My Dog Is Unhappy
Kurt Vonnegut once voiced high praise for Joseph Heller's 1974 novel Something Happened, a bleak look at upper-middle class life and a raw deconstruction of the American dream. The following is a satirical "lost chapter" from Something Happened, written with a nod to Heller's verbose, first-person prose, run-on sentence structure, and unapologetically self-absorbed perspective. I dare not use the term "fan fiction", but I'm afraid I just have.
My dog is unhappy. She has never come out and said so but I know it's true. She often lies on the couch or floor for long periods of time with a hurt and reproachful expression on her face, flicking her eyes at me occasionally (she tries not to let me see) to make sure that I am noticing (she wants me to notice). When she is like this, I make sure not to let her know I see it, or that I actually care (do I?) that she is unhappy. She would get far too much gratification if she thought she had the power to make me feel any kind of guilt for her life of undeserved pain. What the hell does she have to be so depressed about? It's not like she has a miserable life (like some dogs do. I see dogs around the neighborhood being abused by their owners. Kicked viscously, or spoken to harshly, or yanked and pulled by the neck against their will. Dogs who are afraid of their owners and seem to cower or hang their heads or flinch at small sudden movements, as if (and probably) bracing themselves for an unjustified (and unexplained) blow. And what about the scrappy feral dogs, who live in parks, or under the stadium, or in empty lots with nothing to eat?). We feed her, provide her with a warm, dry place to live, provide structure (with the appropriate freedoms. We know what's best.), and have never so much as asked her to lift a finger (ha, ha) to help with housework or other chores (she would screw them up anyway). She complains that we don't let her have any friends. She whimpers when she sees another dog across the street. She plants her feet and stares and won't budge or listen to reasonable explanations as to why we won't let her interact (we know what's best). If we do let her say hello or romp around with another dog for a few minutes, she quickly bores of it and is completely unappreciative. Afterwards she sulks again, and is sure to give us a subtle reminder of some past inequity or iniquity that we have committed against her. We threaten to take away privileges (we won't). She threatens to leave home (she can't open doors. Ha, ha). We threaten to send her away to boarding school and she snarls back something to the effect that we can't afford boarding school. We can (we can't). Other times she is completely pleasant and we laugh and joke together, tearing up and down the length of the house, jumping on furniture with such joy that I feel my heart may burst (if it does, she would blame herself. I would blame her). She grabs an old sock or some other toy from her basket (she has dozens - we buy them to try and assuage our feelings of guilt for leaving her home alone during the day. We buy her love) and baits me with it, leaving it on the floor between her front feet, daring me to grab it. I play along, darting in and reaching for it. She quickly snatches it up before I can and runs off. Sometimes we grab it at the same time and each try to wrestle it from the other's grasp. I let her win sometimes and she knows it. But she accepts and basks in my voluntary defeat, gloating and running to bury the toy in a pile of blankets or in the couch cushions. When she gets too loud and worked up and I think we might irritate the tenants of the neighboring apartments (I am afraid of them), I quickly cut the play session short. I blame her and speak reproachfully, accusingly, as if I had no part in causing the ruckus.
She is reaching middle age and will die before too much longer. I feel bad for her (I feel bad for myself). She won't die in a quick and painless accident. We are too careful for that. Her health will slowly decline until we have to lift her up the few steps to the front door. Our daily walks will no longer take us around the neighborhood, or even around the block. She may go blind (there is nothing worse - for me - than a blind dog). My wife and I will have tentative conversations: "How do we know it's time?", and, "She still has good days." This will simply postpone the inevitable until she can't walk at all and has to be fed pureed food and urinates in the house without knowing it. When we finally make the decision that it is inhumane to let it go on any longer (it will have been inhumane for far too long already) these will be our final memories of her. How terrible for her (for us). I would like to do it myself. It seems honorable to do it myself, not to subject her to a cold room with fluorescent lights and a cold doctor's cold hands. I think it would be best to do it on a routine walk, where she won't suspect anything. I'll borrow a gun, I guess. I could figure out how to operate it. I know I won't do it myself. I read a book once where a man tried to shoot his dog, out of mercy, and failed to do it cleanly. It took several tries and the dog was subjected to several minutes of mutilated agony before dying. Some mercy killing. But that's not the reason I won't do it. I won't do it because I can't make decisions. I won't be able to say with decisiveness that it is or isn't the right time. And when I finally do take her in for the old needle, I'll question the decision forever afterwards. Was it the right one? Was there one that could have spared (me) more pain?
For now though, we enjoy what we can and hope that she is doing the same. We buy her treats regularly, and extra special things (torn, mutilated pieces of other animals) at holidays. We spend time outdoors with her and curled up on the couch with her. She sleeps in our bed every night (a habit which we, comically, attempted to curb when she was a puppy) and we share each other's warmth, both physical and emotional. She continues to engage in vestigial, harmless rituals (kicking up dirt to bury her scat, chasing squirrels), and so do we (celebrating holidays, attending church). We've given her an arbitrary birthday, which we sometimes remember and sometimes do not. They say a dog ages seven years for ever year we do. It's not true. A year is the same either way; their lifespans are shorter by seven times, but no one wants to say it that way. I hopes she realizes it and starts having some fun soon.
She is reaching middle age and will die before too much longer. I feel bad for her (I feel bad for myself). She won't die in a quick and painless accident. We are too careful for that. Her health will slowly decline until we have to lift her up the few steps to the front door. Our daily walks will no longer take us around the neighborhood, or even around the block. She may go blind (there is nothing worse - for me - than a blind dog). My wife and I will have tentative conversations: "How do we know it's time?", and, "She still has good days." This will simply postpone the inevitable until she can't walk at all and has to be fed pureed food and urinates in the house without knowing it. When we finally make the decision that it is inhumane to let it go on any longer (it will have been inhumane for far too long already) these will be our final memories of her. How terrible for her (for us). I would like to do it myself. It seems honorable to do it myself, not to subject her to a cold room with fluorescent lights and a cold doctor's cold hands. I think it would be best to do it on a routine walk, where she won't suspect anything. I'll borrow a gun, I guess. I could figure out how to operate it. I know I won't do it myself. I read a book once where a man tried to shoot his dog, out of mercy, and failed to do it cleanly. It took several tries and the dog was subjected to several minutes of mutilated agony before dying. Some mercy killing. But that's not the reason I won't do it. I won't do it because I can't make decisions. I won't be able to say with decisiveness that it is or isn't the right time. And when I finally do take her in for the old needle, I'll question the decision forever afterwards. Was it the right one? Was there one that could have spared (me) more pain?
For now though, we enjoy what we can and hope that she is doing the same. We buy her treats regularly, and extra special things (torn, mutilated pieces of other animals) at holidays. We spend time outdoors with her and curled up on the couch with her. She sleeps in our bed every night (a habit which we, comically, attempted to curb when she was a puppy) and we share each other's warmth, both physical and emotional. She continues to engage in vestigial, harmless rituals (kicking up dirt to bury her scat, chasing squirrels), and so do we (celebrating holidays, attending church). We've given her an arbitrary birthday, which we sometimes remember and sometimes do not. They say a dog ages seven years for ever year we do. It's not true. A year is the same either way; their lifespans are shorter by seven times, but no one wants to say it that way. I hopes she realizes it and starts having some fun soon.
Comments