invisible dogs

El Presidente.

The Red Phone clanged like an old fire alarm.  I grabbed the receiver. “My Acusador,” El President’s horse whisper, “can you join us? Aquí? En el Despacho Oval?” His subdued voice a warning, carrying bad news. “Of course.” I was packing back then, and pulled on a jacket to hide my shoulder holster.

Crossed the drawbridge beneath an ugly tower of reddish smoke. The Incinerator, doing its thing, raining ashes. La Plaza Central was coated with whitish smoldering garbage. I walked faster, dodging hotspots until the Presidential Palace came into view. Cleared security, up two flights and down a dark barren hall to the Oval Office. The windows were covered with blackout curtains, as usual, El President’s desk lamp emitting a pale glow tinting the gray walls yellow, same as always, the ceiling in shadows and the dusty rug exuding the penetrating odor of a million dead cigarettes. Ortega sat at his desk, his back crooked, shoulders hunched while listening to an attractive, middle-aged woman who hadn’t bothered to stop talking when I entered. “Can you believe it,” she cried, “they sent him a dog with manipulated genes!” “The quality of care provided to Iowa andirons,” El President warily replied, “is far superior to conditions prevailing here.” She smiled, perfect teeth, and kept on. “It’s taken decades! Boycotts, strikes, and class action litigation. Finally, Alabama and New Mexico agreed to join up! Canine gene modification is now prohibited in every State of the Union. If only our Latin brothers and sisters can see their way to . . . “ She raised her eyebrows expectantly. El Presidente ignored the invitation and turned to me. “I have summoned the Republic’s Acusador! He's from the States! Like you!  El implementara all actions necessario to terminate the cloning activity of which you complain.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

 “John Pike,” I said. “Mildred Trivel,” she responded.  Tall, willowy, she wore no make-up and didn’t need it, perfect high cheekbones, a full mouth, and the tiniest of ears. Except for one thing: oversized greenish eyeballs that protruded from a smooth, shiny forehead; and right off the bat she made me nervous, that look, if you know what I mean, preoccupied and intense at the same time; someone who’d launch violent protests against debarking surgery, spend Saturday afternoons blocking the entrance of department stores selling fur products, who’d get arrested at the local rodeo, or tossed from a Chinese restaurant after freeing the lobsters. Audacious, I figured, which might be a good thing but imagine her arrogance and insensitivity, booking a flight to the Island of Infierno and showing up unannounced at the Presidential Palace in a tan business suit and high heels and gold earrings, demanding to talk about dogs: fucking dogs!

Muffin.

“How may I help you?”

“Vengeance for Muffin.” She grimaced, swiping at her eyes with  crumpled tissue paper.

“Excuse me?”

“Certified organic,” she added, as if that clarified something.

“Who?”

“Muffin! And you know what?” I shook my head sadly because although I didn’t know, I had a premonition it’d be bad. “The day Muffin arrived via Fed-Ex Animal Pak, the little sweetheart began acting out. Today of course,” she continued rapidly, “we recognize the symptoms only too well; that reluctance to be touched, the refusal to eat, abrupt mood swings and the poor thing bit anyone who came near, barked all night, urinated on the carpet and defecated on the couch. Jimmy’s father, Harold Talbert . . . “ 

“Hold on, who’s Jimmy?” 

“Muffin’s guardian,” she snapped. “Harold and Jimmy brought Muffin to the Des Moines Guardianship Station. We arranged for an examination by a licensed veterinarian . . .”  Ortega raised his eyebrows and although he was on his best behavior for some reason, I could tell by that look in his eye, he thought her to be an idiot.  “Reliable tests confirmed that Muffin had male and female genitalia. A cloner!” She clamped a carefully manicured hand over her mouth. “Stage-four germline engineering,” voice muffled by the hand. “An outdated, defective process as I’m certain you are aware so it’s was no surprise that Muffin had to be put down and I don’t need to stress—“

Dog 1 With Sepia and wrinkled paper.jpg

“The Talberts are fifth generation Iowans,” El Presidente interrupted. “Republicans, of course. Proud to be Republicans. Ms. Trivel serves as Chief of Field Operations for Iowa’s Guardianship Council. Acusador, I reviewed her investigative report. Shocking! Let me read that portion which relates to you.” And when he paused, fumbling with his bifocals, Travel peeked at her I-Watch, probably checking e-mails or the Dow Jones 500. “The web site advertising said household pet,” Ortega read aloud, “was tracked to a warehouse in Sacramento, California. Based on documents and interviews, Field Operations determined that the cloners distributed through the Sacramento point of entry were bred on the Island of Infierno.” He curled his lip and stared at the ceiling with a stern expression. “I want this problema corrected! Pronto!”

“Yes, El Presidente!”

Little Jimmie.

After Trivel was dismissed and we were alone, Ortega explained what was going down. “I apologize for dragging you into it. And no one cares about dogs more than I. Indeed, there are days when I have more affection for currs than our fellow man. But to our citizens, Acusador, to the men and women who elected me, dogs are invisible. Dozens of infants die every day on this island from starvation, diarrhea, and god knows what else; and given the pain we experience, the day-to-day suffering on this tiny, poor nation, most of us no longer have the time or emotional energy to give a damn about canines. To make matters worse, no one, not even I, El Presidente, can save the mongrels because they continue to reproduce excessively - as they’ve done for centuries, ignoring the Republic’s lack of resources, if, indeed, they have the intelligence to understand the concept of limited resources.” He ran a mottled hand through his white, thinning hair. “You’ve seen them, right? Little fuckers running and jumping in packs of twenty, even thirty or more, and friendly as hell. Why not? They have to be be friendly, the poor devils, because they’re desperate, their lives brief and tragic and it's not unusual for me to stumble on puppie corpses littering the  sidewalks when I take my morning walk to the Oval Office, not to mention observing the long columns of dead dogs that the gardeners lay out neatly across the dry, uncut lawn of the City Park every Friday afternoon. Hundreds of them, bound for the Incinerator. You know,” he said, smiling ruefully, “despite my busy schedule I can’t resist stopping. I even pet them. Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me! And I’m especially disheartened about the fate of those poor bitches who bear puppies. Their end a most pathetic, slow death from a combination of exhaustion, heat, and dehydration and it’s no wonder we citizens of the Cape favor that old expression, callous but true: 'at least they're no longer irritated by fleas.’ He shook his head. “The deceased moms often leave behind starving litters who prance about in frantic circles, groveling and whining, soon to join their mother. It saddens me to no end but you, my Acusador, need to understand our difficult position concerning the problem at hand - cloners – you need to comprehend that the cultivation of genetically engineered ‘livestock’ is entirely legitimate on this island! A big-time Enterprise Zone industry, in fact, whereby we export cloners to a number of corporations in Los Estados Unidos! Prime genetically modified sheep for example, and cows, bulls and even our premium buffalo that is farmed out to Europe, Asia, and Africa!”

He stopped, breathing heavily as he struggled to his feet and walked slowly from his desk to his old gray couch. He gestured for me to join him.  “I'll admit,” he continued after we'd settled down, side by side, “there are certain, shall we say, less sophisticated business ventures on this island which operate at the edge of the law. Nonetheless, they generate local jobs and more important, indeed most important, the Republic taxes fifteen percent of their gross!” He flashed a surprisingly gentle smile.  “At one time, everyone was happy.” The smile mutated to a snarl. “But no, the stupid Trioka went outside their jurisdiction to offer cloning services not only for livestock, but also for dogs, cats, and even a bird or two. I warned them, ‘it’s one thing to have an occasional cow with two heads,’ I said, ‘but another to produce a defective poodle’. Five months ago it was, and right here, the Oval Office, where the Trioka and their Sacramento cronies shook their collective thick heads, as if in agreement with my concerns. But only for show, Acusador.  In the end, they ignored me.”

“One can’t help but feel sorry for a child who—"

“Hold your horses,” he interrupted. “Don’t get hung up with Little Jimmie’s broken heart. The spoiled shit’s just another gringo teenager demanding a perfect pet. Comprendo?” “No . . . no, I don’t.” Ortega pursed his lips. “I’ll never understand you Norte Americanos. You open the door to germline engineering, first with your pets and soon with your children, then feign surprise when what you should’ve anticipated comes to pass. Listen man,” he continued, slurring his words. “Little’ Jimmie ain’t that little. He’s a huge teenage slug and he’s had six dogs. Muffin was about as organic as a toilet seat; don’t you see - the last thing Little Jimmie wanted was an un-enhanced dog. Muffin’s order form . . . by the way I have a copy . . . would you .  . . ?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Co-signed by Jimmie's father, that jackass Harold Talbert, and it specifically orders ‘additional IQ,’ and ‘extraordinary levels of smelling skills,” as well as ‘enhanced height and muscle mass.’” I shook my head. “Sir, I’m still confused.” “Just like gaming software," Ortega explained. "Like the Xbox, I-TV, the Sonyboard7? Comprendo? Little Jimmie wanted the latest update. Whenever new canine enhancements are available, he puts down his old dog and orders a new one! Nonetheless,” El Presidente cautioned, dark pupils hovering ominously above the black plastic rims of his thick glasses, “the Talbert Incident presents potential adverse ramifications. Trivel and her ilk, those animal nuts, have juice with the World Trade Organization and the Republic has applied for another WTO loan. Acusador, I don’t want any problemas. I need that stupid woman to owe me.” He handed me a map.  “What’s this?” “It’s right here,” he responded, “here in the Cape, a few kilometers to the north. The kennel where Muffin was manufactured. Take it out.”

“Yes sir.”

He gently removed the bifocals from his large ears, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling for a long minute. “You’ll need some muscle. Take Benetiz.  Lieutenant Eduardo Benetiz. You’ll like him,” Ortega continued, speaking with renewed vigor. “Grew up in the slums, just like me! At sixteen he joined the Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista. Like me! He went for the military side and rose in rank to POUM Commander. A hero. And an honest man. After the revolution, instead seeking a plush appointment, as did so many others, Benetiz applied to the police academy! He's crazy! Pigheaded!” Ortega concluded. “Like me!”

 The Raid.

 We hooked up in the parking structure behind the old Courthouse, the Cape’s gusty winds rising with the sun, howling between graffiti-stained concrete pillars.  Six a.m., the best time for a search and destroy mission, your suspects are asleep or under the influence. Lieutenant Benetiz greeted us with a warm handshake and unpretentious smile. Lean to the point of emaciation, narrow face and brooding hawk eyes, his shaved head bore evidence of a life of conflict; red scars and fierce wrinkles. He couldn’t have been more professional; introduced the detectives who’d accompany us (six men and two women, none older than twenty-five), and told Mildred how the raid would begin, what to expect concerning the sequence of events, and how it might end. As Trivel and I climbed into the back seat of the Lieutenant’s ancient Jeep Wrangler, an armored car, shaped like an old pill box mounted on tires, rusty battering ram poking out the front, moved into position behind us. Then came an unmarked Crown Victoria filled with detectives and the unit’s drug-sniffing dog, a huge German Shepard named Asesino. 

       “All set?” he asked.  We smiled nervously and he took off, steering the Jeep down rutted dirt alleys at a terrifying rate of speed, siren blaring. Without warning and sooner than I’d expected, we slammed to a stop alongside a faded billboard: “Gen-Rich Pets.”

 A low, single-story building emerged from the cloud of we created; trimmed lawn, manicured flowerbeds, surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire. “Stay in the vehicle.” Benetiz stalked to the iron gate barring the entrance. Rang the gate bell. No response. Detectives with shotguns exited the Crown Vic. He shook the wire fence. No response. “God-damn it to hell! Someone tipped them off! God-damn it to hell! Take the gate down!” The armored car lurched forward. “Andalaaaa!” someone shouted. 

The gate crashed down/ I remember the wind whipping-up more dust from the road, but I don’t recall leaving the Jeep. Somehow I was walking next to Benetiz as he stalked to the front door. “Surrender you fuckheads!” Dogs, I remember a sorrowful howling sound, and when he reached forward to touch the door itself, nothing more, just a gentle push, all of a sudden it flew open and dogs of all shapes and sizes began pouring out, a virtual torrent of ragged bodies hurtling past us and all of them barking like crazy with long, silver threads of saliva streaming from their open mouths.

As if a spigot of curs had been turned on, and for a minute or two is seemed it wouldn’t stop. While some were deformed and limped pathetically, others ran and leaped with obvious canine glee. So beautiful, despite their imperfections, so happy to be free, their animal energy sparkling in the morning sun as they joyously circled the front yard in a festive, pack-like frenzy, jumping and yapping with excitement and relief.

And guess what? They ignored the gaping hole at the gate!

Who knows, perhaps they were running too fast to see it, or maybe too frightened to escape, or possibly, the dogs wanted us, mere humans, to understand they could handle the responsibility of their new found freedom. Round and round they went, dozens if not hundreds of them, and in the chaos and confusion I began to feel an overwhelming guilt, recalling my capricious exercise of everyday human authority as I separated the dammed among animals from the few who were saved, hugging my dog Buddy, for example, before I set off to Whole Food Market where I’d buy a slab of dinner beef sliced from an invisible organic steer or a fresh and succulent organic breast off an invisible chicken.  And while one part of me reasoned that dogs cannot think, and therefore were inferior to us humans, another part understood that my human reason itself was worth little in the long run, it can’t be - not with the evil created by reasoned thought; and I began to argue with myself, wondering whether the fullness of a dog being a dog, and not thinking, makes dogs closer to God than we humans; if indeed there is a God, who back then I doubted.

Benetiz and the detectives froze, absolutely fascinated. Even Mildred Trivel was quiet for a few moments, thank the Lord; staring in wonder at dogs who were way too big, and miniaturized Shepherds and Collies, terribly deformed Boxers with huge goiters on their backs, a Beagle with two heads, one of those wiener dogs, I forget what you call them, elongated with three tails, puppies with flippers instead of paws or spouting two long purple tongues, or one large, friendly eye, a Great Dane with a penis that dragged on the ground, and a beautifully groomed Poodle with two assholes and a twin set of genitalia who Asesino must have found her irresistible because he broke away from his handler and began humping the damn thing, running it down and mounting first one port and then the other, until both he and poodle collapsed from exhaustion.

Aftermath.

The Gen-Rich building was abandoned; no staff, no dog food, no medical supplies, just a dead French Bulldog strapped to a steel table with her stomach toward the ceiling, embedded with red and blue wires, and vocal chords removed, apparently to silence her howling. Poor Milred roamed about, weeping hysterically. “Five days,” she kept saying. “All I ask! Feed them for five days. I’ll charter a plane and fly them to Des Moines. We’ll assign guardians . . .”

The detectives spent the day rounding up dogs and herding them into cages. To make matters worse, El Presidente, anxious to appease Trivel, issued explicit orders. “Feed the four-legged-fuckers. We’ll give her a few days.” Benetiz and I would go there together with their meals, then we’d give them water, and let them run around for an hour in the yard. It was hard to resist their love. We fell for it, began to name them by referencing behavior: Pooper or Scratchie or Wags or Fleasie or Whinnie or Dribbles, and so on. But they began to die. For no reason we could see, and we didn’t know what to do. I called Iowa maybe ten, fifteen times, but to no avail. Mildred Trivel never booked the plane she promised, she didn’t even return my calls. Ortega called an old pal, Juan Cardoza, a crusty veterinarian who’d seen animals in more forms of agony than you can imagine but remained a caring and loving person, if not to humans then at least to dogs, cats, cattle and sheep. He met us on site and spent a day examining the dogs. “They’ve been poisoned,” he concluded.  Having slept only a few hours, his tired, wrinkled face glowed a dull red, eyes watering. “Something I'm not familiar with.”

“What can we can do?” Benetiz asked.

“Too late,” Cardoza replied.

I’m told animals don’t understand the concept of mortality. Unlike you and I, dogs aren’t aware their time is finite. They don’t encounter the dread that wakes us at three-in-the-morning, can’t comprehend what we humans attempt desperately to ignore: no matter how good or bad your life, it’s going to end.

Bit I don’t buy the bullshit that dogs can’t feel or understand things, not after hugging the poor beasts as they struggled with all their might to live. Some begged for help with big, mournful, and uncomprehending eyes. Some seemed to expect an explanation, but we had nothing to tell them, of course. A few resisted our feeble attempt to provide comfort, twisting their tired little bodies and jerking their heads angrily, sometimes with a grim flash of long teeth, ignoring our fumbling efforts to rub our cheeks against their soft fur. And at all costs they avoided our eyes, as if embarrassed by the shame of their impending extinction.

It doesn’t matter to me that people say dogs can’t think ahead and worry, they suffered, I’m certain; and maybe they suffered more than us humans, given their heightened senses of sight, smell, and hearing. As the long nights passed, my inability to communicate with them became almost unbearable. No matter how much I tried to provide comfort, they didn’t seem to understand what the hell I was doing. To them, my tenderness was no more comprehensible than the reasons behind a good beating, and for all I know they may have felt worse because of my ministrations.

To Benetiz, however, the fact that our all-too-human gestures were not interpreted by the dogs as intended proved to be a revelation. “I try hard to discern things,” he explained, cuddling a still warm Collie who had died in his arms minutes earlier, “in those situations where I cannot connect with my talents, nor with my education. Things or events so empty that there’s nothing for me to cling to, to rely on. It's there, right in that place,” he concluded, “that I’m most comfortable with my faith.” 

Toward the end we were doing some serious drinking.  Rum. When sun rose after the last of them, a terrier and cattle dog, had passed away, he said . “They’re waiting for us to leave.”

“Who? “The men who did this. Once we go, they’ll start again.”

“That’s not what Ortega has in mind.” His quick and furious smile. He made a call, and we began laying the dogs out as neatly as possible: reception area, front office, and exam rooms. Soon a detective arrived in a pick-up filled with drums of gasoline. As gentle as possible we drenched the walls, carpets, and the dead dogs and burned the Gen-Rich Complex down to the ground.