Irontown Blues

Sixteen

“You be a good dog while I’m away,” αChris said to me. I could smell that he was worried. I played dumb by letting my tongue hang out and pretending I did not know where he was going. Playing dumb is not easy for me because I am very smart. I have learned that being smart and being clever are not the same thing. But I am also very clever as well as smart. A dog must be clever to pretend. I have learned how to pretend. Other dogs cannot pretend. They always wag their tails when they are happy or hang their heads when they are sad. I can wag my tail when I am sad. I can even wag my tail when I am angry! I am so clever!

I listened to αChris as he galumphed down the stairs. I love αChris with all my heart, but he could not sneak up on a newborn puppy. I cannot sneak as well as a damn cat, but who would want to be a damn cat?

When he was down to the dark street I hurried down the back stairs. I did not need to see him. I kept a good distance behind αChris as he started out toward Irontown. The spoor of αChris is the scent most familiar to me of the shitload of scents I know.

Does that make scents to you? Ha-ha!

Some say that Irontown does not have a border. Some say that you gradually enter places that are more and more Irontown. This is like having your nose in the kitchen and your tail in the living room. Then you are in Irontown, and you did not even know you were there.

I have learned that this is not completely true. Maybe it is true for humans because humans are not very smart. There was a point in space that I passed and knew I was there. I marked that point in my mind. I began smelling things in combinations I had never smelled before. I began smelling things I had never smelled before at all. This was very interesting. I held my nose high, then low, and sucked up the smells.

Irontown smelled like…

(I have to interrupt Sherlock at this point. I tried to tell him that most of what he was saying made no sense to me, but he was having none of it. Smells are so important that he spent most of an hour listing them for me. By the time he was done, there had been over two hundred separate and distinct smells. I had names for fewer than fifty of them, and many of those I had to guess at. It was made all the more difficult because many of the smells were new to Sherlock, too. He knew precisely where to file them, to categorize them by similarity to other smells, or by who-knows-what system a dog has of classifying smells. Once more, it’s a case of describing the ten thousand shades of “red” to a color-blind person. — PC)

I did not like Irontown. I wished αChris did not have to go there to find Ms. Smith. Or now should I call her Ms. Shoes? It was confusing. I knew what shoes are. Dogs do not need shoes. I would not want to wear shoes. They look like they would hurt my paws.

I began seeing some of the people who lived in Irontown. Most of them looked and smelled like anybody else. But some of them were where the odd smells were coming from. And somewhere, behind some of the doors I passed, other smells were crowding into my nose.

I tracked αChris to a neighborhood, then to a corridor. Someone was cooking rice and chicken gravy. I like chicken gravy.

I followed αChris along the corridor. It got wide in some places and narrower in others. There were twists and turns. I was cautious when I came near the corners because I did not want αChris to know I was following him. I was afraid he might call me a bad dog. I hate that.

The sound changed before I went around the next corner. I listened, and I could tell that the corridor came to an end not far around that corner. I could hear shoes moving slightly as someone ahead of me shifted himself. I thought he was crouching; it sounded like that. I carefully edged up to the corner and looked around. It was just as I thought. There was αChris, squatting and looking at the thing that listens to your radio voice and opens or locks the door.

I am such a good listener, as well as a good scenter!

I moved back around the corner. I could listen to what was happening. I did not need to see what αChris was doing. If he started toward me, I would hear it and have plenty of time to run back around the next corner.

I was not happy about following αChris like that. I want to obey him, since he is the alpha. But I was worried that he was going to get himself into trouble. αChris can sometimes rush into action when it might be smarter to sit back and bark at it for a while. I have learned that when you rush off by yourself, you sometimes end up with a wok full of General Tso’s chicken in your face and have to go to the hospital. He should not go bumbling into trouble like a puppy. But I cannot tell him that.

I heard music. I have very good ears, but I do not understand music. I do not understand why humans make the noises they call music and listen to it. Some music is just sounds. I have heard of things called harmonies, tempos, tuning, and many other words humans use to describe music. I do not know what they mean. Some music has words. Humans speak the words, but in a strange way that I do not understand. It is called singing.

I heard music now. I understood some of the words. One of the words was “money.” I know what money is. I heard the numbers one two and three. I heard the word “cat.” I hate cats. Then I heard the words “Blue Suede Shoes.” I wondered, was this a song about our client?

Then I heard another song. Instead of a cat this song was about a dog. A hound dog. I know many kinds of hounds, but I do not know what kind of dog that is. Bloodhounds are the best kind of dog.

I heard αChris doing something at the door. This must be the door where Ms. Blue Suede Shoes lived. I peeked around the corner again and saw that he was still working at the lock. I hoped he did not get himself in trouble again. I have learned that going into someone’s kennel without permission can get you in trouble.

There was a duffel bag sitting beside the door. I sniffed hard, but I could not tell what was in it from so far away. It got mixed up with the many other smells.

The door opened, and αChris went inside. I stayed back.

In a little while αChris came back outside, but he only picked up the duffel bag and took it back inside with him.

I decided to move a little closer. I would listen for αChris, and if I heard him coming out, I would run away.

When I got closer, I smelled old food that I have learned is Chinese food, like the General Tso’s chicken. I also smelled fried corn tortillas, ground bronto, lettuce, tomato, jalapeno peppers, black pepper, lime juice, garlic, basil, oregano, and cilantro. I do not like cilantro. It tastes like soap. I have learned that these are things used in making salsa. I also smelled donuts. I like donuts as long as they are not the chocolate kind of donuts. I have learned that chocolate donuts are not good for dogs.

I smelled old flowers of the kind that are called daisies.

I heard αChris moving something around. I could not tell what it was. Then he dropped it back down.

For the first time I scented the woman who had called herself Mary Smith and who now called herself Ms. Blue Suede Shoes. I also smelled the feathers on the hat she had worn in our office.

Then the door at the end of the corridor opened and two men came through. The door was a thick door, which is known as a pressure door. I think that means it keeps the air inside. I think keeping the air inside is important because we all need air to breathe. Even damn cats.

I have always been taught by αChris that I should be polite to other people. I backed away from the door, but there was something about these men that I didn’t like. Their sweat smelled like fear. But I backed away, like a good dog.

It was not very bright in the corridor. I was not trying to hide. I knew they saw me, but they paid no attention to me. I thought about going over to them to see if they were friendly to dogs. People who like dogs usually want to pet us. I do not mind being petted by strangers because αChris has taught me that I should let them do this. And it does feel good.

The men put things over their faces. I did not like this. I like to see the faces of people around me. I am able to tell many things about what humans are thinking when I can see their faces. Also their hands, and the way they stand. I have learned that all dogs can do this.

Then one of the men put his hands together and the other one stepped into the folded hands and was lifted up to an air grate high in the wall. He took something from his pocket and pried the grate off. Then he leaned inside. I heard something hissing.

The man jumped down and the other one went to the door. I felt the hair standing up on the back of my neck. Even though I am a clever dog who can wag my tail when I am angry, I am not able to keep the hair from standing up on the back of my neck when I am suspicious of something. I was very suspicious of these humans. I did not want them coming up behind αChris. I wanted to warn him. I took a deep breath and started to bark at them.

Then one of the men pulled the door shut.

αChris was inside the room. He was trapped.

I did not bark. I growled, and jumped on the man.

I bit him on the leg, then on the other leg—

(Here it is almost impossible to describe what happened next in consecutive terms. I have done my best, but Sherlock’s thoughts during this time descended into a level that was much deeper than his conscious thoughts. One must remember that genetically Sherlock, like all dogs, is 99.96 percent wolf. From a Chihuahua to a Great Dane, even the most peaceful dog has, deep in his brain, the primitive instincts of his feral brother. When a dog is threatened, when his pack is threatened, the fight-or-flight reaction is triggered. Many domesticated dogs choose flight, with their tails between their legs. They have simply had no experience of aggression. When outnumbered or facing a too-large opponent, wolves will flee, too. But when the odds are in their favor it is a different story. Something in Sherlock’s brain looked at the situation and went on the attack.

(At that point his thoughts, even in remembrance, become far too bloodthirsty and alien to this particular peace-loving, nonaggressive, Homo sapiens; i.e., your humble narrator. The best I could do would be to string together words like Bite! Kill! Tear! Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood!

(And then… Hurting! Bite again! I am hit from behind! Hurting more! Must protect αChris!.. but… hurting! Howl! Howl! Fear! Running, running, running…

(I also can’t really translate the memory of fear, shame, humiliation, bewilderment, confusion, and agitation Sherlock was feeling as he abandoned the fight and ran away… because none of those words really express the canine emotions he broadcast to me. I know dogs better than most humans do, I know dogs better than I know most humans, but in the end, they are an alien species and there are gaps that will probably never be bridged. They will still be Canis and we will still be Homo.

(Now I can resume Sherlock’s story from after the red bloodlust that briefly consumed him. — PC)

I bit the man.

I tried to kill him.

I know I am not supposed to, but it felt pretty good. I liked tasting his blood. Does that make me a bad dog?

I did not like running away. The other man hurt me, and then the man I bit began to hurt me, too. The second man had a knife. It was not a big knife, but it went into my right hind leg, and I howled. I let go of the first man. I turned to face the second man. I know I snapped at the second man, but he stabbed at my face with his little knife.

Both of them were screaming and shouting, but I do not remember many of the words.

I remember one of them saying get the fucking dog off me.

I remember one of them saying kill it kill it kill it.

I remember one of them saying he tore my leg open.

That is all I remember. Then I ran down the corridor. I ran around the corner, then around another corner, and around another corner. I think I ran around one two three four five corners. Then I stopped.

I have learned that humans sometimes say they are licking their wounds. They do not really do this. αChris did not lick his wounds when he was burned and went to the hospital. I did lick my wound. I could not reach the cut on my head over my eye, but I could lick the deep stab wound on my leg. I tasted my blood. It was not exciting like it was to taste the man’s blood. It tasted like fear.

The blood from the cut on my head was dripping into my eye. I shook my head until my ears flapped, but the blood still flowed.

I did not know what to do. I sat down and whined. I had failed αChris. I had failed the pack. I had run away from pain and danger. No wolf would have run away from those two men. A wolf would have torn the throats out of those two men. A wolf would have howled his victory to the rest of the pack. I wanted to howl. But it would not be a howl of victory. It would be a howl of shame.

I was a failure. I was no wolf. I was just a sad bloodhound. I did not feel clever at all. I was a bad, bad, bad dog.

(A note on Sherlock’s feelings of shame. Many humans would have felt the same after what happened and what he did. But I have learned that dogs feel shame in a different way than humans do. They feel it intensely, probably even worse than humans do. If you have ever seen a dog who has made a mess and been caught at it, you might get an idea of what I’m talking about. Call him a bad dog and he will lower himself to the ground and grovel at your feet.

(But they get over it more quickly than a human would. Where many people would brood over such a thing for many hours, or possibly even days or weeks, a dog can usually shake it off in little more than a few minutes. There seems to be a shut-off mechanism somewhere in the canine mind that tells him something like “Well, that sucked, but it’s over now. Let’s move on.” Water under the bridge. That bird has flown. Forget it. Fuck it.

(I mention this to account for how very quickly Sherlock put all that behind him, stopped licking his wounds, and jumped once more unto the breach. — PC)

My leg hurt, but I could ignore it. A wolf would ignore it. I would be a wolf until I was back with αChris. Yes, I would be a wolf! But I would be a crafty wolf. They say foxes are sly. I would be like a fox, too.

I hurried back around one two three four corners, and slowed down before looking around the next corner. I wanted to charge back into the fight. I wanted to take the two men by surprise. I wanted to come up behind them and bite them on the ass. But I was like a fox. I leaned forward and looked around the last corner.

The men had done something to the lights in the corridor. It was very dim. I think they did not want the people in the other apartments to see what they were doing. But that would be good for me. I have learned that although humans see colors that I cannot see, my eyes in the dark are a lot better than human eyes are.

I saw the men open the door of Mary Smith’s apartment and go inside. I crept along the corridor, past one two three four five and more doors to other apartments. No one came out of these doors.

I reached the door where I had last seen αChris, the door to Mary Smith’s apartment. I looked inside. It was even darker in there, but I could see the two men picking up αChris, one at his head and the other at his feet. I felt the hair standing up on the back of my neck again. I forgot all about being a fox, and I sprang through the door and onto them.

I smelled something I had never smelled before. I like almost all smells, but I did not like this one. I have learned that I was smelling something the men had sprayed into the air, something called knockout gas. I did not know that then, though.

They dropped αChris and started shouting again. I bit one of them on the leg… and then I let go. I had lost all my strength. I felt myself going to sleep. I did not want to go to sleep. I wanted to stay awake and help αChris, but I felt my eyes closing.

One of the men said goddamn dog but the gas got him. The other said let’s get the fuck out of here. And I think he said I didn’t sign up to get my fucking leg torn off.

The men carried αChris out of the apartment. I wanted to stay awake, I wanted to get up, but I was very weak. I could not understand it. I tried to think of some way to stay awake. I had an idea, and I was very proud of myself. I was a clever dog once again!

I twisted around and bit my leg where the bloody wound was. It hurt very badly, but I did not care. I suddenly felt very awake. I tried not to whine, and I tried to get up, but my legs would not get me up. So I crawled.

The smell of the knockout gas was not so strong, and I staggered to my feet as I reached the door. I looked to one side and saw the back of one of the men go through the door at the end of the corridor. The door was swinging closed behind him.

I knew I had to hurry. This door was not the kind of door that is opened with a card. This was a door with an old-fashioned door latch. If it shut completely, I would be helpless. Dog paws cannot turn a door latch. I would have to find someone to open the door for me.

I dashed toward the door. In the faint light of the corridor the closing door was a line of light that got narrower and narrower. I was still not completely awake, but I managed to get there in time to stick one paw in the gap between the door and the frame. It hurt. The door kept trying to close, but my paw was in the way. I could not take my paw away, or the door would close completely.

I am not good at telling time. I do not know how long I scratched at the door with my other paw until I got it opened wide enough to stick my nose in. It seemed like a very long time.

(Given how far away the men had traveled before Sherlock got the door open, I estimate it was five minutes. During that time he injured himself in many places on both front paws and his face and ears, trying to fit a large dog through a small opening. — PC)

After a while I managed to get through the door. On the other side of it there were stairs. I like stairs that go up. I do not like stairs that go down as much, but usually they are okay. But that day I was hurting in both my front legs and one of my hind legs. I hoped that the men who had taken αChris had gone up the stairs. I would have been happier to go up the stairs.

They were going down the stairs.

I could just barely hear them down there, clumping about, but the sound was very faint. But even if I had been deaf, I would have known they were going down because that is where the scent trail led.

I started down the stairs.

There were one two three four five a whole shitload of stairs. There would be some stairs going one way, then a landing, then more stairs going the other way. And then more stairs going the other other way, and more stairs going the other other other way.

This went on for a very long time. A shitload of time. One two three four five shitloads of time. Every step hurt my front paws. Every step hurt my cut hind leg. Blood leaked into my eye until it dried and my eyelid stuck closed. Then the blood stopped flowing. I wanted to stop and lick my wound, but every time I stopped for a breath I could hear the men below still going down, but getting so faint I could hardly hear them over my own breathing. I had to keep going. αChris needed me.

Then once when I stopped I heard a door slam shut down below. Then I did not hear anything except my own breathing and my own heartbeat. I did not remember ever hearing my heart beating so fast. My heart went bump bump! bump bump! bump bump!

But I had to move on. I could hear myself whimpering with every step I took downward. I did not want to whimper, but I could not stop myself. I asked myself, would a wolf whimper? Maybe a wolf would whimper. Wolves are just dogs with a bad attitude.

You know what? Fuck wolves! I was a dog, and I would keep going, no matter what. Dogs have stood beside humans since we all lived in caves, or up in trees, or wherever we used to live on that place they call Old Earth. We tracked foxes, herded sheep, found live birds, fetched dead birds, helped humans who could not see or hear, chased and caught bad humans, protected humans, smelled out many things, and pulled sleds through snow.

I have seen all these things on the television.

I finally got to the bottom of the stairs. Someday I would like a human who understands numbers to tell me just how many steps I went down. I would not understand the number, but it would be nice to know.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was another door. This was not a doorknob door, but a good door. I could find my way past this door. I went to the place in my head and tried several things, but nothing happened.

I tried more things, and still nothing happened. I wanted to sit down and howl at something. I have learned that dogs used to howl at the moon, but αChris and I live on the moon. So what could I howl at? This was a problem that I decided to set aside to think about later.

The door was in a wall that was one wall of a corridor that stretched out in both directions on either side of me. I could not see the end in either direction. I knew I had to go one way or the other, but which way?

I was half-blind and limping, but my very, very smart nose was still working as well as it always did. So I began casting back and forth, trying to pick up a scent that might help me decide which way to go.

And I picked up the faintest, faintest…

(Once again Sherlock enters into realms that I, or any human, can’t really appreciate. The way he thought of this faint scent feels to me like it might have been something like one molecule of αChris scent in a million, but it might have been a billion, or a trillion. I simply can’t quantify it. But whatever it was, it was only in one direction, which I believe was to the left, though Sherlock was sometimes a little vague about left and right. — PC)

I set off after the scent. I did not know how a bit of αChris’s skin could have come through the solid wall beside me, but I knew that was what it was.

There were lights in the ceiling, but not all of them worked, and some of them flickered. I did not like the flickering. It confused me. But I kept on, sniffing the air. The scent never got very strong, but it was there. I splashed through puddles and under drips from the ceiling. The water smelled of oil and very old concrete and rusting steel.

I came to a ventilation grate set low, near the floor. It was hanging loose, but there was not enough room for me to squeeze through. I smelled αChris stronger coming from that air grate, so I squeezed through anyway. The edges of the grate tore at my skin. I smelled fresh blood. I do not like to smell my own fresh blood. It makes me want to run away.

But I did not run. The scent was coming from the direction where I had just been. The corridor was just on the other side of the air duct. I had to duck my head and crouch a little to move along the duct. This was not easy with my sore paws and leg, but I kept going.

I followed many turns in the air duct. The scent got stronger, then weaker. I turned back many times and turned into a different branch. I have a very good sense of direction, but I was getting confused. I tried to look at the map in my head, but this place was out beyond the edge of that map. I tried to find other maps, but I could not do that.

The scent got even more faint. I had to inhale very deeply, and inhale many times, before I could pick up just a little of it. Then I could no longer be sure that I was smelling αChris at all.

I finally entered a much larger air duct. One two three four five humans could have walked side by side along this air duct. And the scent of αChris got a little stronger. I tried to run in the direction of the scent, but I could not run. My legs would not take me any faster. I smelled more blood. But I kept going.

(Here Sherlock’s memories get vague and jumbled again. If dogs can get delirious — the results are not completely in on that — he was getting punchy. His pain must have been intense. But his determination was even stronger.

(And I must say that, much as I thought I knew the minds, the capabilities, of a CEC, Sherlock surprised me and deeply moved me. Because he showed me that CECs are advanced enough that they actually have a concept of death. It’s a confused and muddled one… but I could say the same of my own take on the conundrum of mortality. I suspect that, unless you are a deeply committed Presleyite or Mormon or Christian or Muslim, your ideas about death are pretty uncertain, too.

(Here is the best I can do at decoding the thoughts that ran through Sherlock’s dog brain as he told me the story. — PC)

I have been told that animals cannot understand death. I have been told that all animals flee pain, but it is just pain they are trying to avoid, not death. I have learned elephants visit the bones of their dead pack mates. That they seem to mourn them. But do they know that the dead elephant no longer exists?

I have seen dead animals. They get cold, and they soon smell different. It is hard to understand that the dead animals used to be living animals. That they used to eat and breathe and shit. The dead animals had wants and needs, and now they do not want or need anything.

I believe that animals can look at the dead body of another animal like themselves and maybe understand that the dead body will not move again. But I have learned that some animal mothers will hold on to their dead puppies for days. But others will abandon the dead puppy quickly. When an animal sees the dead body of an animal like themselves, do they understand that one day they will be a dead body, too? Everyone says no.

Humans understand that one day they will be dead. I am a supersmart dog, and I understand that one day I will be dead, too. But it does not make any sense to me. How can I be a nondog? How can I be a non-Sherlock?

I thought that I was dying. I did not want to die, but I did not have the strength to keep on living. I could not keep moving.

My nose told me that I was deeper into Irontown than I had ever been before. There were new smells that I had never smelled before. But I was too confused to figure out what they were.

I took deep breaths. I hoped that the deep breaths would bring life back into my body. But I was still too tired to get up.

I could no longer smell αChris. I had no idea which way to go even if I could get up and walk.

I took one more breath. I smelled the faintest trace of something stronger and more pungent than the smell of αChris’s skin. I knew I had smelled it before. I knew I had smelled it not long ago.

It was the smell of knockout gas. It was the smell of knockout gas clinging to αChris’s clothes and skin.

I lifted my head.

I got to my feet.

I set off to find the source of the knockout gas.