ear. "Come on, pal," I said, taking a deep and painless breath. "I'll split a steak with you."

Copyright © 1985 by Piers Anthony

Cover art by Joe Bergeron

ISBN: 0-812-53114-0