Them Bones

THE BOX III

Smith’s Diary

Let me tell you about the dog.

The second day at the old airfield, which will someday sit right up there on the bluff, Spaulding noticed that one of the men had an old Dalmatian (which he was of course calling Sparky) with him.

The soldier said he’d found him when we arrived, and that the vet needed to look it over, if that was okay.

Spaulding told him yes, but not to become too attached to it, as there was no way he could keep it on the mission.

The vet looked Sparky over, kenneled him, as the dog was all banged up and emaciated. Every day the soldier came to talk to Sparky and play with him.

Then Heidegger got here a week later, and started sending the mice back, then the monkeys, calibrating the portal. How he kept track of the comings and goings, I don’t know. Heidegger’s so far out of it nobody could talk to him.

Anyway, Heidegger needs something to really calibrate the machine, looks around and sees Sparky over in the vet’s office. What does he know? So one night he takes Sparky and puts him into the machine.

Sparky knew something was up, tries to chew Heidegger’s arms off (I don’t blame him). Heidegger wrestles him into the machine. Sparky goes wild, throws himself into the walls, hurts himself. Heidegger throws the switch.

Five days earlier, or whatever, Sparky hadn’t shown up.

Heidegger’s blown it (since Sparky was over there in the cage, Heidegger didn’t know what he was waiting for). After Heidegger sent the dog back, the soldier shows up to play with Sparky. Sparky’s gone. Where’s my dog? he asks. The vet doesn’t know. They go to Spaulding. Spaulding goes to Heidegger.

‘Lost, I guess,’ says Heidegger. ‘I’m sorry I lost your animal. I thought it was for the experiments. And I’m sorry I hurt it.’

‘Hurt him? Just what the hell did you do?’ asked the soldier, crying.

‘While he was trying to bite me, he hung his dewclaw on the machine and tore it. There was some blood. I’m sorry.’

‘Thanks a whole fucking lot,’ said the soldier. ‘I’m going to kill you someday.’

The vet jumped in and calmed the soldier down. When he left, the vet turned to Heidegger.

‘Wherever Sparky is,’ said the vet, ‘he won’t have any more dewclaws to hang things up on.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Heidegger.

‘Well, I took one of his dewclaws off, myself when the soldier brought him in the first time. It was barely attached and infected.’

Heidegger looked him squarely in the eyes.

‘Which dewclaw was that?’ he asked.

‘The left one. He only had the right one when you handled him.’

Heidegger took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘The dog had two dewclaws when I put him in the machine. And,’ he said, turning back to the machine and looking at it with a new respect, ‘it was the left dewclaw which hung up on the wall and tore before I sent the dog back.’

Spaulding said that’s when Heidegger knew it would all work, and that’s when we should have been worried.

It takes all kinds.