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Dog Bites Man

Gene's eyes peeled open. Debbie was haranguing him from the kitchen. She must have been at it for at least ten minutes. Did she think he was listening, the state he came home in last night, pulverized again? Gene rolled over and switched off the alarm before the clock had a chance to begin its keening. One morning screecher was more than enough. If she keeps at it, the fucking dog will probably join in with its awful howling. Like it did last night when he stumbled in around three. Like he was a goddamn stranger. Living in the same house with this goddamn dog for seven years and it still barked at him when he came in.

He had nothing to get up for, but he lurched forward to the edge of the bed and sat up, feeling the lukewarm worminess of his guts swim upwards, almost into his mouth. He gently put a hand on his gut. No he wasn't going to puke now. Maybe later, but not quite yet. His body shuddering as the familiar itch and pinching of his skin spread from the back of his arms to his neck and back. He stared at his wobbly white knees for a moment and tried to gather himself.

But no such luck. Here she came, the screaming getting closer. She was in the bedroom and was going on about two or three things that he should have done yesterday and if he didn't do them today, all hell was going to break loose. He could sense the dog as well. Biscuit. Goddamn Biscuit. What a name for such an ugly vicious dog. Its stinking sullen form was behind Debbie. He had his back to both of them, hunched over on his side of the bed looking at his pale and suddenly defenseless looking feet.

"For fuck sake! Would you look at the state of you? I've got to get my ass to work on time, so I'm leaving now, but you had better take care of a few things around here before I get home."

He flexed his two big toes. He needed to clip his nails soon. That was something he was always forgetting to do.

"Are you even listening to me, you goddamn piece of shit?"

Gene turned to look at her. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall and preferred to look at himself instead of her, standing there in her squat blue-smocked rage. He would be needing a haircut soon. His straight white hair was crouching down over his ears and getting closer to his shoulder than it had been since he was in his twenties.

"Hey! I asked if you were listening to me!"

"Yeah, yeah, I am. Jesus, you don't have to scream like that. What is it?"

"What is it? What is it? Don't get me started on 'what is it.' The least you could fucking do is get rid of some of that junk that's sitting in the yard. How long am I going to have to stare at that shit? I'm leaving you the truck today, so fucking take care of it. And thank Christ Tina is starting at the same time as me today, because Lord knows you're in no state to drive. Get a fucking grip, Gene. The shit you're pulling ain't going to make anything better."

A car beeped from out front.

"There's Tina now. I'll see you later. I get off at six thirty and your ass better be there to pick me up. At six thirty."

She waited for some nod of recognition from him.

"Hey, did you hear me? Six thirty. Got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, six thirty. I'll be there." He laid back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

"Wonderful. Just wonderful. You're really turning into a piece of work."

He waved his arm at her and listened for her to leave. When he heard the front door slam and Tina's car rumble off, he pulled himself up again. He wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep. It was going to be one of those days. His head was splitting. He felt like the death of Christ, as his grandfather used to say.

He stood up shakily and pulled a pair of jeans over his skinny legs and threw a denim work shirt on over his T-shirt. Shit was tough when you had nothing to do. Nothing to fucking do. He sat back down and put on the same pair of white athletic socks that he had wore the day before. Ready for another day of nothing. It was eight months of nothing now and it wasn't getting any easier.

He made his way to the kitchen and there was Biscuit, in all his rotted glory, lying right in front of the refrigerator. His lumpy sulking body making it impossible to open it without bumping into him. Gene stared down at the dog.

"Get the fuck out of the way."

Biscuit didn't move, or even acknowledge him.

"Well, fuck you then."

Gene jerked the door open, slamming it into Biscuit's rump. The dog leapt up quicker than it looked like its eleven-year-old rottweiler body would allow and snapped at Gene's left foot, tearing a hole in the sock. Gene moved to kick the dog, but it quickly retreated to the door between the kitchen and living room, where it stood growling.

"I can not be dealing with you today, Biscuit. I just can't. Just can't." He peered into the refrigerator looking for a can of beer. There were none. He pulled out the orange juice carton. It was just about empty. He managed to fill a small juice glass halfway and gulped it down. He set the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table. Biscuit still stood in the doorway glowering at him.

"What the fuck you want me to do, you fucker? You get in the way and you get hurt. That's all there is to it. I told you not to fuck with me today. I'm not in any sort of condition for it."

He had never been in condition for it. But it used to not be as bad as this. Not in the beginning. When he'd been working. Though shit was hard enough then, with his alimony and child support to make, and helping support Debbie's two shitty brats as well--thank Christ they were long gone. Whatever joy they had was long gone. All the juice sucked out of it long ago. But the shitty dog was still here. Wheezing and shitting and laying about, getting his two bowlfuls of food come hell or high water, and here was Gene, a man who'd put seventeen goddamn years of factory work in, left to being supported by this blue-smocked angry woman, humiliated into asking for twenty bucks, ten bucks, even a goddamn fiver for Christ's sake. That's what was left.

The kettle started howling and Gene turned it off. He poured some coffee and retreated into the bathroom for some aspirin. Purely out of habit, since they didn't help a hangover one iota. The only help for this hangover would be two or three cold ones and back to bed. But even that wasn't within his grasp. He swallowed the aspirin with a slurp of coffee. Maybe he wasn't going to end up puking after all. He knew he should eat something for his strength, so he took a bowl out of the cabinet and ate some generic brand corn flakes.

When he was finished eating he took his baseball hat off its hook by the door and put it on. As he pulled the door open inwards he slammed it into the brim of his hat, knocking it off. A rod of irritation fired through him and he almost punched the door. He cursed and bent to pick the stupid hat up. He almost toppled over as he retrieved it from the step leading into the yard. He felt clumsy and leaden, the itches coming back--crawling from his lower back up to his shoulders. Goddamn forty-four years old and no more able to open a door than a retard. He made a quick check to make sure none of the neighbors in the surrounding yards saw him. There was no one. But then, there wouldn't be. It was nine thirty on a Tuesday morning. People had jobs. People had shit to do.

Gene stepped into the backyard and surveyed what he was supposed to do. The 'shit' he was supposed to 'take care of.' It was a partially dismantled '69 Chevy Impala. What the hell did Debbie expect him to do with it? It would cost money to get it carted away. He supposed he could hook it up to the truck and drag it away somewhere. But he would end up breaking some law or other. And he would get caught. Get a goddamn ticket he couldn’t pay. What the fuck did she want from him? He walked around the car. He figured he could at least pick up some of the loose parts and junk that was laying around the car--the broken glass, the passenger door and so on and throw it all into the back of the truck. Unload it somewhere some night when he was driving around.

He bent over to pick up a piece of glass and his vision started to go squirrelly. He stood back up and leaned against the car's rusting hood. He couldn't see anything except vivid reds and purples exploding from a black swirling background. Sweat came out on his forehead, and he knew he had to lie down. He took a few breaths. His vision started to sort itself out--nothing to worry about--a simple momentary near blackout. He lumbered to the back door and threw himself into the nearest kitchen chair. But that wasn't going to do it. He felt like he was going to heave, but he just wanted to lie down. He got off the chair and stretched out on the kitchen floor. The cool tile was wonderful. A few minutes passed and the feeling of nausea receded. He felt like he was going to drift off into a welcome healing sleep. But then he heard its breathing. Biscuit had come into the kitchen to investigate, and seeing Gene stretched out on the floor gave him reason to start baying. Long, violent, angry barks. The type you'd expect if someone broke in, or if there was a coyote in the yard. Gene put his hands over his ears, but Biscuit wouldn't relent. He pulled himself up and sat against the cabinet beneath the sink. Biscuit stopped barking and started to growl.

"Look, you, you're asking for it today. Give me a fucking break or I will break you in fucking two."

Biscuit stopped growling and went back to his corner in the living room. Gene used a kitchen chair to help himself up. Now he was going to puke. No doubt about it. He went into the bathroom, kneeled before the toilet bowl and started retching the retches of the diseased, the dying and the damned. It took a solid five minutes before he knew it was over. Finally the last sticky lines of yellow bile had been sent spiraling away with the third flushing of the toilet. His eyes were tearing, his ears were ringing and snot was coming out of his nose. He rinsed off his face and rinsed out his mouth with some mouthwash. He needed bed. He needed his goddamn bed and a little peace and he'd deal with all this later.

He walked through the living room but failed to notice that Biscuit wasn't there anymore. He was in the bedroom. In the bed. Gene looked at him. He had his head on Debbie's pillow, body on Gene's side of the bed. Four long scruffy legs stretched out. It looked at Gene briefly and then looked away.

"Biscuit, get the fuck down."

Gene started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Down, Biscuit, DOWN!"

The dog didn't move. Gene threw his shirt in the corner.

"Down, you stinking sack of shit. Get the fuck down off my fucking bed!" Biscuit sat up a bit, pulling his legs up under him.

"I said get down. No, fuck this, I've had it with this, fuck this." Gene lunged at Biscuit's head, going for the thick blue greasy collar around its neck. He got a hold of it with both hands despite Biscuit's attempt to jump back--the edge of the bed kept Biscuit within his reach. With a good hold on the collar he tried to drag the hundred-and-twenty pound animal off the bed. Biscuit growled and snarled but Gene managed to drag him to the edge of the bed. The dog's front paws were in the air flailing at Gene's chest. Its slobber was getting all over Gene's hands and he pulled his left one away to wipe it on his jeans and Biscuit snatched it. He got a square hold of the wrist and shook his big square head to the left and right tearing deep into Gene's flesh. Gene shrieked and let go of the collar with his other hand and Biscuit let go of his arm. Gene stared at his destroyed wrist, propping it up with his right arm. Blood streamed down his forearm and made a puddle on the off-yellow bedroom carpet. Biscuit hopped off the bed and padded away into the living room. Gene fell down onto the bed, still staring at his wrist. His mouth had gone completely dry and he felt like retching again.

"I'm going to kill you, you fucker."

He got up and picked up the shirt he had just taken off and wrapped it around the wound. He wasn't going to let himself puke. He was going to get even with the fucker. He went over to his closet and took a box down from the top shelf. He opened the box and took out his Colt SAA, a gift from his grandfather. He hadn't used it in about two years, but he still had a box of shells. They better still be goddamn good. He loaded the gun quickly and sat back down on the edge of the bed. He looked out the window at the empty street.

"Goddamn, motherfucker. You don't know what you done this time. This time you finally gone and done it. This time I'm going to kill you. But I got to make a phone call first."

He made his way back up to the head of the bed, on Debbie's side, where the phone lay. He wrinkled his eyebrow in concentration and dialed a number.

"Hello, Wal-Mart. How can I help you?"

"Can I speak to Debbie Walters, please?"

"I'm sorry, but Debbie is on the register. May I ask who's calling and I can take a message for her."

"No, I need to speak to her now."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's not possible. She's on the register and we can't have our associate's taking calls while they're on the register."

"Look here, you goddamned stupid sow, I am Mrs. Walters' husband and I'm dealing with a goddamn emergency situation here and I have got to talk to her immediately. Now. Now. Now!"

"All right, sir. There's no need to get vulgar. If you had told me it was an emergency in the first place--"

"Put her on the fucking phone now, please."

The phone slammed down. Gene licked his dry lips and avoided looking at his arm.

"Gene, what in the hell is your problem? You want to get me fired? You're going to get me in a shitload of trouble if--"

"Listen, Debbie, listen. I'm calling you because I wanted to tell you that I'm going to kill this goddamn worthless piece of shit dog of yours. You hear that? I'm going to kill the fucker."

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Gene? Have you started drinking already? You leave Biscuit alone and he'll leave you alone. I've got enough to worry about without having to think I can't leave the two of you idiots home alone."

"No, Debbie, you don't understand. I'm going to kill the bastard."

"What is wrong with you, Gene? Are you completely losing your mind? Because I can't deal with--"

"You deal with what you want to deal with. This bastard took a chunk out of my arm and I'm going to do him in. That's it. No more. No more. And I just wanted to let you know in advance, seeing how much you care about him and all."

"He bit you again, Gene? What did you do to him? What the fuck did you do to him?"

"Nothing yet."

"Look, if he bit you, get yourself to the hospital. I'll ask Tina or someone to wait for me and give me a ride over there after my shift."

"Don't bother, Debbie. Your dog is dead."

Gene hung up. He looked at his arm. The denim shirt was black with blood. He smiled. Her dumb ass dog is dead. She had got it after her divorce to make her feel safe. And then four years later when Gene moved in she refused to get rid of it. Said it was her 'second-best friend in the world.' More like first-best if you asked Gene, because Gene had asked her to get rid of him and she hadn't. It was a simple as that. And as simple as that the goddamned thing had been messing with his life ever since.

"Come here, Biscuit. Come here."

He stood up and walked into the living room. "Hell, I know you ain't going to come. You ain't never done a thing I've asked of you, has you? Little mama's boy is what you are. Spoiled little punk. And ain't that the whole problem. Or at least part of it."

He took a step towards Biscuit who got up from the crouch he had been lying in. Biscuit growled and lunged at Gene's leg. Gene brought the gun down hard on Biscuit's head. He was holding it by its long barrel and he clubbed the dog, two, three, four times. Biscuit didn't seem to take any notice of it at all. It had a good excruciating hold on Gene's left calf and was trying to tear the muscle from the bone. Gene slammed the dog with gun frantically with his good hand, clutching his bleeding left arm to his chest.

"Am I going to have to shoot you, you fucker? You goddamn fucker! You want to kill me? You want to kill me? Fuck you! I'm gonna kill you, you dumb-ass dog."

Gene took a firm hold on the gun and tried gouging the barrel into Biscuit's eyes. Biscuit snarled, let go of Gene's calf and went for the gun. Gene jumped back and losing his balance, started to fall. Biscuit clamped his jaws on the hand on the gun and it went off. The bullet went through Gene's forehead and exited through the back of his skull before he hit the floor. The bullet lodged in the wall above the entertainment center, and blood and brains splashed over the TV and VCR. The explosion frightened Biscuit, who scampered off into the kitchen. When Gene continued to lay there without moving or speaking, Biscuit came back into the living room. He sniffed at Gene's body, snuffling over his calf, wrist and forehead in turn. Then he sauntered off to the bedroom to wait for Debbie to get home to feed him and take him out for his evening walk.

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