Death of a Dog by Jim Etchison This story is definitely a work in progress.

I never knew I was a light sleeper until I moved into this apartment. It's nice here, very light and airy during the days, with a view looking down on the neighborhood. From up here, the neighborhood doesn't look like the pit it is. It's a barrio, basically. Every house has bars on the windows, and the local residents hang out on their lawns in the afternoons drinking Budweisers and watching the cars go by. The behavior was peculiar to me at first, but I've grown used to it. I'm more used to white neighborhoods, since I am white. But this is what I can afford now, and as the saying goes, there's no place like home. In a few short months I've actually become accustomed to the trash, the junked cars, the unkempt yards. And, like I said, the place itself is very nice. The first night I slept in this apartment, however, I realized why the rent was so cheap. My girlfriend and I lay spent and exhausted from moving all day in the mid-summer LA heat. We had left the window open to allow in the slight breeze. I heard a few dogs in the distance, but they were far enough away for me to drift into a pre-dream slumber. Then a louder dog, one right next door, bolted me awake with a salvo of loud barks. My eyes opened. The dog shot off another set of staccato warnings to some imagined intruder. The barks were deep-throated and menacing. I imagined the dog to be a shepherd or Doberman. I lay there calmly trying to wait out the dog's alarum, but it didn't stop. The dog kept barking loud and insistently, and I grew angrier and angrier at it's passive owners until I gave up on sleep and resigned myself to a night of seething resentment. The dog's barks became hoarse, then became pitiful rasps until I finally eluded consciousness. The next night I was so tired that I was certain I could sleep through anything. However, the dog began barking on cue, and my exhaustion combined with my thin patience created a chemical compound in my brain like a caffeine. So, the dog was a serious problem for me. And it didn't go away. I called the local authority, who, ironically, turned out to be the SPCA, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The smarmy-sounding voice on the line told me that the correct procedure was to mail a letter to them.. They, in turn, would send a copy of the letter, sans address, to the offending dog owner. He said if the problem didn't go away with that effort, then the SPCA would arrange a peaceful meeting in a public place, "where the two parties can peacefully discuss their differences." He said the word peaceful twice. The man on the other line was confident that I could solve the problem using this process. I thanked him and hung up. His "process" was as far from satisfactory as I could have imagined. Any person with enough disregard for their neighbors as to let their dog bark through the night would probably not regard a pansy-ass local authority or a peaceful meeting in a public place. So, I was to resort to my own means. There was a day when my means would have been quite civil, but those days were over. I was no longer a man of ethics and morals; now I was a man of pragmatic action. In this neighborhood, civility didn't matter to me. If my neighbors spoke English, I might have tried the "nice guy" approach. Knock on the door, shake hands, make friends, explain the problem and hope for the best. But these and most of my neighbors had bars on their windows -- rightfully so in our neighborhood, given the crime rate. I had seen them coming and going, and they had the brown skin of those whose first language was not English. This language difference erected a second set of bars between us. Friendly camaraderie seemed only barely possible. So, given the second part of my plan, the more neighborly course of action unfortunately needed to be discarded. My impetus was, admittedly, anger. I'm not an angry person, but my sleep is important to me and as the hours I slept decreased, my anger increased. So, I wrote a letter consisting of clip art I'd downloaded from the web, and a print out of some Spanish text that my girlfriend, Jen, helped me compose. The Spanish translated this way. ""I am the King of the dead...I kill annoying dogs that bark too much....If you don't keep your dog quiet at night, I will find a way to keep him quiet permanently." "Yo soy el rey de los muertos.....mato perros que ladran mucho...Si no parra de ladrar el perro en la noche, yo voy encontrar un modo de callarlo permante." Jen and I both thought the letter was riotously funny. It's [possible that my laughter was fueled with high octane anger. I believe Jen saw this, but appeared unruffled as always. I disguised my handwriting on the envelope, and addressed it to "Mr. Barker." For one blessed night, the barking stopped. I fell asleep, hoping my fortune would continue. Once, I would have thanked God for this single night of sleep. I was trained at an early age to ferret out the small blessings and thank God for them. In so doing, we would allegedly reap a harvest of blessings. It wasn't until I was older than 30 before realizing that this cause and effect rarely seemed to work for me. Slow learner, I guess. But still, this old habit clings to me in moments when my soul wants to reach out to something outside itself. So as I drifted to sleep, consciously aware of the silence, my mind defaulted to this rut, and I began to form the words, "thank you Jesus," but stopped myself. The next night, the barking restarted. In a small way, I was glad -- much the same way a general might be glad when the enemy rejects his terms of surrender. My strategy was simple. Each night of barking would meet with a retaliation of escalating severity. My second retaliatory strike came in the form of a two-year subscription to "Dog Fancy" magazine, with the bill for $56 delivered to my neighbor's address under the name of "Perro Muerte" (Dog Dead). I waited a few weeks to allow it to take effect, but there was no effect whatsoever. The first magazine would have surely arrived, but there was no change. The dog barked as loudly and reliably as Big Ben. Not all of my childhood teaching had worn off; I was still a patient man. I would not resort to violence except at the very last. Instead, I resorted to more fraudulent mailings (with apologies to the U.S. Postal Service -- namely our neighborhood carrier.) I went to the library and tore out the "reader response card" from every trade magazine I could find. I ended up with about thirty cards. I took them home and filled each of them out with my neighbor's address and names like "Kay Ninedye" or "Rudy Dogg" or "R. I. P. Doberman". Each of these cards put my neighbor's address on as mailing lists as numbers I circled. On each one, I circled every single number, averaging about 400 numbers per card. This time, I did not allow for time to take its effect. Instead, each night the dog barked, I dropped another card in the mail. ("Postage Free if Mailed in the United States.") Since trade companies frequently sold the mailing list names to other companies, I estimated that my neighbor's address ended up on about 9 thousand mailing lists in the span of a few short weeks. My plan actually worked better than I had planned. About three months after our war began, I drove by my neighbor's house early one afternoon. While noting the ever-present barking Doberman on the side yard, I also noted that his mail had been delivered in two 100-pound bags, propped neatly against the wall by his front door. This blow to my neighbor was not reversible, and for that I felt bad. I can't imagine the difficulty so much mail must have caused for him. He was forced to sift through the dross in order to find his gas bills and personal letters -- just as we all are but on a much grander scale. A simple solution would have been to move. The post office doesn't forward third-class mail and I would have been very satisfied with this decision. Another solution to end the increase at least, would have been to stifle the damn dog. But my neighbor had grown as stubborn as I was angry. Perhaps the dog owner did actually fear damage to his property or person. This may have accounted for why he continued to give his dog free reign over his yard at night. Still, the logic eludes me. How can this animal, which barked continuously, be an effective watchdog? In his case, the only thing that would alert him to trouble would have been for the dog to suddenly become silent. Given the ineffectual results of my mail bombing, this final act became my only recourse. Before all else, I wanted to ensure my anonymity and safety. The risk of getting caught would mean immediate abandonment of my plan. I had just signed a one-year lease and didn't want to create a more difficult situation than I already had. Remember, I wasn't motivated by the desire to kill, but by the desire to sleep. But that desire had grown to increasingly large proportions. My performance at work had gotten called into question. I became absent-minded and started making silly mistakes. I have enough trouble keeping my mind on my painfully boring job as it is. I fight off distractions at work with a great verve. Why should the dog be different? There was the question of a gun. No other weapon afforded me a safe distance while still offering a reasonable chance of success. The problem was that I didn't own one. I told the gun owner that I wanted to kill a dog who was injured and suffering. He didn't even seem to hear. I realized that everyone who buys a gun probably tries to explain why. As an afterthought, I told him that I wanted a silencer. "Do the really call them silencers?" I asked. "They really do." he said. I wondered if he bought my story about the dog -- which I concocted to ensure I purchased an effective caliber. Then I mused momentarily at the silliness of my dire caution. The police barely have the time to pursue all the human murderers in Los Angeles. Dog murderers probably fall pretty low on the most-wanted list. In five days, a waiting period I was glad to sacrifice for the gun-fearing public, I picked up my purchase -- a single-shot .22 rifle with a wooden butt and silencer. The single shot limitation troubled me a bit, but I felt it would be wiser for me in the long run. My guess was that people are not good at locating the source of a single shot. But the subsequent shots that get you into trouble. So, I took the gun to a rifle range -- just once -- to make sure I would have decent aim in my moment of truth. I'm not usually this bent on preparation, but everything had to be just right. Except for the shells, no other purchases were required. Part of me enjoyed the "preparation phase" -- partly because of my aversion to violence, and partly because I enjoyed the role of criminal. I'd never played that role, although I enjoyed it so much I felt it entirely possible that I would play it again. While going about the tasks of gun buying and target shooting, I imagined a Rod Serling voice-over detailing my every move, splaying wide the psyche of a killer. Of course, the dog continued sounding its alarm every night. Had it not, I probably would have lost my inertia and dropped the effort. But bark it did, so kill I had to. The owner, wary as he might have been, could not have known that I chose that particular Wednesday night to take action. So surprise was working in my favor. I donned my black jeans and a black turtleneck, and the requisite dark blue ski mask. "You look like a terrorist," Jen said as I stood before the mirror. "Should I load the gun here, or out there?" I asked. The guy was in its leather case, propped up behind the door. She looked at it like it and answered. "Load it out there. I don't want it in the apartment while its loaded." My girlfriend was no dog lover. She slept through the barking, but was anxious to see me get a good night's sleep. In its leather case, the gun looked like it could have been a pool cue. I had a few shells in my pocket. The gun had a silencer, and I would be almost impossible to see as long as I remained still. Everything was ready. "Back in a bit," I said as I kissed Jen on the cheek through my ski mask. Suddenly, Jen brightened. "There will be spoils for the victor when he returns," she said. She opened her kimono and displayed her treasures. This was an interesting incentive. I took off the ski mask and kissed her more passionately, then turned the porch light off and stepped out the front door. My neighbor's house was down a short embankment that was covered with trees and brush. I had already determined where I would situate myself. The best view of the entire backyard was near the back corner of the lot where none of the trees would obscure my view. While there, however, I would be relatively undetectable as long as I remained motionless. As I wound my way through the dry grass, the dog began barking with a bit more vehemence than usual. Still, the sound had all the shock value of a slight breeze. I was obscenely amused as I settled into my chosen place. Though I was smiled at the thought, I knew it was in my best interest to focus, and move quickly. My plan was simple: 1) take the gun from the case, 2) load a single shell, 3) wait the dog to become relatively still, 4) fire a single, fatal shot, 5) wait for a safe moment, then reconnoiter (?) back at the house. Steps 1 and 2 happened comparatively fast since I had practiced the maneuver many times. I knew I would be working in the dark, so I felt it was necessary. Unzip, extract, lift the bolt, pull back, insert cartridge, slide bolt forward, close bolt. I wasn't sure I had the terminology correct, but a dead dog was a dead dog no matter what nomenclature you gave it. Nomenclature. I once discussed the definition of 'sophistry' with one of the most intelligent Christians I knew. I was a Christian too at the time, although I was beginning to listen to the doubts I had been suppressing. A small group of us was sitting at the Den's across the street from our church. It was after an evening service, and I recounted that I had read the word ‘sophistry' in a novel, and upon looking up the word in the dictionary, felt the stunning illumination equal only to an epiphany. It was debatable that the definition of a single word could result in life-changing impact, but that is what I think happened. The word took on a pivotal importance to me -- so much so that I could not help but discuss the word with anyone who would listen. My friend Rick, who sat across the table from me, was one of the few who listened, and actually grew excited as we began applying the word to some Christians. Some Christians, we agreed, built up an infrastructure of ideas and dogmas that became a self-confirming system, but when seen from the outside was nothing more than a tangled web of lies. Some of the others started up different conversations. Rick and I talked at length, and a few others just listened. It wasn't long before I would apply the term to all Christians. Until that time, it didn't matter to me that fellowship could be bought by the low price of hypocrisy. For it was the fellowship that I had wanted. Friends like Rick were a valuable commodity to me. I needed the camaraderie, the sense of belonging, and I needed to be perceived by many people as a leader and visionary. Christianity bought that for me, and I nuzzled into the warm embrace of the church for many years. I will confess that there is part of me that looks longingly back at those years. If I were to measure the riches in my life by the number of friends and good times I have, I am destitute now in comparison. But, the psychic impact of hypocrisy -- pretending to believe one way when I really believed another -- became higher and higher until the value was greater than what it returned. The transition was difficult, but I released my friends and the charade of my faith ended in long, gentle spasms, like a slowly ebbing tide. Now there is nothing but stark contrast to muse over. The man I was then would have been shocked at the man I am now. I think I used to be more patient. The dog continued to be restless -- probably because it sensed me hidden there in the brush. It grew tired of barking continuously, but would occasionally emit a reminder warning to me. The lights in the owners house did not change. No one inside stirred. No one inside knew their dog was in peril. To look a the dog, I was hard-pressed to feel the same hatred I felt on so many sleepless nights. It seemed to be a mix of Doberman and some other thicker breed. It's head was slightly broader, and its ears weren't clipped like a Doberman's. But it had brown-tipped limbs and the same long neck of a Doberman. It wore a brown leather collar and its toenails made clicking sounds as it paced the concrete yard. Even though the gun made only a tinny pop, it was augmented by the surrounding silence. The dog's head tilted sideways and it's jaws snapped open and shut, screaming the hoarse word, "Hot". It then repeated it's first and last English word, "hot," but it could not find its voice. My aim had been so precise that I had shot the dog square in the voice. But I wondered if the wound would be fatal. Its right leg gave way and the dog went into a tumbling roll, only to find its footing and stand once again. This time, its head was low, scanning the night for intruders. It cocked itself like a gun to shoot another bark, and said again: Hot! The dog looked confused. I, too, was confused. I didn't know if I should go against my own advice and shoot the dog again, or if I should cut my losses and head home. Surely the dog was suffering, as it stood with it's head turned nearly 90-degrees, staring confusedly at its doghouse as if it had just awakened from a dream into an orange world where nothing rhymed. The dog's back legs gave way again, and it surrendered to sitting. Its fur began to shake, and I could see the windows dim lights reflecting in the moist pool that began to form around its feet. I honestly didn't know if it was blood or urine. But the dog seemed unaware of its own peril, and gave up its barking to sit facing the house, continuing on the watchful duties prescribed by its breeding. "Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life." But the duties of breeding always eventually give way to the baser needs for blood and oxygen. The dog's lithe front legs buckled, and he settled down in the liquid. A light went on in the house. I cowered behind my hiding place, but in the new light, I got a clear sight of the dog's silhouette as its ears perked up in hope of encountering its owner. But the dog's head settled onto the ground between its front paws after the light went off again. I sat with my gun pointed at the sky. The night grew cooler as I watched the dog continue its vigil over for an hour or so, when it stopped moving. I was amazed at how much will a living thing can have. Not only to live, but to live in the manner in which it is designed. In this case, though, the will of the dog collided with my will, and my will was stronger. The death of a thing is like a monument in time that will not be moved. There was no going back … no second try. I was shaken by the depth of my sadness. So shaken that my self-aware surprise gave way to raw regret. I want to go back. There is no going back. Copyright 1998, Jim Etchison