ENDURE - CHAPTER VIII - SEEING RED - by Zinny

Thank you for joining me again. 

This is the most difficult part of my life. 

The next part is buried so deeply, so entrenched in the hollow, scabbed-over hallows of my heart. I never thought I could ever tell this part of me honestly. 

WAITING FOR THE STEPS

The following morning, Fights-On-Her-Back and I ran down the Living Stairway for our daily pee & poop. She screeched to a stop midway down and raised her head. 

Once outside, I asked her if the Living Stairway spoke to her just then. She nodded slowly and looked far away. Then she looked at me, terrified and wild-eyed. She yelped and ran past Joan, who was still coming down the stairs. Joan yelled after her, but Fights-On-Her-Back was on the upper landing and scrambling away before Joan could figure out the proper combination of swear words to bring her back. 

I cut my pee short and charged past Joan, who was taking the first pull of her many cigarettes that day, and ran up after Fights-On-Her-Back. The Living Stairway still said nothing to me.

I found Fights-On-Her-Back in my crate, hidden under the threadbare cushions and several towels. She was breathing heavily and crying.

I lay down next to her and pulled the towels from her head. I nuzzled her. I licked the tears from her face. I synchronized our breathing.

And I said not one word to her.

We heard feet coming up the steps, and we held our breath, but it was only Joan returning from her cigarette.

RED

Later in the afternoon, The Living Stairway sounded an alarm. We could hear it scream and from the crate. Joan and Doug noticed nothing. I prayed to The Great Mother Dog. 

Heavy boots steadily clomped-clomped up. Getting louder. Getting closer. The dire creakings, moanings, and wailings of the Living Stairway filled my ears until I thought I would go mad. I prayed to The Great Mother Dog even harder, but nothing could stop that cacophony. 

There was a sloppy knock, and an already-drunk Doug went to the door and let in his friend, Red.

They both laughed and greeted each other. Red had a flayed, half-drunk case of cheap canned beer he was hugging in his arms. He swayed in the middle of the kitchen, smiling stupidly. He was scrawny, his head covered in disheveled red hair and stubble. He had steady, piercing blue eyes about one second away from madness, and a high-pitched voice that always seemed too loud.

I knew Red from many parties at The Sky Prison. He was the most intoxicated Biped on every occasion. He didn't have the sense to go home or pass out. He stumbled around, becoming more hostile until he had offended everyone into leaving rather than deal with him. I remember one party in particular when we were the only ones awake in the wee hours and he started talking at me. And I have to say, talking "at" me. 

That night he didn't talk to me like all the other Bipeds - in sickly-sweet tones and nonsensical soft words like I was retarded. That night he spoke to me like he was speaking to another Biped. He asked me things like how I liked my crate and how my dinner was. I stared at him, wondering if I was hallucinating or if Doug had put vodka in my water bowl again. 

I cocked my head and stared at him in a friendly way, but he ran across the room and tried to kick me. Luckily, he was too drunk to connect, and he fell on his back with an enormous THUD! I ran into my crate and turned to face him at the door with every fang I had. 

Then he did the strangest thing I'd ever seen any Biped ever do in my life. 

He cried and jibbered and crawled toward my crate on all fours. My hackles went up, and I was growling at him, but Red was too drunk to hear or see my warnings. When he got to the crate door, his face was a blotchy red, blubbering mess of tears. He was pleading with me in a phony high pitch. I suddenly realized that if I bit him, my punishment would be heavy. I forgot my fangs, jammed my way past him, and beat a hasty retreat to the Forbidden Couch. I stood there, panting and watching him intently, ready to pounce if need be. 

I was amazed when Red continued forward into my crate. He kept calling for me and slurring, "Zinny... Whereya at, girl?! Zinny, COME!..." 

He passed out and spent the rest of the night in my crate, head-first.

I curled up on The Forbidden Couch so I had a better place to watch him and get away as quickly as possible if needed. 

In the morning, I wasn't even yelled at for being on The Forbidden Couch. Everyone was laughing at Red in my crate. Doug kept laughing at him, "HAHAHAHAHAHA!! ZINNY DOESN'T EVEN WANT TO SLEEP WITH YOU! HAHAHAHAH!!!!" 

And Joan took pictures. 

STRIKE OR FLEE

On the present day...

Doug reached for one of Red's beers, and the wet cardboard ripped. The cans spilled out and hit the floor with an arrhythmic clatter. Doug laughed, and Joan bent down, helping Red put his beers in the fridge. When they were all in the fridge, Red stupidly chose his next beer from the fallen ones, and it sprayed all over his face. Doug laughed so hard his head turned purple, and I thought he was going to die. Even Joan had to turn away to hide her laughter. 

As the afternoon went on, all three Bipeds got drunker and higher by playing drinking games and hitting the six-foot bong. The afternoon became evening. Friends came over and left.  

Fights-On-Her-Back and I had not been let out since that aborted attempt in the morning. Fights-On-Her-Back peed in my crate around sundown. She didn't move. I don't even think she knew she did it. She was catatonically intent on hiding from this day. And I hid her as much as I could. 

I left my crate and went to the door, hoping to get Joan to take us out. No one noticed. I whined. No one noticed. I tried to push the door with my snout and head. When I scratched the door, Doug shouted, "GODDAMN IT, ZINNY! DON'T SCRATCH AT MY FUCKING DOOR!" and threw an empty beer can at me.  

Joan sent Doug a withering look and stubbed her cigarette out. Red laughed and slapped his knee repeatedly in a very loud and stupid way. Then Joan stood up and called for Fights-On-Her-Back. After calling for her several times, she looked in my crate.

"OH MY GOD! SHE PEED IN ZINNY'S CRATE! BAD DOG!!" Joan grabbed her by her legs and dragged her from my crate exactly like she chicken-dragged me from the truck to The Talking Stairway on my first night at The Sky Prison.  

Joan threw Fights-On-Her-Back to the floor like a wad of soiled tissue paper and rubbed her hands like they were infected. Then she pinched her nose with one hand and raised the other as if to hit her. 

I leaped between them and growled, my teeth bared, my eyes slits. I dropped my head low. Every muscle, tendon, and sinew in my body was ready to defend my last pup.

I heard Red in the background. He was loud, accusing, and piercing. Like a band of coyotes singing from hunger in winter. How could he possibly think a terrified mother and daughter Dog squaring off against a drunken Biped was enormously entertaining? He pointed at Doug. "BAD DOG, DOUG! BAD DOUG!!!" and made exaggerated male Biped peeing motions.

Doug was not moved. He said nothing. He squinted at me through the lingering cigarette smoke wisping about his face. He squashed it, half-done, in the overflowing ashtray in front of him.

Then he got up, and I was unsure where his lightning would strike first. 

Doug was gathering his storm. He had done this many times before, and I was afraid. He was unsteady, his eyes red and glazed, his face pallid. In his hand, a half-full, warmish can of beer. 

Dirge-like classic rock music blared in the background from cheap, tinny speakers. Red howled and laughed like he was watching some kind of hilarious children's play from a million miles away. 

The rest of us were in a horrible Mexican Standoff. 

TEMPEST

Fights-On-Her-Back broke for the front door, and all hell followed with her. 

Even now, I struggle to remember. There were too many moving parts, moving in too many ways. And I can only remember it in absurd, disjointed glimpses, sounds, and smells...

Doug charging Fights-On-Her-Back. Joan shrieking. Me biting Doug's calf hard. Doug hitting the linoleum floor with a heavy, lung-emptying grunt. The entire Sky Prison shuddering on impact. Spices and pictures falling off the walls and clattering to the floor. Warm, smelly, slippery beer on the floor. Joan trying to pull me off Doug by my tail. Fights-On-Her-Back fear-peeing and trying to dig through the door into the Living Stairway.  

In a weird moment in the chaos, I clearly remember wondering about The Living Stairway. I wondered whether it would help us. I wondered whether Doug could hurt it. My teeth were in Doug's leg, and I was ripping back and forth like a wild beast. He hit me in my head viciously. Over and over...

And I was foolishly wondering about a talking stairway... I snapped back to the awful present. 

Joan was covering me with her body, trying to keep the harder of Doug's blows from landing. She screamed, "RELAX! DOUG! RELAX! STOP, STOP!" Then, "DOUGSTOPSTOPSTOP!!!! STOPDOUGSTOPNO, RELAX DOUGSHE'SJUSTADOG!!!!! DOUG!! NO NO NO!!!! DOUG NO!!" He hit me harder and harder. He tried to get to his feet, but my fangs were still lodged in his jeans. 

Joan's pleas for mercy and his inability to stand infuriated Doug. He hit Joan with his open palm across her face. The noise rang out -- stark, ugly, resonant and unforgettable.  

The stereo was still blaring, and Red was still howling with manic laughter at the spectacle.

I let go of Doug's leg and I remember a clear thought through the fog: “So, that's what Biped blood tastes like.” I asked The Great Earth Dog to grant me rivers of Doug's blood splashed and clotted all over my mouth and face like a warrior's mask. I would draw power from from it. Doug would know that I would exact a heavy price from him to protect Fights-On-Her-Back.

I reset my snarling, bloody body between him and my helpless, urine-soaked puppy like a venomous snake ready to spring. I growled and bared my teeth. The Great Mother Dog set my hackles up as high as they could go. Fights-On-Her-Back was scratching at the door with less conviction. 

When Doug finally got himself off the beer-soaked floor, he looked at his bleeding leg and let loose a primal, guttural roar that took every player forced into this stupid tragedy by surprise. Even Red shut the fuck up for a moment. 

Doug carefully stepped over the crying, grasping Joan and screamed at me, "YOUFUCKINGBITCHGETAWAYGETAWAYFROM THATFUCKINGSONNOFABITCHYOUBITCHILLKILLYOU!ILLKILL YOUBITCHESILLKILLYOUALLYOUBITCHES!!!"

Red doubled over, now laughing even harder than before. He slammed his empty beer can on the coffee table over and over in tempo with the dour music and pointed at Doug. He brushed the laughing-tears from his eyes so he would not miss an instant of this grotesque spectacle unloading before him. 

Another moment of clarity: Doug's eyes...

Calm... black... reptilian... hypnotic. His brown irises eaten by the blackness within him. There was no emotion. Not even anger or fury. His eyes were abyssal holes that unsuspecting creatures could fall into and never hope to escape. 

We faced each other, Dog to Biped. His trembling fists clenched by his side, my fangs and fur ready for more of his blood. 

Everything, everyone and everydog in The Sky Prison at that moment were merely peripheral objects to our mutual hatred.

TOTAL WAR

Joan was slipping on the beer-wet linoleum. She tried to stand and reached out to Doug. She was crying and begging him to stop. She said it was all her fault. She hadn't let us out in the morning. I think it infuriated Doug even more because he thought she was siding with us Dogs.

Doug clenched his teeth and hid them with a strained, ugly smile. He brought his leg back for what looked to be an enormous kick filled with his entire reservoir of hatred. I lunged at him before his leg had much momentum and knocked him over a second time. 

As Doug fell, one of his heavy work boots hit Fights-On-Her-Back on her left hind leg. She screamed in pain as the tiny bones in her leg shattered.

Doug collapsed to the floor, shuddering the whole Sky Prison to its foundation a second time.  

I went for Doug's throat with my teeth, and his belly with my claws. I meant to kill him, or at least inflict as much damage as he deserved before I was cornered and put down.

Fights-On-Her-Back's screaming was the only thing I heard in my rage. Every lungful of air she took was screamed out as the most horrific sound any one of the Great Black Dog's creations could make. 

There was a silence as her lungs took in more air. Then she screamed all over again. With every iteration, her screams got louder, hoarser, and more persistent. 

And with every iteration, my rage flared beyond my ability to control it. 

THE LONG NIGHT

Red was no longer laughing his howling, obnoxious laughter.

He was no longer drinking.

Like Joan and me, he was being driven mad by Fights-On-Her-Back's high-pitched screaming. I remember her sounding remarkably like an infant Biped howling in pain.

I saw Red's eyes were glacial-blue, framed by his electric red hair and scruffy beard. 

Red's eyes were wide and he knelt before me. He held his hands out to me like a supplicant. I growled and set against him. Joan got up and I growled at her as well. 

But Joan and Red formed a solid wall between us and Doug's empty eyes.

Joan yelled that someone would want their deposit back for Fights-On-Her-back. Did Doug have it? Or did he spend it at Tooky's Pub last night? Red tried to look as menacing as he could by moving behind Joan. 

"WHERE IS THE MONEY?" she screamed at him. 

Doug stared at her with even more hatred, and Fights-On-Her-Back screamed even louder. 

From some distant, bizarre part of The Sky Prison I heard Red say, "I'll take her. I always wanted a dog. I have the money... I can take her to the vet..."

Doug and Joan were slackmouthed. They had no money to bring their injured puppy to the vet. And they didn't have any money to reimburse their "investor." If they didn't lose any money on Fights-On-Her-Back's injury, everything was OK with them. 

Red having a dog was the absolute height of absurdity. 

There was no talk of bringing Fights-On-Her-Back to a Vet, or alleviating her pain. Yet, they discussed money for my crippled puppy for the longest time. And nobody cleaned up the spilled beer, so when the Bipeds walked on the sticky linoleum, it sounded like ripping fabric. 

I slept by her at the door and licked her as her screaming became soft whining and crying. The Living Stairway groaned and cried with her. Both their voices were slowly driving me insane.

The three continued drinking and their visits to the bong.

It was a long night. 

IN THE MORNING

Fights-On-Her-Back was still by the door hinge. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. She whined with every one of those tiny breaths. There was a hard poop behind her, and her once bright eyes were unfocused.

No one let us out to pee last night. We peed inside and on ourselves. Such a disgrace for a civilized Dog. I tried to scratch my way through the door. I pulled the doorknob. Nothing worked. And even if I could get out, there was no way I could bring Fights-On-Her-Back down the Living Stairway. 

What was I to do? I was trapped. We were trapped.

What mother was I? 

I asked The Great Mother Dog for help. When no answer came from her, I pleaded with the other Great Dogs. I got only silence.

Just when I thought my very soul forfeit, I heard from The Great Mother Dog, "All your pups are going to a better place, except one. You are fortunate."

"FORTUNATE?" Maybe I didn't understand fortunate.

"Entire litters of fine pups meet much worse fates in the hands of the Bipeds." 

Could that possibly be true?

And there was Fights-On-Her-Back lying by the door.

Dying. 

And her mother had no idea how to save her.

I begged The Great Black Dog to save her. I offered my life in exchange for my pup's. I promised him my undying loyalty and servility. I promised him my soul.

Red was asleep on the couch. He was the only one who could help us.

He jerked awake like he was fighting someone. I pleaded at him with my eyes, and he understood. He picked up the limp Fights-On-Her-Back gingerly. She started screaming again. Red was surprised. Like he had forgotten all the ugliness from last night. I thought he might drop her.

On our way out, The Living Stairway creaked softly beneath us. "Endure..."

This time, I understood.

Endure.