Dog Tales

by Jack Dann

  The colonel appraised him imperturbably. “I was never quite that much my own man in Germany. But there is a little story I must tell you. It’s not altogether off the point.” He settled back, at ease once again.

  “You may have been curious about Max and Moritz. The Germans, as you know, have always been fond of training dogs to perform all sorts of entertaining and useful things. During the war the Jerries were very much given to using Dobermans for auxiliary guard duty at the various prisoner-or-war camps. In action, Mr. Lawrence, or simply in view, a trained dog is far more terrifying than any soldier with a machine pistol. It takes an animal to stop a man without hesitation, no matter if the man is cursing or praying.

  “Guard dogs at each camp were under the charge of a man called the Hundführer—the master of the hounds, if you will—whose function, after establishing himself with the dogs as their master and director, was to follow a few simple rules and to take the dogs to wherever they were needed. The dogs had been taught certain patrol routines. It was necessary only for the Hundführer to give simple commands such as ‘Search’ or ‘Arrest,’ and the dogs would know what to do. Once we had seen them do it, they were very much on our minds, I assure you.

  “A Doberman, you see, has no conscience, being a dog. And a trained Doberman has no discretion. From the time he is a puppy, he is bent to whatever purpose has been preordained for him. And the lessons are painful—and autocratic. Once an order has been given, it must be enforced at all costs, for the dog must learn that all orders are to be obeyed unquestioningly. That being true, the dog must also learn immediately and irrevocably that only the orders from one particular individual are valid. Once a Doberman has been trained, there is no way to retrain it. When the American soldiers were seen coming, the Germans in the machine-gun towers threw down their weapons and tried to flee, but the dogs had to be shot. I watched from the hospital window, and I shall never forget how they continued to leap at the kennel fencing until the last one was dead. Their Hundführer had run away . . .”

  Malcolm found that his attention was wandering, but Virginia asked, as if on cue, “How did you get into the hospital—was that the Christmas tunnel accident?”

  “Yes,” the colonel said to Virginia, gentleman to lady. “The sole purpose of the tunnel was, as I said, to give the men a focus of attention. The war was near enough its end. It would have been foolhardy to risk actual escape attempts. But we did the thing up brown, of course. We had a concealed shaft, a tunnel lined with bed slats, a trolley for getting to and from the tunnel entrance, fat lamps made from shoe-blacking tins filled with margarine—all the normal appurtenances. The Germans at that stage were quite experienced in ferreting out this sort of operation, and the only reasonable assurance of continued progress was to work deeply and swiftly. Tunneling is always a calculated risk—the accounts of that sort of operation are biased in favor of the success, of course.

  “At any rate, by the end of November, some of the men were audibly thinking it was my turn to pitch in a bit, so one night I went down and began working. The shoring was as good as it ever was, and the conditions weren’t any worse than normal. The air was breathable, and as long as one worked—ah—unclothed, and brushed down immediately on leaving the tunnel, the sand was not particularly damaging to one’s skin. Clothing creates chafes in those circumstances. Sand burns coming to light at medical inspections were one of the surest signs that such an operation was under way.

  “However that may be, I had been down there for about an hour and a half, and was about to start inching my way back up the tunnel, feet first on the trolley like some Freudian symbol, when there was a fall of the tunnel roof that buried my entire chest. It did not cover my face, which was fortunate, and I clearly remember my first thought was that now none of the men would be able to feel the senior officer hadn’t shared their physical tribulations. I discovered, at once, that the business of clearing the sand that had fallen was going to be extremely awkward. First, I had to scoop some extra clearance from the roof over my face. Handfuls of sand began falling directly on me, and all I could do about that was to thrash my head back and forth. I was becoming distinctly exasperated at that when the fat lamp attached to the shoring loosened from its fastenings and spilled across my thighs. The hot fat was quite painful.

  What made it rather worse was that the string wick was not extinguished by the fall, and accordingly, the entire lower part of my body between navel and knees, having been saturated with volatile fat . . .” The colonel grimaced in embarrassment.

  “Well, I was immediately in a very bad way, for there was nothing I could do about the fire until I had dug my way past the sand on my chest. In due course, I did indeed free myself and was able to push my way backward up the tunnel after extinguishing the flames. The men at the shaft head had seen no reason to become alarmed—tunnels always smell rather high and sooty, as you can imagine. But they did send a man down when I got near the entrance shaft and made myself heard.

  “Of course, there was nothing to do but tell the Jerries, since we had no facilities whatever for concealing my condition or treating it. They put me in the camp hospital, and there I stayed until the end of the war with plenty of time to lie about and think my thoughts. I was even able to continue exercising some control over my men. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that hadn’t been in the commandant’s mind all along. I think he had come to depend on my presence to moderate the behavior of the men.

  “That is really almost the end of the story. We were liberated by the American Army, and the men were sent home. I stayed in military hospitals until I was well enough to travel home, and there I dwelt in hotels and played the retired, invalided officer. After that journalist’s book was published and the dramatic rights were sold, I was called to Hollywood to be the technical adviser for the movie. I was rather grateful to accept the employment, frankly—an officer’s pension is not particularly munificent—and what with selectively lending my name and services to various organizations while my name was still before the public, I was able to accumulate a sufficient nest egg.

  “Of course, I cannot go back to England, where the Inland Revenue would relieve me of most of it, but, having established a relationship with Mr. Cortelyou and acquired and trained Max and Moritz, I am content. A man must make his way as best he can and do whatever is required for survival.” The colonel cocked his head brightly and regarded Virginia and Malcolm. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Y—es,” Virginia said slowly. Malcolm couldn’t decide what the look on her face meant. He had never seen it before.

  Her eyes were shining, but wary. Her smile showed excitement and sympathy, but tension too. She seemed caught between two feelings.

  “Quite!” the colonel said, smacking his hands together. “It is most important to me that you fully understand the situation.” He pushed himself up to his feet and, with the same move, brought the crutches out smoothly and positioned them to balance him before he could fall. He stood leaning slightly forward, beaming. “Well, now, having given my story. I imagine the objectives of this conversation are fully attained, and there is no need to detain you here further. I’ll see you to the front gate.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Malcolm said.

  “I insist,” the colonel said in what would have been a perfectly pleasant manner if he had added the animated twinkle to his eyes. Virginia was staring at him, blinking slowly.

  “Please forgive us,” she said. “We certainly hadn’t meant to stay long enough to be rude. Thank you for the tea and cookies. They were very good.”

  “Not at all, my dear,” the colonel said. “It’s really quite pleasant to think of looking across the way, now and then, and catching glimpses of someone so attractive at her domestic preoccupations. I cleaned up thoroughly after the last tenants, of course, but there are always little personal touches one wants to apply. And you will start some plantings at the front of the house, won’t you? Such little activities are quite precious to
me—someone as charming as you, in her summer things, going about her little fussings and tendings, resting in the sun after weeding—that sort of thing. Yes, I expect a most pleasant summer. I assume there was never any question you wouldn’t stay all summer. Cortelyou would hardly bother with anyone who could not afford to pay him that much. But little more, eh?” The urbane, shrewd look returned to the colonel’s face. “Pinched resources and few ties, eh? Or what would you be doing here, if there were somewhere else to turn to?”

  “Well, good afternoon, Colonel,” Virginia said with noticeable composure. “Let’s go, Malcolm.”

  “Interesting conversation, Colonel,” Malcolm said.

  “Interesting and necessary, Mr. Lawrence,” the colonel said, following them out onto the lawn. Virginia watched him closely as she moved toward the gate, and Malcolm noticed a little downward twitch at the corners of her mouth.

  “Feeling a bit of a strain, Mrs. Lawrence?” the colonel asked solicitously. “Please believe that I shall be as considerate of your sensibilities as intelligent care of my own comfort will permit. It is not at all in my code to offer offense to a lady, and in any case—” the colonel smiled deprecatingly “—since the mishap of the Christmas tunnel, one might say the spirit is willing but . . .” The colonel frowned down absently at his canes. “No, Mrs. Lawrence,” he went on, shaking his head paternally, “is a flower the less for being breathed of? And is the cultivated flower, tended and nourished, not more fortunate than the wild rose that blushes unseen? Do not regret your present social situation too much, Mrs. Lawrence—some might find it enviable. Few things are more changeable than points of view. In the coming weeks your viewpoint might well change.”

  “Just what the hell are you saying to my wife?” Malcolm asked.

  Virginia said quickly, “We can talk about it later.”

  The colonel smiled at Virginia. “Before you do that, I have something else to show Mr. Lawrence.” He raised his voice slightly: “Max! Moritz! Here!”—and the dogs were there. “Ah, Mr. Lawrence, I would like to show you first how these animals respond, how discriminating they can be.” He turned to one of the dogs. “Moritz,” he said sharply, nodding toward Malcolm, “kill.”

  Malcolm couldn’t believe what he had heard. Then he felt a blow on his chest. The dog was on him, its hind legs making short, fast, digging sounds in the lawn as it pressed its body against him. It was inside the arc of his arms, and the most he could have done was to clasp it closer to him. He made a tentative move to pull his arms back and then push forward against its rib cage, but the minor shift in weight made him stumble, and he realized if he completed the gesture he would fall. All this happened in a very short time, and then the dog touched open lips with him. Having done that, it dropped down and went back to stand beside Colonel Ritchey and Max.

  “You see, Mr. Lawrence?” the colonel asked conversationally. “A dog does not respond to literal meaning. It is conditioned. It is trained to perform a certain action when it hears a certain sound. The cues one teaches a dog with pain and patience are not necessarily cues an educated organism can understand. Pavlov rang a bell and a dog salivated. Is a bell food? If he had rung a different bell, or said, ‘Food, doggie,’ there would have been no response. So, when I speak in a normal tone, rather than at command pitch, ‘kill’ does not mean ‘kiss,’ even to Moritz. It means nothing to him—unless I raise my voice. And I could just as easily have conditioned him to perform that sequence in association with some other command—such as, oh, say, ‘gingersnaps’—but then you might not have taken the point of my little instructive jest. There is no way anyone but myself can operate these creatures. Only when I command do they respond. And now you respond, eh, Mr. Lawrence? I dare say . . . Well, good day. As I said, you have things to do.”

  They left through the gate, which the colonel drew shut behind them. “Max,” he said, “watch,” and the dog froze in position. “Moritz, come.” The colonel turned, and he and the other dog crossed the lawn and went into his house.

  Malcolm and Virginia walked at a normal pace back to the rented house, Malcolm matching his step to Virginia’s. He wondered if she were being so deliberate because she wasn’t sure what the dog would do if she ran. It had been a long time since Virginia hadn’t been sure of something.

  In the house, Virginia made certain the door was shut tight, and then she went to sit in the chair that faced away from the window. “Would you make me some coffee, please?” she said.

  “All right, sure. Take a few minutes. Catch your breath a little.”

  “A few minutes is what I need,” she said. “Yes, a few minutes, and everything will be fine.” When Malcolm returned with the coffee, she continued. “He’s got some kind of string on Cortelyou, and I bet those people at the store down at the corner have those dogs walking in and out of there all the time. He’s got us. We’re locked up.”

  “Now, wait,” Malcolm said, “there’s the whole state of New Jersey out there, and he can’t—”

  “Yes, he can. If he thinks he can get away with it, and he’s got good reasons for thinking he can. Take it on faith. There’s no bluff in him.”

  “Well, look,” he said, “just what can he do to us?”

  “Any damn thing he pleases.”

  “That can’t be right.” Malcolm frowned. “He’s got us pretty well scared right now, but we ought to be able to work out some way of—”

  Virginia said tightly, “The dog’s still there, right?” Malcolm nodded. “Okay,” she said. “What did it feel like when he hit you? It looked awful. It looked like he was going to drive you clear onto your back. Did it feel that way? What did you think?”

  “Well, he’s a pretty strong animal,” Malcolm said. “But to tell you the truth, I didn’t have time to believe it. You know, a man just saying ‘kill’ like that is a pretty hard thing to believe. Especially just after tea and cookies.”

  “He’s very shrewd,” Virginia said. “I can see why he had the camp guards running around in circles. He deserved to have a book written about him.”

  “All right, and then they should have thrown him into a padded cell.”

  “Tried to throw,” Virginia amended.

  “Oh, come on. This is his territory, and he dealt the cards before we even knew we were playing. But all he is a crazy old cripple. If he wants to buffalo some people in a store and twist a two-bit real estate salesman around his finger, fine—if he can get away with it. But he doesn’t own us. We’re not in his army.”

  “We’re inside his prison camp,” Virginia said.

  “Now, look,” Malcolm said. “When we walk in Cortelyou’s door and tell him we know all about the colonel, there’s not going to be any trouble about getting the rent back. We’ll find someplace else, or we’ll go back to the city. But whatever we do to get out of this, it’s going to work out a lot smoother if the two of us think about it. It’s not like you to be sitting there and spending a lot of time on how we can’t win.”

  “Well, Malcolm. Being a prisoner certainly brings out your initiative. Here you are, making noises just like a senior officer. Proposing escape committees and everything.”

  Malcolm shook his head. Now of all times, when they needed each other so much, she wouldn’t let up. The thing to do was to move too fast for her.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s get in the car.” There was just the littlest bit of sweat on his upper lip.

  “What?” He had her sitting up straight in the chair, at least. “Do you imagine that that dog will let us get anywhere near the car?”

  “You want to stay here? All right. Just keep the door locked. I’m going to try it, and once I’m out I’m going to come back here with a nice healthy state cop carrying a nice healthy riot gun. And we’re either going to do something about the colonel and those two dogs, or we’re at least going to move you and our stuff out of here.”

  He picked up the car keys, stepped through the front door very quickly, and began to walk straight for the
car. The dog barked sharply, once. The front door of Ritchey’s house opened immediately, and Ritchey called out, “Max! Hold!” The dog on the lawn was over the fence and had its teeth thrust carefully around Malcolm’s wrist before he could take another eight steps, even though he had broken into a run. Both the dog and Malcolm stood very still. The dog was breathing shallowly and quietly, its eyes shining. Ritchey and Moritz walked as far as the front fence. “Now, Mr. Lawrence,” Ritchey said, “in a moment I am going to call to Max, and he is to bring you with him. Do not attempt to hold back, or you will lacerate your wrist. Max! Bring here!”

  Malcolm walked steadily toward the colonel. By some smooth trick of his neck, Max was able to trot alongside him without shifting his grip. “Very good, Max,” Ritchey said soothingly when they had reached the fence. “Loose now,” and the dog let go of Malcolm’s wrist. Malcolm and Ritchey looked into each other’s eyes across the fence, in the darkening evening. “Now Mr. Lawrence,” Ritchey said, “I want you to give me your car keys.” Malcolm held out the keys, and Ritchey put them into his pocket. “Thank you.” He seemed to reflect on what he was going to say next, as a teacher might reflect on his reply to a child who has asked why the sky is blue. “Mr. Lawrence, I want you to understand the situation. As it happens, I also want a three-pound can of Crisco. If you will please give me all the money in your pocket, this will simplify matters.”

  “I don’t have any money on me,” Malcolm said. “Do you want me to go in the house and get some?”

  “No, Mr. Lawrence, I’m not a thief. I’m simply restricting your radius of action in one of the several ways I’m going to do so. Please turn out your pockets.”

  Malcolm turned out his pockets.

  “All right, Mr. Lawrence, if you will hand me your wallet and your address book and the thirty-seven cents, they will all be returned to you whenever you have a legitimate use for them.” Ritchey put the items away in the pockets of his jacket. “Now, a three-pound can of Crisco is ninety-eight cents. Here is a dollar bill. Max will walk with you to the corner grocery store, and you will buy the Crisco for me and bring it back. It is too much for a dog to carry in a bag, and it is three days until my next monthly delivery of staples. At the store you will please tell them that it will not be necessary for them to come here with monthly deliveries any longer—that you will be in to do my shopping for me from now on. I expect you to take a minimum amount of time to accomplish all this and to come back with my purchase, Mr. Lawrence. Max!” The colonel nodded toward Malcolm. “Guard. Store.” The dog trembled and whined. “Don’t stand still, Mr. Lawrence. Those commands are incompatible until you start toward the store. If you fail to move, he will grow increasingly tense. Please go now. Moritz and I will keep Mrs. Lawrence good company until you return.’“