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LJ Idol Week 5.19: Blanket
Feb. 4th, 2009 07:03 amIt was one of those heavy wool blankets, the kind most often described as an “army blanket,” except that instead of being olive green it was very nearly black, with a couple of narrow red stripes at each end. That, and the fact that it was several sizes too small for any but the smallest soldier, having been part of my “kit” the year my parents had sent me to summer camp, when I was nine.
Over the few short years since setting off on my own, I had put the blanket to use in many ways, most having nothing to do with the retention of body heat while sleeping. Most recently, it had been used as a furniture pad for our fledgling family’s move from New York to an apartment in Jacksonville, Florida, and then again for a move from the apartment to our first house not far away, whereupon it was cached in a closet along with other items too good to throw out, but not good enough to use on a regular basis.
Owning a house means, among other things, not having to kow-tow to the requirements of landlords when it comes to owning pets, and not long after moving in, we acquired a puppy, who we named Bart.
Bart was of a breed best described as “100% mutt.” He was all black, playful, and clearly sharp as a tack. What drew my eye to him in the first place was the way he would run around, with his attention focused completely on what was in front of him, and then suddenly sit and cock his head to one side, as if in contemplation. He would grow up, I was sure, to be a philosopher.
As is the case with most puppies, it looked like the first few days away from his littermates were going to be hard on Bart. So, to ease his transition to his new surroundings, I did something I had seen my stepdad do years before. I prepared a hot water bottle, wound an old-style alarm clock (the kind whose ticking could be heard in the next county), and wrapped both inside my old blanket. This, according to my dad, created a “nest” that would comfort the puppy at night with its softness, warmth, and simulated beat of a mother's heart.
I can’t tell you if Bart was comforted or not, but I can tell you that the next morning, the clock and water bottle were at opposite ends of the kitchen floor, and Bart was wrestling with the blanket. Dog and blanket appeared to be settling their differences on a “best two falls out of three” basis, and it was evident the eventual result was not a foregone conclusion.
Bart bonded with that blanket. He loved that thing. He slept with it, played with it, and dragged it with him nearly everywhere. If I picked it up, he’d come running to me, grab it, and we'd play tug-of-war. Once, while I was reading a newspaper in the dining room, Bart emerged from the hall leading to the bedrooms with his head stuck through a hole he had managed to chew at one end of the blanket, with the rest of the fabric trailing behind. Bart resembled a canine version of Batman, but with a ridiculously long cape. After emerging from the hall and letting me get the full effect, he sat, looked at me, and cocked his head. I laughed.
I do not recall the exact circumstances of how it came about, but one day, when Bart was three months old or thereabouts, I was working in the side yard when I noticed Bart had somehow managed to get out onto the front lawn, located between the house and a moderately-traveled road.
“Bart! Come!,” I commanded, but there was no response. His attention was fixed elsewhere and obedience was something we were still working on. I stopped what I was doing, went into the house, grabbed the blanket as I passed through the kitchen, and went out the front door, again calling, “Bart!”
As I crossed the threshold, Bart was just crossing the street, heading away from me. I again called his name, louder and more urgently this time, and raised his beloved blanket to wave it.
He never saw it.
A late model Chevy came charging down the road from the right and swept Bart away, not slowing down at all, even after the air was pierced by a long, horrifying scream of agony that did not stop until the car did, about a hundred yards down the road. As Bart's keening wail died away, I turned back into the house, grabbed the .25 caliber automatic we had bought after moving to Florida, and then set off for the stopped car, fearing the worst.
The worst, or something close, had come to pass.
Ignoring the driver of the vehicle, I eased Bart out from under the car and placed him on the blanket that, somehow, I had taken with me. Bart was alive, but barely. He tried to lick my hand. I started to cry.
Three of Bart's legs were broken and attached to the rest of him by skin alone. In places, fur and skin had been abraded to muscle. There was blood everywhere. One eye was destroyed. Part of one lip was missing, and I could see the lower jaw was broken. He looked at me with his remaining good eye, poured out his love, and forgave me, I think, for what I was going to - had to - do.
The car had stopped next to an empty lot, so I gently picked up the blanket and moved Bart a dozen or so yards further away from the road, then put him back down. I kneeled, grabbed a handful of my tee shirt, and wiped away my tears so I could see what I was doing. Then I placed the pistol to Bart's head and pulled the trigger.
Although the reasoning part of my brain told me Bart was dead, seeing his broken body thrash reflexively caused the primitive part of my brain to command my hand and arm to aim and pull the trigger again. And again. And twice more, emptying the five-round magazine. Bart lay still.
I rose and turned to face the driver, who was leaning on his fender smoking a cigarette, as if nothing in particular was going on. He looked at me and smiled, as if we had just shared a joke. The bastard smiled at me!
For a split-second, I was tempted to point my pistol at him and pull the trigger, just to see that smile disappear from his face, but the Marines had trained me well. Even though I knew my pistol was empty, I had no intention to kill the scrofulous cretin grinning in front of me, so I suppressed the temptation and instead, put the pistol in my pocket.
I don’t remember much of our ensuing conversation, only my desire that it be over with and that this miserable excuse for a human and his car be gone forever from my life.
After the car drove off, I carefully wrapped Bart in the blanket and carried him back to the house. I sat in the back yard for a while, holding the bundle to my chest, crying, unmindful of the blood that had seeped through the fabric and onto my clothes. Once the tears stopped, I got up, fetched a shovel, and dug a grave under a ficus tree my wife and I had transplanted into the yard shortly after moving in. I buried Bart there, shrouded in his favorite blanket.
Postscript. The next day, when I sat down to clean the pistol, I found a round in the chamber. For whatever reason, my "empty" pistol hadn’t been empty. Apparently, there are times when it makes sense to blindly follow the rules (in this case, "never point a weapon at someone unless you are prepared to kill him").
Cheers...
Over the few short years since setting off on my own, I had put the blanket to use in many ways, most having nothing to do with the retention of body heat while sleeping. Most recently, it had been used as a furniture pad for our fledgling family’s move from New York to an apartment in Jacksonville, Florida, and then again for a move from the apartment to our first house not far away, whereupon it was cached in a closet along with other items too good to throw out, but not good enough to use on a regular basis.
Owning a house means, among other things, not having to kow-tow to the requirements of landlords when it comes to owning pets, and not long after moving in, we acquired a puppy, who we named Bart.
Bart was of a breed best described as “100% mutt.” He was all black, playful, and clearly sharp as a tack. What drew my eye to him in the first place was the way he would run around, with his attention focused completely on what was in front of him, and then suddenly sit and cock his head to one side, as if in contemplation. He would grow up, I was sure, to be a philosopher.
As is the case with most puppies, it looked like the first few days away from his littermates were going to be hard on Bart. So, to ease his transition to his new surroundings, I did something I had seen my stepdad do years before. I prepared a hot water bottle, wound an old-style alarm clock (the kind whose ticking could be heard in the next county), and wrapped both inside my old blanket. This, according to my dad, created a “nest” that would comfort the puppy at night with its softness, warmth, and simulated beat of a mother's heart.
I can’t tell you if Bart was comforted or not, but I can tell you that the next morning, the clock and water bottle were at opposite ends of the kitchen floor, and Bart was wrestling with the blanket. Dog and blanket appeared to be settling their differences on a “best two falls out of three” basis, and it was evident the eventual result was not a foregone conclusion.
Bart bonded with that blanket. He loved that thing. He slept with it, played with it, and dragged it with him nearly everywhere. If I picked it up, he’d come running to me, grab it, and we'd play tug-of-war. Once, while I was reading a newspaper in the dining room, Bart emerged from the hall leading to the bedrooms with his head stuck through a hole he had managed to chew at one end of the blanket, with the rest of the fabric trailing behind. Bart resembled a canine version of Batman, but with a ridiculously long cape. After emerging from the hall and letting me get the full effect, he sat, looked at me, and cocked his head. I laughed.
I do not recall the exact circumstances of how it came about, but one day, when Bart was three months old or thereabouts, I was working in the side yard when I noticed Bart had somehow managed to get out onto the front lawn, located between the house and a moderately-traveled road.
“Bart! Come!,” I commanded, but there was no response. His attention was fixed elsewhere and obedience was something we were still working on. I stopped what I was doing, went into the house, grabbed the blanket as I passed through the kitchen, and went out the front door, again calling, “Bart!”
As I crossed the threshold, Bart was just crossing the street, heading away from me. I again called his name, louder and more urgently this time, and raised his beloved blanket to wave it.
He never saw it.
A late model Chevy came charging down the road from the right and swept Bart away, not slowing down at all, even after the air was pierced by a long, horrifying scream of agony that did not stop until the car did, about a hundred yards down the road. As Bart's keening wail died away, I turned back into the house, grabbed the .25 caliber automatic we had bought after moving to Florida, and then set off for the stopped car, fearing the worst.
The worst, or something close, had come to pass.
Ignoring the driver of the vehicle, I eased Bart out from under the car and placed him on the blanket that, somehow, I had taken with me. Bart was alive, but barely. He tried to lick my hand. I started to cry.
Three of Bart's legs were broken and attached to the rest of him by skin alone. In places, fur and skin had been abraded to muscle. There was blood everywhere. One eye was destroyed. Part of one lip was missing, and I could see the lower jaw was broken. He looked at me with his remaining good eye, poured out his love, and forgave me, I think, for what I was going to - had to - do.
The car had stopped next to an empty lot, so I gently picked up the blanket and moved Bart a dozen or so yards further away from the road, then put him back down. I kneeled, grabbed a handful of my tee shirt, and wiped away my tears so I could see what I was doing. Then I placed the pistol to Bart's head and pulled the trigger.
Although the reasoning part of my brain told me Bart was dead, seeing his broken body thrash reflexively caused the primitive part of my brain to command my hand and arm to aim and pull the trigger again. And again. And twice more, emptying the five-round magazine. Bart lay still.
I rose and turned to face the driver, who was leaning on his fender smoking a cigarette, as if nothing in particular was going on. He looked at me and smiled, as if we had just shared a joke. The bastard smiled at me!
For a split-second, I was tempted to point my pistol at him and pull the trigger, just to see that smile disappear from his face, but the Marines had trained me well. Even though I knew my pistol was empty, I had no intention to kill the scrofulous cretin grinning in front of me, so I suppressed the temptation and instead, put the pistol in my pocket.
I don’t remember much of our ensuing conversation, only my desire that it be over with and that this miserable excuse for a human and his car be gone forever from my life.
After the car drove off, I carefully wrapped Bart in the blanket and carried him back to the house. I sat in the back yard for a while, holding the bundle to my chest, crying, unmindful of the blood that had seeped through the fabric and onto my clothes. Once the tears stopped, I got up, fetched a shovel, and dug a grave under a ficus tree my wife and I had transplanted into the yard shortly after moving in. I buried Bart there, shrouded in his favorite blanket.
Postscript. The next day, when I sat down to clean the pistol, I found a round in the chamber. For whatever reason, my "empty" pistol hadn’t been empty. Apparently, there are times when it makes sense to blindly follow the rules (in this case, "never point a weapon at someone unless you are prepared to kill him").
Cheers...
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