Chapter 1. My Life as a Dog (Part 1)
PROLOGUE
There are times when telling a difficult story could be likened to the peeling away of skin or a scab, but some go deeper—like sawing into scar tissue; these stories are accompanied by a sense of unease and unwillingness. For some, that unwillingness had little to do with much else than they’d rather leave it buried—like a bullet too close to an artery. They would rather not delve too deeply into the connotations, for theirs is a simple life unaffected by the ramifications this far. The difficult pieces were merely that—a single stone in an otherwise smooth path.
For me, I followed the path I first set foot on, growing used to stepping from one perilous occurrence to another. So many stones did I encounter, that it would appear that my journey were paved with cutting realities; and it’s not for pain or weariness that I’ve failed to record it until now, but for not knowing how to disclose it.
Where pain brings clarity, the feelings that I had during these times are not the same feelings that I carry now, and even that can warp certainty.
For that reason, I’ve sat with them—trying them out in different lights, wearing them about like a cloak to see how they fit at different times. Occasionally, I would peddle these stories to an interested audience only to find that the full weight of the truth… isn’t always best…isn’t always welcome even—it’s too heavy for those not prepared for its overwhelming weight.
I then curtailed the edges of fact or redacted some entirely to avoid unwanted penalties to my own character as well as those of others. I made the stories more bearable for you.
So, I am going to tell my story the only way that I can at this point: as an amalgamation of truths from others along with my own, compiled by a fearing and imaginative child; through the filter of a resourceful and knowledge-hungry young woman; through the teeth of a seething and angry dog of destruction; and as a recovering human, seeking the end of it all.
You will find no real names in this book. Some scenarios will be watered down, while others embellished to mislead for the sake of those who could be tarnished by its pages.
Why tell this story at all, then? Ultimately—to be clean of it. To be emptied. Having carried the various versions over the years, it has been as a blight keeping those parts of my past alive and writhing beneath the surface. I’ve come to realize that I could never be totally free without finally cutting it out and abandoning it forever to the ether; which brings me here:
Out of all the stories that I know, this one just might be mine…
Chapter 1
My Life as a Dog
It would’ve been a beautiful sight: softly swelling and golden against a blue sky. The wind was warm as it abruptly pushed dry grasses one way then suddenly the other, changing the color-tone of the hills like they were fabric, velvet. Again, it would’ve been a beautiful sight, except for the vast auto graveyard filling the valley; a spectacle in and of itself—stunning, in its own way.
To a small child, the steel monoliths seemed to stretch endlessly, but as these things go, a little vantage would dispel any such notion. Say, if you crawled carefully atop one of the rusted demigods, you would see the necropolis spanned only to the base of the next ridge—a quarter mile away.
There were flecks of paint, dark blue, stuck in the baby skin of my palms and knees. My shins were brown and orange with rust, scrapes, and blood as Kimo laid sphinxlike beside me, licking the bits of iron from me then his own massive paws. I tied my tiny fingers into the thick fur of the shepherd. The pungent smell of him filled my nostrils, but it wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was reassuring. Even as an adult, I still find the reek of dogs ‘comforting’. If there’s a dog in your life, for me, that’s synonymous with a life being lived well.
Kimo had been the only pup sired by Jack, that King kept; an old black shepherd with keen, bright orange eyes—not unlike the rust on my chubby, child’s legs. Jack was now too old to be running around with the pack and stayed close to King at the wrecking yard office. Kimo was larger than his father—he was the largest shepherd most visitors to the junkyard claimed to have seen. King was offered money for him on several occasion, but he turned all bids down. Not because he loved the dog, but simply because he didn’t want other man to have what was his. He’d soon as shoot the dog himself than let another man take him.
The wrecking yard now had a dozen such German Shepherd dogs at any given time. Even now, several of Kimo’s own half-grown pups sniffed about and inside the doorless vehicle below us while others surveyed those surrounding. One pup gave a low, throaty warning; suddenly, the entire group of them raced passed us like sharks on the scent of blood. They emerged, juggling a rattlesnake and, incidentally, their lives before tugging it apart. Such was life here on the fringes. Wild. Brutal. Beautiful. Forgotten.
Kimo sat here beside me now as a sort of mercy provided of this place. I believed that. Not King’s mercy, for it was King’s own inattention to blame for Kimo’s close call. But rather a mercy only shown to those who were conditioned to never show, never need—but thrived under when given.
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The rancher could hear them screaming as he ran from the house to the basin of the hill where a single, small shed stood. Pressing the rifle tight against his chest, he ran as fast as his failing hip would allow. As he grew closer, the voices grew fainter. One-by-one, they went silent until there were more. It was then that he stopped suddenly, still holding his rifle close to his chest. The beat of his heart shook his whole body as he slowly settled the wood butt against his shoulder in anticipation. Stepping lightly, he approached the shed. He could smell the iron in the air.
Still keeping space between himself and the doorway, currently obstructed by a dead ewe—he adjusted his eyes from the bright sun to the depths of the shed, and there he could clearly see the blood-soaked demon, illuminated by trespassing sunbeams from old damage to the tin roof. The shepherd stared directly at him and wagged his tail as if waiting for compliments. He’d done good. He had killed them. Every last one of them noisy sheep. And the Shetland pony.
The incensed hobby rancher shot into shed, grabbed the sun-bleached, carved wood handle of the door, and forcefully pulled it shut—heaving the heavy, dead ewe with it. Quickly he slat-locked the door and listened. After a moment, Kimo broke the silence with an escalating, long, painful bellow that made the farmer’s nape skin to prickle. The man turned and ran back toward the house. It was high time someone did something about those Liles’ dogs before they killed again. Maybe next time, a person.
When the authorities arrived to retrieve the dog, he was gone. The rookie and deputy looked for him amongst the dead ewes thinking the gun shot, if as severe as the farmer had indicated, would surely have put the animal down.
Most of the livestock had their throats ripped open. Few were missing anything except their lifeforce. It looked as though the dog had killed for the sake of killing. One ewe’s head was bent backwards with the top of the head resting on its hindquarters, as though it had been peeled back to that point; from the other end, you had an almost clean look into its esophagus. The younger officer pointed out the absurdity, trying to seem tough, until the animal unexpectedly expelled aloud, baritone and breathy crow which spouted gore. Postmortem movement. He had studied it in his classes to get the badge he wore, but knowing the terminology didn’t help the young officer keep his last meal…only pay for it.
His senior, the deputy, ignored this and called him over. He guided the peaked rookie’s attention to a small opening at the corner of the shed. The young man wiped spittle from his chin and asked what it was—indicating the strange buildup clinging to the top of the tin. The deputy pulled the alien entity and it sprung open extending like an accordion made of fresh flesh, hair, and blood obviously fileted from the dog’s body as he had chewed just enough of the tin to then push his massive frame through the opening. The young officer lost the rest of his lunch.
Twice in a day, the dog had evaded death, but it had been over the past few years that they had received many complaints of a huge dog attacking livestock. They were sure it came from the only place within miles with shepherds and shepherds, mind you, with a reputation for their vicious entourage. Locals were terrified to go anywhere near the place, which seemed bad for business in the public’s eye—but for King, the deputy knew for a long time now, it’s exactly what he wanted. So, when he and his rookie partner did not find the dog’s mangled body—not along the road, not on the hillsides—it was last straw to drive to King’s Wrecking Yard to see if, by some ungodly marvel or utter demonic will, that the animal made it home.
“Stay with the car.” The Deputy told him as he slammed his own door.
King heard a voice and peered out the dust-caked window of the repair shop. The deputy had already made it halfway through the dirt parking lot before King flipped the switch from tormented, guilty, paranoid to self-possessed, indignant, and foreboding. He exited the building, shutting the door with a heavy swing.
“Afternoon, Officer,” he acknowledged.
“King.” The deputy nodded, watching his disfigured reflection get longer in King’s sunglasses.
A staple of his. Truth was though, King was an anxious mess most of the time, but his puffed-up bravado, dark tanned, muscular appearance, and sunglasses…they hid much of that…and honestly, as nervous as King was, the deputy was twice as much so for he knew, worse than any cornered, wounded dog—was an anxious addict of King’s magnitude.
“Here for a pickup? Little early.” King stated.
The deputy looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner wasn’t listening.
“We shouldn’t talk about that out here.”
He turned his attention back to King, squinting against the sun.
It was best to get the point as soon as possible as to diffuse the situation before King started creating scenarios in his head that weren’t happening.
“King,” the deputy looked about himself, “now that dog you got. The big one. Well, it butchered old Bill Owens’ flock. Even killed his goddamn pony.”
“A pony? Huh.” he almost sounded proud as he crossed his arms.
“Thing is, the Owens’ got grandkids and they’re all real upset right now that that dog is still out there. They’re gone want recompence.”
Though King remained wholly unchanged, the air around them stiffened noticeably.
“Now mind you,” the deputy offered, “they’re not asking to press charges,and it won’t cost you a dime,” he paused, “not this time.” But they’re gone wanna see that dog put down.”
“Put down, you say?”
King reached above his ear and found a Marlboro.
“That’s right.” The deputy replied.
King took his time lighting his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. His face was as placid and unreadable as the stretch of highway that brought them here and it made the deputy uneasy.
“Did it happen to show back up here? The dog.”
“Haven’t seen it.” He blew two columns of smoke out of each nostril. “Could ask my brothers.”
The deputy looked down and took note of the blood trickle trail and large paw prints headed the way of the four garage bays.
“That would be good.”
The deputy saw a young dog peer around the side of the building. Another two shepherds slowly made their way to the covered porch in front of the office door from the opposite direction. One dog laid down, but all three dogs were at attention. Watching. Waiting.
“Uh huh.” The deputy thought a moment, probably weighing the various outcomes should he press the issue. He looked back up to peer at his reflection in King’s glasses again, then over his shoulder at his partner straining to hear the conversation from the passenger side of the black and white Olds.
“Alright then.”
The deputy started to turn away, feeling slightly vexed, he stopped. “Jus’ make sure you put it down, that is if’n it does show back up.” He said this standing with his gun hip pointed toward King, taking great care to not look the man in the eye again. He knew King didn’t like to be told, but the deputy had a job to do—his real job.
“Probably be a small mercy to the thing if’n he’s in as bad a shape as I think he may be. Owens’ are right, you know,” He started back to his car. “I’d be a might bit worried having a dog like that around these kids you got here too...”
King’s hand grabbed the deputy by the back of the neck, snatched his wrist with his other hand, and slammed the officer onto the hood of the car—it was hard to tell if the deputy was screaming from the surprise, the angle he was bent, or the scorching heat of the metal on the flat of his cheek. His partner stumbled out of the car and with a shaky hand, pointed his sidearm at King, who paid him no mind even as he yelled, “Let him go! Let him go now!”
It was then that the dogs descended—snarling, lunging. The young rookie pointed his gun at them, and they backed off, still snarling—pacing and looking for an entrance.
King continued to ignore the young man as though he were but a gnat in his orbit.
“I don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my property,” he gritted his teeth near the officer’s ear, “and I sure as hell don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my kids. Not you. Not any other pig. No anyone. You hear me? If you want to keep this arm,” King wrenched the deputy’s wrist backwards until it was likely to snap, “you will keep your goddamn nose out the business that’s not yours and just keep it to the business we do have. You got me?”
“Yes! Let me up!”
His voice was almost drowned by the barking.
“What was that?”
“Yes! Just let me up! Let me up!”
King flung the rest of the man’s body onto the car. The deputy pushed himself off as fast as he could. His face already had a red welt ready to blister. He held his cheek and got into the car. The young officer, still standing beside the door, confounded over what had just taken place.
“Get in the car, Dicky!” the deputy yelled.
“Well, ain’t we gonna…”
“Get in the fucking car!”
The young man scrambled back into the car as awkwardly as he had gotten out of it. The car lurched into reverse and completed a wide, reckless backward turn before switching gears, and speeding off down the highway.
King watched the deputy go until the dust had settled and he heard the engine no longer. He sighed, then turned and walked directly to the first garage bay. Stepping inside, he looked down at the huge dog, side heaving erratically, reaching for air. The dog, unable to lift his head, peered out the corner of his eye at King. He was dark with blood, impossible to tell how much was his and how much belonged to his kills. King stared at Kimo. Cold.
He started for the backdoor to the office as he said, “If you die you better crawl somewhere where I won’t fucking smell you rot.”
He opened the door and just before he slammed it, muttered, “Stupid, fucking mutt.”
Kimo didn’t die. That night, King gathered the dog up and carelessly threw him into the back of his Chevy short-wide. He didn’t make a sound. King then piled us kids into the cab. We were never alone with Mom. It was the rule. Even if King was out well past what should have been a normal bedtime for a five and seven-year-old. He kept us close.
The windows were down. The breeze that came in was hot. I could hear the whoosh of the cars passing. The sun still glowing low like an ember on the horizon while the pink sky was slowly forced down by a heavy, dark blue veil of twilight.
I peered through the back glass of the truck. I could see Kimo’s ribs slowly moving up and down with each orange streetlight we passed under.
“Turn around.”
I obeyed.
When we arrived home. Our house, in the middleclass Modesto suburb, looked like any other house from the outside—dirt yard, palms, stucco—but inside it was chaos. It was also hazy, thick with cigarette smoke and stale Budweiser that clung to the furniture, the brown and tan carpet, and stained near the tops of the walls yellow. Bubble-glass windows in the bathroom heavy with mildew, the windows nailed shut from the inside to keep the men of shadows out. No room unscathed from King’s paranoia or the holes it made every wall.
My older brother Logan ran to our mom as she opened the front door. I could see him waving his arms as he explained the situation and see Mom’s eyes growing incredulous with each small flail. She walked quickly towards the back of the truck.
“GET…” my mom stopped at King’s voice. “…back…in…the house.” She slowly backed away from the truck bed and turned back the way came.
“I’ll bring him in,” his voice softened, almost apologetically—like he was a normal father coming home from a rough day at work and had uncharacteristically lost his temper.
King lugged the dog into the house, into the kitchen, then flopped him onto the orange, 1960s metal and Formica kitchen table. Blood crusted fur, eyes caked shut. Mom’s hand covered her trembling lower jaw as her eyes welled up with tears uncertain that she was allowed to have. She stood frozen, unknowing what to do until King told her.
“Bring me the first aid kit.”
J.M.Liles ©️2024