Carmen Dog

by Carol Emshwiller

  "Don't leave yet,” the creature says. “Might as well begin a painting."

  Pooch finds that, distracted and frightened as she is, and though not good with colors, she has a bit of artistic talent besides being musical. She paints a portrait, quite a good likeness of her beloved master, though the eyes are definitely the eyes of her psychologist.

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  Chapter 11: The Call of the Wild

  Daphne has escaped the god's embraces, which, promising love would but result in ungraceful fertility.

  —T. E. Hulme

  Is not virtue, after all is said and done, invariably triumphant?

  Or is it?

  Pooch wonders whether, first, one wouldn't have to define the terms. One would probably have to interpret triumphant quite broadly in order to make it invariably triumphant. And therefore wouldn't it often happen, in the end, that the triumph might be just in the mind of the virtuous as she falls in defeat? But also, how would one define virtuous? And, whatever it is, has she herself, though always trying hard, really been it? What of the episode with the sybarite, for instance, and of the fact—yes, it is a fact—that she ... well, more or less, wanted to? What of her vicious attack on the doctor? Though was it not for the baby's sake? Has she not always remained faithful to the baby and to her beloved master as well as to his principles? But has she remained faithful to her sex ... to her sisters? Lived up to the SPCAC standards? Has she remained faithful to the earth in the way that Rosemary was talking about it—the earth as the mother of us all? Has she had the presence of mind to worship, now and then, the sun as well as the dirt she walks on? Has she ever hugged a big tree? Or even a small one for that matter? Has she chewed grass recently? Perhaps today can be a day for all those things and not to worry about how she's dressed. Virtue, after all, wears many faces. She should be proud, even without her earrings and such.

  By now the baby seems to have gotten over its first fear of her in the Rosemary mask and paint rags. Or maybe bouncing along outside with plenty of things to see has distracted it. Also it has another dog biscuit to chew on. In fact, Pooch herself is chewing on one too, though reluctantly. She read the list of ingredients on the package and they seem to be made mostly of cereals and dried milk, being specially formulated for puppies, but there was also mention of bone meal. Whose bones? she wonders. Still, she must keep up her strength if she's to be any good to anybody. Would her comrades at the pound deny her this? In similar circumstances she would be only too glad to help a hungry friend as long as the friend had no other source of food and was actively trying to prevent the whole business of pet food from animal sources. Pooch hopes soon to be involved in that struggle as well as in promoting social change in many other areas, if only things would settle down and she could be free for such activities. But right now she is happy enough to have a nice little bag full of the biscuits. She promises herself she will not eat more than just this one because, anyway, they must be saved for the baby. It is certainly not a very fancy supper compared with the night before. Pooch begins to drool in earnest at the thought of the nuts, sprouts, seeds, and salad of that meal that seems to have happened so long ago, but was, in truth, only yesterday.

  It's uncomfortable in the mask, and it smells. That, coupled with the linseed oil and turpentine smells of her shirt-smock and skirt of paint rags, make it hard for her to catch the important smells of the city around her. Also, with the mask, she finds it hard to see out of the corners of her eyes, and her own breath makes it sticky and damp in there. Still, she doesn't dare take it off. The police are everywhere. Pooch knows she must get out of the neighborhood as quickly as possible, or at least off the street. She has found a way of walking that looks like an old lady's but also makes good progress away from the opera house. It's a kind of limp-wobble, the left foot taking a long and efficient stride and the right one taking a short kind of hop. The baby loves it.

  But where to go?

  Suddenly she remembers Valdoviccini, the name and telephone number that she had seen in the Opera News and that are engraved forever on her mind. Of course she can't talk on the telephone. What would he think, answering the phone and hearing only whining, or barks and growls? She can't call, but she can look up the address and go there. She finds a not-bad piece of paper in a trash basket and then finds a drugstore with a phone hook. Unfortunately the baby suddenly notices her mask and begins to cry—loud, furious cries. It had forgotten that it was with this creature with an entirely different face, different clothes, and a strong smell of paint.

  Pooch starts over, looking for another drugstore, this time being careful to hold the baby backward over her hip in such a way that it can't see her face. By making writing motions she manages to borrow a pen from the drugstore man. She finds there are two addresses for Valdoviccini, one on Central Park West, the other right here in the neighborhood, only a few blocks away. She writes them both down at the top of the paper. Then she tears it carefully in two and on the better, neater half she writes, I am she whom you seek.

  The drugstore man is very sweet, and when Pooch tries to return the pen he says to keep it, so now she has a yellow push-button pen. She's never had a pen of her own before. It's a bit of a consolation for having lost her nice clothes. (She misses them even though, from the policeman's description of them, they weren't all that great.) She's thinking that, if there's ever time for it, she'll practice a little sketching. Perhaps try to do the baby. She's sure she can find some more paper in the trash. The drugstore man also gives the baby a lollipop and a balloon. Pooch worries about the baby's brand new teeth and also that it might get used to sweets, but maybe just this once. After all, she has allowed herself a dog biscuit.

  Walking away, the pen in her pocket, the balloon blown up (it is red and matches the lollipop) and tied to the baby's wrist by a green-and-white string, and the baby with a new word ("boon-boon"), Pooch is optimistic. Surely Valdoviccini, once he knows who she really is, will save her, hide her. He'll let her rest a while and then, of course, her voice will come back (perhaps with the help of a little more psychotherapy), and he'll see to it that she gets the very best coaching. She is thinking of him as a fatherly man rather like the nice man at the drugstore. She could be loyal to someone like that. Come thick or thin. She can hardly wait for the chance to be that.

  She feels so good she begins to think of Carmen's “L'amour est enfant de Bohème,” as well as “Oiseau rebelle.” She, also, both gypsy child and rebellious bird. She even tries to hum as she walks along, but only a kind of monotone growling comes out and she quickly thinks better of it. She doesn't want to attract attention to herself as a wild creature with indigestion or some such.

  But here she is on Stuyvesant Street, with an ever-increasing sense of déjà vu. Even through the mask it smells of last night. Here, the very door and the whiff of her own pee. Oh, the shame of that ... she, no better than a puppy! She checks the piece of paper again to make absolutely sure of the address. Yes, Valdoviccini—it must be true—is none other than the sybarite! And so there is no hope. Not even if her voice came back would she ever go near that man again. Now there's nothing to aspire to. She crumples up the message she has written and throws it at his door.

  Tears flood the inside of her mask. She turns away, utterly blinded by them, and dashes off forgetting her special old lady's wobble. At the next corner she runs straight into the arms of the pale young man. Nearly knocks him down, and herself and the baby, but his arms are around her, steadying her.

  "Are you all right?"

  She doesn't answer, either with nod or whimper, but holds on to him like the baby is holding on to her.

  He helps her over to the bench in front of the Second Avenue Deli. If she could speak she'd tell him she'd be loyal to him until death parted them and that he should never let go of her elbow. She leans close, her head almost on his shoulder, wanting to collapse at last, but then they both notice that the baby is choking on the lollipop and is rapidly turning
from red to blue. How thoughtless of her to careen off like that without even being able to see where she was going, endangering the poor little thing, and now thinking only of comforting herself in the arms of someone she hardly knows.

  For a minute they are both occupied with turning the baby upside down and pounding its back. Thank goodness the lollipop pops out easily. It lands in the dirt under the bench and the baby immediately wants it back, calling it “boon-boon,” which balloon is now but a limp piece of rubber.

  "Wait here,” the young man says, “I'll get your grandchild another one and a new balloon, too."

  Grandchild! Pooch has forgotten that she is wearing the Rosemary mask. She had thought to be relating to him as young thing to young thing ... even musical young thing to musical young thing, but of course it isn't so. She doesn't dare reveal to him who she really is and it's too painful not to. She doesn't wait. With the baby shouting, “no, no,” she takes off heading north, remembering this time to limp, to imitate the old woman he takes her to be. She is calm, sad, determined, facing the bitter world.

  There is—she's heard about it—a central park. That must be a good place for the females these days. (She first thinks of trying to get herself to Bide-A-Wee for a long rest and then even perhaps a visit to the master, who lives not far from there in those halcyon days she could even faintly hear and smell the animals—but where to get the money for the ticket on the Long Island Railroad?) Yes, she'll go to the central park and she'll be careful, for the baby's sake, not to run around senselessly in selfish sorrow, even though she hardly cares whether she lives or dies. Grandchild indeed! And he was the one person, of all people, she had hoped would find her attractive.

  After hopping along for half an hour, she throws away the yellow pen in a self-destructive gesture. Why should she bother drawing after all? It's singing that she always cared about. Anyway, the pain of not having the pen is more bearable than the other pains. Perhaps she threw it away for that reason. Now she can mourn one nice yellow pen and not think of anything else, especially not of that monster, Valdoviccini, who, by being what he is, has ruined all her hopes for the future.

  By the time Pooch reaches the southern tip of the park, it's already almost dark. She enters cautiously. Decides she now dares take off her mask. What a relief to be out of it (even though it was of Rosemary)! And the baby fast asleep. It had finally forgotten about the balloon and lollipop, had chewed several more dog biscuits along the way, and is now tired and satisfied. How good the smells without the mask! How cool the breeze on her face! Perhaps life is not so bad after all. She moves at a dog-trot farther into the park. Now and then she sees the glint of phosphorescent eyes, now and then hears rustlings, whisperings.... Night birds squawk, small hunched-over creatures scurry away as she passes. Most likely sisters. She feels more or less at home here and is only a little frightened.

  After a while she begins to look for a good tree to hug and to be with for the night. She finds one with scrubby bushes under it that will make a good shelter, puts the baby down, does hug the tree, chews on some grass growing nearby and then eats one more dog biscuit. She can see the full moon coming up, mysterious, behind her tree. The world looks so beautiful! She wonders how one can not do for it anything that needs to be done, or at least all one can do. She lies down with her cheek pressed against the dirt. Better, she thinks, and more fragrant than any other pillow, even one made of the down from the belly of one of her sister creatures—Mary Ann, for instance. (Not to belittle them, of course, for down is nice also and has its own wonderful qualities and had she a down pillow she would certainly be glad of that, too.) She resolves that, from now on, she will try not to be led astray by her old, useless ambitions to be an opera star. Except, is she not a little like Micaela right now and is not this night like the moonlit night of the smugglers and the gypsies? It's a comforting thought. Like living in an opera even if one can't be singing in one. With that she falls asleep.

  * * * *

  It is the howling that wakes her. Tired as she is, having slept so little the night before, she is now instantly wide awake and the hairs rise on the back of her neck. In spite of herself and without a single thought for the sleeping baby, she creeps out from under the bushes on all fours. It sounds as if the howls are not far away. Where are they? Where are they? She leans back, raises her head, and finds herself letting go with a similar yowl. And they answer. She calls again and they answer again. Then she slinks off toward their sound (still on all fours), and there they are, three large males and an assortment of bitches, one bitch still wearing the remnants of a green silk blouse and with a fine gold chain around her neck, yet almost all wolf now. Some of the other females have no sign that they were ever other than what they are right now. Some have patchy fur, though perhaps that's just mange. A few others have overly long hair on their heads and one is still mostly bleached blonde. One wears a pair of broken glasses. The largest male, heavy and handsome, light tan belly with black back and black markings on his face (black over the eyes and black line down the nose and pricked up wolf ears edged in black, certainly a distinguished specimen of the dominant sex).... He's the one who comes up to her first and smells her all over. She stands still. He likes what he smells. She can tell. The others are more suspicious, but they will accept her because he does. Now they move away from the trees and out into the “sheep meadow” to get a better view of the moon. She goes with them. Oh, mooooon! Ah, mooooon! What wonders, not only in the universe, but right here, the view from this planet! Oh, the infinity of time! Ah, the infinity of space! She's seen all that on tv and understood it and understands it even better right now. Yes, and is not this that she's doing right now also singing?

  The biggest male is watching her. He, too, loves her voice. Now he licks her face and puts a paw on her shoulder. Now he looks deep into her eyes. How comforting it is to be licked all over and wanted and noticed and how nice to be listened to and to be proud of her voice.

  He walks back and forth in front of her, displaying his massive shoulders, broad head, powerful neck. She could, it is clear, become the head bitch of the pack with him as her protector. And what a nice smile he has. But the wolf-bitch is jealous. She was his before Pooch came. Pooch can smell that and see it, too, for the wolf-bitch has, all this time, not howled, but is sitting despondently several yards from the others. Pooch is coming to her senses in spite of the moon. She is realizing that, handsome and alluring as he is and even with that nice smile and gentle touch, the big male is not for her, but belongs to someone else and is probably fickle besides. The psychologist might have told her that she should think of her own pleasure, but she isn't sure what he would say if that pleasure involved a male creature who so clearly belonged to someone else. The wolf-bitch looks so sad, and Pooch has never wanted to cause pain to a sister. Aren't they all females in this together? And yes, this would certainly be a liaison dangereuse in more ways than one.

  Pooch goes over to the wolf-bitch to apologize, to tell her, in gestures, that everything will be all right for her and that she should come back and howl away with all of them, but the creature turns on her ferociously, tearing her smock and then grabbing her ear. It's very painful. And then, suddenly, they are all after Pooch. Except for the big male, that is. In fact it is he who helps her break free from them. She runs back to her tree, gathers the baby up, though leaving her bundle with the dog biscuits. She has one advantage over them. By now she can climb, even though she's never tried it before, and her tree has nice lower crotches that she can pull herself up into. Of course she won't go very high, this being her first climb ever, but no great height is needed. She stops just out of reach, now hugging the tree in earnest. The dogs leap up, but can't get at her. Then they find the remaining biscuits, gobble them up, little caring what or who they are made of, and troop off with a few lingering howls and snarls. She listens to them moving farther and farther away, and feels a pang of regret for what cannot be. The baby, too frightened to cry while the dog
s were snarling underneath, now begins to whimper and Pooch turns to comfort it.

  She has shocked herself. Even her pangs of regret, shocking! There seem always to be more depths to which she can sink. To have been almost ... well, actually to have been infatuated with a large dog! How could she have allowed herself to fall to that level when it is so much fun, and hard work too, being and becoming a human being! Howling at the moon is all well and good in its place, and who's to say that her emotions during that time were not enhanced by her knowledge of exactly what she was howling at? Hasn't she, now, much more to howl about? Much more to make her dizzy and worshipful when she looks up? But she wonders what would have happened had she not felt pity for the wolf-bitch. Thank goodness for that. Virtue can, after all, bring some kinds of victories. A sure sign that she must continue to be as virtuous as possible. Liaison dangereuse, indeed! Partly it was those very words that saved her. Could he ever have understood them? Not that there is anything wrong with a handsome animal going on being a handsome animal and doing the best he's capable of. And she had certainly appreciated his gentleness and his interest in her. She might have had quite a good life with him for a while, but what of the baby then? And what of all her efforts to better herself? Is this the one she wants as the father of her children? Yet how lonely she is! To be part of a group such as they are would not be all bad. And to raise her voice again, whether in real song or not, how wonderful that was. But why not? She tips her head back and howls: Moooooowwn! Oh wonderful moooooowwwwwyyyn!

  And Valdoviccini, from his Central Park West apartment (utterly different from his East Village pied à terre) hears her and feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck just as Pooch's had but half an hour ago. He opens the window. Thinks that that is by no means an ordinary voice. What mysterious, musical creature is abroad this moonlit night? He, like everyone in the neighborhood, is used to strange sounds coming from the park, but men are more careful about going there than they were, even back in the days when they were afraid only of other men. Valdoviccini is torn. He might almost dare to enter the park in search of that magical voice. Could it be the same voice he has been searching for these past few weeks? The voice that he has yearned to hear again, no matter if still raw and untrained? Is there not in it that same wild sense of “grain” that Barthes was so fond of? And didn't he catch, afterward, the faint cries of a baby? Perhaps the very baby she had had back at the New York City Opera? And then what about the cryptic message he had found crumpled up near his doorway downtown? “I am she whom you seek.” What of that?