,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II     ,I, S P O T Installment II

Copyright 2003
David Kaplan

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CHAINS AND ARMOR

When I compare the progress of my life with that of other great explorers I recognize that often our discoveries bring dismay before delight. This is so often the case it might be expected, yet novelty is not so always welcome.

I, Spot am comforted by routine; variation in haunt or habit provokes me. In my youth I grew accustomed to the preoccupations of the Object of My Devotion and his efforts to placate the editors of History’s Mysteries by rewriting dry maritime chronicles into articles of five hundred overwrought words. Hearing so much about the 16th century at home, I knew little about other centuries, and was unprepared to encounter my own. Out in the street I trembled when I met up with umbrellas, snow shovels, hooded sweatshirts, crutches, rattling garbage bags, drifting leaves, aggressive pigeons, and steam from the sidewalk vents.

Just so, the sailors who first encountered high winds off the coast of Africa were blown out to sea in agony, until those very same winds next sent the pioneering mariners speeding towards the ports of gold and spices and delight.

In my case, too, where I lay confined beside the bed where the Object of My Devotion slept, distress was relieved by further experience. Inside and out, my case was black nylon, with three sides of mesh through which to ponder escape. A zippered entrance lowered down like a gangplank; a zippered hatch opened overhead. There was room to stand inside and even to circle, though I prefer when corralled to lie curled. Despite amenities, I found this bag an accessory of impertinence.

The Object of My Devotion tempered my indignation by unzipping the upper hatch and slipping in something to assuage my unhappiness: his hand to sniff, a treat to nibble, a ball to contemplate, a sweat-soaked undergarment to lie on and savor. I made my own improvements to conditions within, showering my hairs freely and rubbing my scent into the walls.

With this and that, the bag became agreeable, no more so than when lifted by its handles and slung from the shoulder of He on whom I now depended. Held high to my advantage, in safety and at leisure gnawing on a pig’s ear, thus I was transported, undaunted even when we entered the wheeled boxes rattling underground, for knowing little of machinery later than the 1599, so I supposed subway cars to be.

This bag in which I was initially lodged and loathed grew useful in ways I could not have imagined. Just so, Magellan discovered the Pacific Ocean inadvertently. He had plans, once he rounded South America, for a quick trip to Japan and, once he reached the Philippines, the glory of the first circumnavigation. According to the map he held in his hand the Orient lay a hundred and fifty miles off the coast of Peru. Magellan embarked unaware that before him lay the vast expanse of the Western Sea and grief.

I, Spot, made an inadvertent find while waiting for departure. Senses made keen by impatience, I stumbled across and so discovered behavior chains. The Object of My Devotion was held captive in such chains, as captive as I in my zippered case.

By behavior chains I mean something other than the metal links the Object of My Devotion attached between his wrist and my harness so he would not become lost. I mean a sequence of connected events: an empty cup set down in an unnecessarily firm way, followed by the hunt for keys, the search for the wallet, the finding of the shoes. This chain concludes in departure. Though leave-taking and even destination may be reliably inferred from a behavior chain it is not, however, always predictable what may happen upon arrival.

Consider the day when what the wheeled boxes rattled up from underground into the light and sweet aroma of the countryside. Hurtling past skunks I smelled and would have liked to chase, I heard the Object of My Devotion’s telltale sigh and linked it at once in a behavior chain forged the week before when The Object of My Devotion answered the telephone in good humor and suddenly fell into a bad one. That call ended abruptly, followed by a sigh, echoed intermittently throughout the days that followed. As the wheeled boxes slowed to a halt, his sighs increased in size until he was practically panting. We were nearing the source of his disturbance.

It was a house. An elderly couple waited within, the female heating food, presumably for me to eat, the male standing nearby to supervise its proper preparation. It was apparent by the deferential manner of the Object of My Devotion, and the similarity of scent, that these two were his Begetters and dominant over him, at least in this place. There were others present: a male of a similar mix and aroma, My Object’s brother accompanied by a mate. She smelt of soap.

As soon as I emerged from my traveling bag it was obvious that something was amiss. I was relatively ignored. It occurred to me that perhaps these elders were weak in their eyes, or ears, or minds, as sometimes happens to elderly terriers. No, they were distracted from the charms of my appearance by another small animal in their midst.

I could not at first identify what it was. A high forehead, sparsely furred, swept down to wide blue eyes. It walked on all fours, slightly higher off the ground than myself. For some reason it carried its droppings along with it in a white bag attached to its unseen tail. It was a female. She answered, though not always, to the name of Lilly. She smelled delicious to me, a heady mix of droppings, drool, crushed rocks (talc I think), and sour milk.

At first sight of me Lilly’s mouth formed a moist circle from out of which rippled a coo. Made brave by her invitation, I leaned forward and licked her. This set Lilly to giggle, but the other females swooped down with a shriek. I had made a most significant discovery, or so I thought, an ideal playmate of the opposite sex.

Beneath the watchful eye of her chaperones, Lilly and I took stock of each other. With the quiet good sense that has marked our relationship since, she lowered herself flat until we both lay nose facing nose on our bellies. I rolled my rubber ball towards her with my front right paw. She nudged it back towards me with her front left. As if it bounced against a mirror, the ball spun between us now several splendid times.

Lilly improved our game by placing the ball into her mouth and covering it with drool. I did the same and sent it back, yet as Lilly lifted it towards her lips with obvious relish the oldest female, suspicious of the consequences, confiscated the object of our volley. Our separation was ordered. The Object of My Devotion tried to intervene, only to be met with barks of protestation from Lilly’s wary guards.

He made the mistake of barking back. A terrier, of course, would have understood at once the necessary ceremony of submission. Not so, the Object of My Devotion, who lacked sense enough to offer his throat or to crouch low.

His incapacity or disinclination to behave like a submissive dog brought forth lengthy and long-practiced howls from his Begetters. The hapless Object of My Devotion mistook these for the growls with which packs chase away intruders. Far from treating him as an outsider his elders were treating him to the snarls used to frighten stray offspring back into the safety of the pack

I watched helplessly as Lilly was removed from my presence despite her own vociferous objections. The cry of the elders rose in pitch and I, Spot, jumped to the lap of he I now pitied. I felt his stomach flutter, a final link in the behavior chain of sighs. We left soon after. The food prepared for me lay untouched on the stove-top, though I have hopes some went to Lilly and that she thought of it as my gift. I lifted my leg on a rosebush near the entrance so that when Lilly smelled the flowers she might recall our aborted rendezvous.

As we rode home on what I now knew was a train (for I had overheard the proper name for wheeled boxes shouted out at the station) The Object of My Devotion unzipped the hatch on top of my traveling bag and stroked my head. I was distracted, reviewing this first foray to the countryside, concluding that, antithetical to my experience with my traveling case, there are things, delightful at first, which in time prove themselves sources of distress.

Think further of Magellan sailing west across the Pacific. He made it to the Philippines only to meet his doom. Despite what History’s Mysteries claims to be The Curse of the Half-Naked Witch-Doctor, Magellan’s death was without mystery a consequence of wearing full armor in a skirmish with half-naked natives. The steel meant to preserve him muffled his hearing, hobbled his movements and led to his downfall. The Object of My Devotion, to ward off attack from his elders, armored himself as heavily as Magellan and with similar results.

When we returned home The Object of My Devotion did not, as had been his usual practice, shut me up inside my bag. It was time, then, for me to explore between the sheets and establish a place for myself there in imitation of the ancient practices of the chiens du terre from which members of our breed derive their name. Our ancient habit was to live within the bosom of the earth, in the language of the French, la terre. The term “chien du terre” or terriers resulted. There are those who say our dens replicate the conditions of the womb. Piffle. The over-crowded womb I remember was never so pleasant as fresh linen. For all the glory of circumnavigation and the dubious pleasures of the Pacific, I’d wager Magellan would have been happier to discover a set of nice sheets.

The delights of the bed, something that had seemed so desirable before, were purchased at a dreadful cost. The Object of My Devotion left me alone, the first this had ever happened.

That night I was sick with fear, though he had thoughtfully left the radio on the Spanish channel. It is around this time I learnt Spanish, knowledge of which would serve me well at a later date. The Object of My Devotion returned at dawn. He removed his clothes, which smelled of scents I did not like at all, and climbed into bed. I curled against him, reassured he had survived, troubled wondering how.