What the Dog Gave Me

Written by Matthew Shute

So, I'm watching a cartoon on the TV, and not really enjoying it, when my mother calls from the kitchen.

"George!" she shouts.

I wince, and pretend I haven't heard her.

"George!" she repeats, louder.

I know that I can't keep ignoring her without evoking her anger and retribution. "What is it?" I shout, hoping that she won't be able to pick up on the resentment and frustration in my voice.

"Come here!" she demands.

It's useless to resist, and I can't be bothered to use any of my delaying tactics. Recently, I've grown sick and tired of pointless games. The quicker I get this over with, the better. Grimacing to myself, I stand up, and walk into the kitchen.

"What do you want?" I ask.

My mother is standing in the kitchen, looking old and frail. She looks sick. I hate to see her like this, but it has become an ordinary sight over the last few years. She is always suffering from some illness or another. It's hard to remember a day when everything was fine, when she was free of disease.

She hands me a piece of paper with some scrawled writing on it. "I need you to go down the road and get some shopping," she says.

Instinctively, I flinch at the prospect of going shopping. My mother knows that I'm terrified of the outside world, and yet she often finds reasons for me to go out there. In a way, I hate her for it. But I've learned to accept having to go out occasionally as a torment that I must simply endure.

"If you want groceries, you'll have to give me some money," I mutter.

My mother nods and walks into the living room. She returns a few minutes later with a couple of ten pound notes, which she gives to me. "Here you are," she says.

Without another word, I pocket the money, and walk into the room where my jacket is hanging. I grab the jacket, and put it on. Next, I take a left into the garage area, slip my shoes on, and walk out of the door at the end of the long, thin room.

Outside, it is cold.

I think the time is around four o'clock, and there won't be many hours of light left.

I turn left, and begin to walk down the street, trying all the time to keep my feelings under control.

I hate having to venture out of the house. I mean I really hate it. It's not just a phobia, it's something much deeper and more ingrained into my personality. The world outside my house and ME just don't mix.

I feel really ugly and conspicuous, as if everybody is looking at me, and laughing whenever I turn my back. During my lifetime, I've become aware that nobody really likes me. They can pretend otherwise, but it's true. I know that others find me loathsome. Secretly, they view me with amusement and contempt.

Up ahead, an old woman is heading in my direction.

The moment I notice her, a small tremor of dread ripples through me. It's not that she is a particularly threatening person, as such. It is just the fact that she is there at all. I know that when she sees me, she will think that I am devastatingly ugly, and all out of proportion. Of course, she will probably be too embarrassed to laugh out loud, or point at me with a look of horror on her face, but I know what she'll be thinking.

For every person I pass or meet, it is the same torture.

As the old woman approaches, I look down at the yellow, orange and brown leaves that are crunching under my feet. A wave of embarrassment and nausea comes over me. I'm struggling to stop it turning into a full-blown panic attack by the time she reaches me.

She passes by, and I let out a small sigh of relief.

What the hell is wrong with me? She's just a harmless old woman for Christ's sake. Chill out.

I always tell myself such things, but it never works.

Deep down, you see, my mind tells me that everyone I meet has hidden motives. It's as if they are all in on some dark secret, some private joke, and I'm the only one who doesn't know what it is. I've never been able to relate to people or hold a conversation with anyone other than my mother. And even with her, I find it difficult. When she looks at me, I always have to look away. Holding eye-contact with other people is a terror without equal.

Up ahead, I can see a gang of three young boys.

Oh no, this is getting worse and worse. I don't know if I'm going to make this journey. This is too hard. The temptation to turn around and run home is great. But if I do that, my mother won't let me forget it. She'll ridicule me for my cowardice until I feel even lower and more pitiful than I do now.

I'm sweating, and my heart is racing. My chest is becoming tighter, and I'm finding it difficult to breathe. My hands are trembling like autumn leaves, so I decide to stuff them into the pockets of my coat. I don't want anybody to see my fear.

Kids are always the worst. Usually, they seem to be able to sense my dread, and they exploit it to the full. Once, a kid chased me around the streets, calling me "long chin" and "tall head". I still have nightmares about it to this day.

Against my expectations, the kids pass by without comment. Silently, I thank fate for not torturing me as much as it usually does.

Since my mother and I moved to this quiet suburb, the young ones seem much less violent and out of control than those I'd known before. Even so, they terrify me because I can't be sure what is going through their minds. They could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security, so that the humiliation and anguish comes as more of a shock when they do actually make their move.

I know humiliation and anguish intimately. Particularly the former.

Now I'm approaching the traffic lights. This is where I must cross over the road, and walk up to the small row of shops to my right.

Crossing roads is another ordeal. I always think that I'm not going to be fast enough to get across to the other side without a car hitting me. I seriously believe that when drivers see my hideous form on the road, they speed up so that they have a chance of running me down. I'm so ugly. If I was somebody else, even I would probably want to wipe me from the face of the planet.

Often, I wish I'd never been born.

At the moment, I can't see any cars coming. Seizing my opportunity, I sprint across the narrow road as fast as I can.

So far so good. I'm doing well. So far, I've escaped any obvious humiliation.

However, fate has another trick up it's sleeve.

I turn, and I see a dog sprinting towards me.

Just when I thought things were going well, fate springs THIS on me!

Now do you see what I was saying about being lulled into a false sense of security?

Dogs are the worst nightmare of all. Not restrained by a human's strict social protocols, dogs are free to do to me whatever they like. Human beings are scary, but non-human creatures of ALL kinds terrify be beyond measure.

This particular dog is a Doberman: a large, sleek, black and incredibly fast bundle of power.

The animal's eyes are locked onto mine. The eye contact is excruciating and unnerving, but I'm too scared to pull my eyes away. The beast is heading straight towards me. It's trajectory is set. There's no way I can avoid the collision.

Instinctively, my body goes tense and rigid, and I stop dead in my tracks, bringing my arms up to defend myself.

The slavering beast is upon me in less than a second. When the Doberman gets roughly an arm's length away, it pounces.

It jumps at me, launching it's powerful body at mine like a fur-covered missile.

The impact knocks the breath out of me, and sends me flying backwards.

There's nothing I can do to prevent the fall. With the dog's paws pressed against my chest, I topple over. I'm screaming all the way down, until the back of my head crashes onto the solid concrete behind me.

For a second, everything goes completely black, and I can't hear a thing. My entire body also goes numb, as I'm thrown temporarily into a sensory abyss.

I wait, wondering (with some dismay) whether the fall has killed me or left me in a coma.

But wait. Something is happening.

Now, the sepia fog is dissolving from my vision, and my sight is slowly returning. My hearing, too, is coming back.

I can hear the Doberman panting in my face, and I can smell it's doggy breath. As I focus my hearing, I can also hear a man shouting, "Rex! Rex! Get off him! REX! COME HERE!"

The dog isn't listening. As the fog clears further, I can see the beast's canine muzzle looming over me.

The dog looks... friendly.

My sense of touch is returning. I can feel my face being slobbered all over, as the dog licks my face again and again.

Hey... what a cool creature.

Wait. What the hell am I saying? This is a dog. A DOG, for Christ's sake! I hate all beasts.

But... looking up at the animal, I can feel no anger or hatred for it. The dog didn't jump at me out of any malice or desire to do me harm. It was just trying to play.

"REX!" screams the owner. "COME HERE! NOW!"

With some reluctance, the doggy steps off my chest, and gallops away.

Shakily, I sit up.

Weird. Everything is... pink.

What the hell is going on? The sky, the street, the houses... everything has a pinkish hue. It's as if I'm seeing the world through rose-tinted lenses.

I stand up, half expecting to lose my balance.

No. My balance is fine. That's something, at least.

I shake my head from side to side, trying to throw off the pink, but it remains.

The owner of the dog, a stocky man with a shaved head, runs over and says, "Are you all right there, mate?"

I nod. "Umm. Yeah, just a little disorientated. I'll be okay."

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, forget about it," I tell him.

The skinhead is pink like everything else. Even the black dog, who is looking up at his master, has a pinkish glow about him.

"Sorry about the dog," says the skinhead. "He was just being friendly."

When I don't answer, he shrugs and walks away, taking the doggy with him.

The "pinkness" of everything is slightly intriguing. Briefly, I wonder whether the fall has done any lasting damage to my brain.

I put my hand to the back of my head. Straight away, I can feel a thin crack in the bone. I trace the crack with my fingers. The crack is roughly vertical, and about an inch and a half in length. I pull my hand away and look at it. The tips of two of my fingers are stained with a film of dark red.

Strangely, this does not worry me as much as you might expect. Indeed, the very next thing I do is simply shrug, and walk on.

If my brain is damaged, it certainly hasn't affected my co-ordination or balance. My walking is perfectly normal. The only obvious changes to me are the rose tint and the fact that I no longer detest dogs.

Soon, I arrive at the pharmacy. As I open the door, an electronic bell sounds. It is a familiar noise that always goes off whenever the door is opened. I walk casually (huh?) down the isle towards the counter. There, I wait patiently and contentedly (wha-?) for the other customers to be served, before it is mine turn.

"Hi there," I say with a smile to the lady behind the counter. "I need a medium sized packet of Migraleve, please."

"Which kind?" asks the woman.

Hmmmm. The lady serving me is old enough to be my mother, but I find myself strangely attracted to her. She is slim, with a beautiful face. Blue eyes, blonde hair. A fabulous smile, despite the wrinkles. The problem is her age, and the fact that she's married (looking momentarily at her pink hand, I notice a pink wedding ring that is probably solid gold). If it wasn't for these obstacles... But even so, the attraction is powerful. I find myself compelled to lean forward and kiss her. The compulsion to feel my lips against hers is so intense that I can only just manage to stop myself doing so. The sensation is dizzying.

Miraculously, I can also hold her gaze without feeling the urge to look down at my shoes.

"What kind?" the woman repeats.

I blink at her, my vision sploshing purple and pink. "Erm... oh, a multi-pack, please," I finally manage to blurt. My mouth is suddenly dry.

She turns around (oooh, what a figure), and picks up a pack of Migraleve. Turning around again, she hands me the pack.

"Thanks," I say, and make to leave.

"Wait, you haven't paid me yet," the lady tells me before I get very far.

"Oh sorry," I say. "Here." I hand her a ten pound note. "Keep the change, my sweet," I say, and leave the place once and for all.

My sweet? What the hell was that all about?

Next, I go to the grocery store. I buy a box of cereal, two cans of soup, a packet of biscuits, some washing-up liquid, and a bottle of cola, mentally ticking off the items on the shopping list as I go. When I've finished, and I have to pay for the items, it takes all of my willpower to resist taking the Asian shopkeeper by the hand, and asking her to marry me. She is young, fit, and incredibly gorgeous. Embarrassingly, I can feel an erection growing in my pants. With haste, I pay for the groceries, tell her to keep the change, and make my exit.

Outside, I examine the back of my head again, probing with my fingers. The crack is still there, of course, but it seems to have stopped bleeding.

Ah... it's nothing. It will heal over in a few days. Nothing to worry about.

I'm surprised to find how warm the air has become out here. Looking around, I notice that people are wearing thick winter coats, and they look as though they are cold. What's wrong with them? Can't they see how the evening has brightened up? Can't they feel the hot currents of air, blown on by the friendly wind?

Ah... bless them. Obviously, they are weaker than I am. Like my mother, they feel the chill even in a room with a roaring fire and central heating.

Puzzled, I wonder why I had been so afraid of these people, or, in fact, why I have always been afraid of people in general. They're nothing to worry about. They are just like me. They have their own troubles, their own worries. They're not some mysterious threat. There is no conspiracy.

This knowledge comes as something of a revelation.

Shrugging, I walk on.

Soon, I'm back home. I give my mother the items she'd requested, and refund the money I owe her. Then, as usual, I retire to my bedroom for the evening.

After closing the bedroom door, I sit on my bed and look at the wall. Usually, I listen to the radio or watch TV until it's dinner time. But tonight, the wall is much more interesting to look at. As I watch the cream-coloured wallpaper (that is now rose-coloured), the pattern dissolves before my startled eyes, and a strange cartoon melts into existence. Well... deep down, I know that this is my imagination, but the cartoon images are vivid enough that they could be mistaken for reality. Soon enough, I am fully absorbed into the mental movie projected onto the wall in front of me. The images are so vivid that it is as if nothing else exists. It feels like I am in a darkened cinema, where the huge screen is the only thing that you can see clearly. Everything other than the cartoon has become dark and indistinct. My wall has become the cinema screen, the only source of light or interest in the theatre that is my cramped bedroom.

The cartoon is pornographic.

A cute, animated version of Princess Diana is bending over, naked, while Daffy the Duck takes her from behind. Bugs Bunny is going down on Kyle from South Park. Homer Simpson is receiving oral pleasure from a cartoon version of the Spice Girls.

This is all very strange, because I never think about sex, usually. Mother told me it was dirty and evil. She said that I would go to hell if I thought about sex very often. Now, however, I can't look away. It is utterly fascinating and absorbing. Each scene is encapsulated inside a big cartoon bubble. The bubbles float around my wall like pink holograms.

Suddenly, I'm aware that my mother is shouting upstairs. "GEORGE! Are you listening to me? I said your DINNER is ready!"

Cursing, I throw the door open, and run downstairs.

Dinner tonight is a bowl of soup and two slices of bread. No wonder I'm so skinny.

I'm not sure what kind of soup it is. Tomato perhaps. It tastes slightly metallic. I can't tell what colour it is, either, but that's okay.

Tonight, my appetite is great. When mother returns to the living room to watch TV, I sneakily eat the entire contents of the biscuit barrel. Even then, I'm still rather hungry, so I consume two small apple pies from the food cupboard. Oddly, the apple tastes like strawberry.

After consuming the food, I get on with tidying the kitchen.

It's a chore as usual, but I find that it does not stress me out as much as it often does. In the soapy bubbles, I keep glimpsing fragments of cartoon faces. They are looking at me, knowingly, seductively.

As soon as I've finished washing up after the merge dinner, I run back upstairs, and lock myself into my bedroom. Again, I try to return to the world of pornographic cartoon fun. However, the cartoons will not reappear no matter how hard I concentrate. Instead, I keep seeing the faces of the Asian shopkeeper and the ageing blonde in the pharmacy. These are elaborate mind pictures, lovingly rendered in brushstrokes of pink. I decide to flow with these images instead. They are beautiful, but almost painful to look at. I am suddenly filled with such pure love for them, that it is like an oppressive physical sensation. I feel sick with love. It eventually gets so bad that I find myself struggling not to actually vomit.

At some point, I happen to snap back into myself, and I glance over at the digital clock that sits on top of my television. The room has become pitch dark, and the numbers of the time glow red:

3:34 AM.

Wow. Either time is speeding up, or my perception of it is slowing down. I'm usually asleep by 10:30 PM. I've lost all track of time. I must've been lost completely in my imaginings.

Hastily, I get into bed, not even bothering to take off my jeans, or brush my teeth in the bathroom.

In seconds, I fall into a bottomless well of dreamless sleep.

Some time later, I awaken to a bedroom full of joyous sunlight. I am lying on my back, looking up at my ceiling that is covered in warm, pink sunlight. Never before can I remember waking up and feeling so happy to be alive.

The back of my head feels a little strange. I turn around and look at my pillow. In the centre of the white fabric is a pool of blood, only as big a ten pence piece or a quarter. I reach around, and touch the back of my head again.

Dry.

Well... it's okay. At least the bleeding has stopped again.

Happily, I get out of bed, and look around.

On a bookshelf near my bed, I notice a small box of razor blades.

I bought these things months ago, in my deepest depression. At the time, I had actually been contemplating suicide. I came pretty close on a number of occasions. Just to think about that amazes me. At the moment, suicide is the furthest thing from my mind in the world.

I stand up, and walk to the shelf. Smiling, I grab the box of razor-blades and put it in my jeans pocket.

I glance at the time: 11:51 AM. Good. My mother will still be in bed, the lazy cow.

Ha-HA! I can't believe I just thought that about my mother! A cow? HA!

The minor rebellion fills me with a sense of deep optimism that I can't quite explain or define.

I open my door as quietly as I can, and creep downstairs. When I reach the kitchen, I consume three bowls full of cereal, and drink a whole carton of pink milk. Sated, I return upstairs to the bathroom, and take a shower.

I don't usually bother very much about personal hygiene, but today something strange has come over me.

I run the water as hot as I can take it. The rosy colour of the cascading liquid makes me think about the ice-cream flavoured soda that I used to drink as a child.

After showering, and washing my hair, I have a clean shave for the first time in months, and brush my teeth with Colgate. Damn, it feels good to be clean. I take the box of razor blades from the pocket of my dirty jeans, and walk naked into my bedroom with them. There, I put on a fresh set of clothes, re-pocket the razor blades, and trim my hair with a pair of scissors that I find in my drawer.

Looking at my reflection in the glass of my TV screen, I like what I see.

If I was a woman, I'd want to fuck me.

I can feel the erotic pressure of the packet of razor blades in my pocket. I don't know why, but I feel that there is something deeply special and magical about those blades. Over night, they've changed from a symbol of suicidal depression into an icon of hope and sanguinity.

Feeling like a billion pink dollars, I run downstairs (no longer caring whether I wake my bitch of a mother), put on my jacket and shoes, and exit the house.

It is warm outside, despite the frost that I can see on parked cars along the road. The sun is shining brightly. The rose-tinted effect has transformed the street into a dreamlike paradise.

Grinning like a fool, but not caring, I turn right, and walk, hoping that I'll meet somebody soon.

It's not long before I catch a glimpse of a complete stranger, walking a little way ahead of me, across the road.

Instantly, my spirits rise even higher.

I run across the road, and continue running until the stranger and I are face-to-face. We almost bump into each other, but we both manage to stop before any embarrassing collision occurs.

Oh. Wow. If I thought the Asian and the old blonde were hot... check this out.

The lady standing in front of me is a brunette. Her face is that of a goddess or an angel. Her eyes are brownish pink. I feel like I'm suffocating inside those twin pools of soulful magic, but it's a sweet asphyxiation.

I can't believe my luck. How can there be so many beautiful people in the world? God, life is good.

I can't think of the words to express my instant love for this perfect girl, so I take her head in my hands and kiss her.

For some reason that I can't understand, she struggles and pulls away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she demands.

"You're my one true love!" I declare, sincerely from the heart. "I've seen others of great beauty in recent times, but when I look at you, it feels like my heart is melting."

This is entirely true. My words were nothing but a statement of fact, however poetic or corny they sounded. The love I feel for this young woman is making me feel whoozy and light-headed, and there is a pain in my chest and gut that I know are symptoms my yearning. Love is not only a mental and emotional phenomena. When it's deep enough, love is also visceral.

"What are you?" my true love demands. "Some kind of fucking psycho?"

"If I am crazy," I cry. "Then it is because I am crazy for you!"

"What kind of cheesy thing is that to say? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke, 'cause I'm not laughing."

I can't take that kind of rejection, especially from one I love so much.

I have only one option. I will have to prove myself to her, and physically show her my love. Knowing that actions speak louder than words, I grab her again, and kiss her as passionately as I know how.

Bizarrely, she pulls away again. This time, however, she turns and runs away.

I can't believe it. Why the hell is she running?

"Wait!" I shout as I begin to chase her. "You can't deny our destiny together!"

She is fast, but I'm fast enough to keep up with her.

As she runs, I am amazed at the grace of her body in action. Feelings of lust and passion build up so fiercely inside me that I feel close to feinting.

I desperately want to spend the rest of my life with this girl.

Bit by bit, I'm catching up with the girl of my dreams. I'm almost upon her. In a few more strides, I'll be close enough to touch her shoulder.

She can't run away from her destiny forever. When I reach her, I will just have to find a way to convince her that my love is sincere.

Suddenly, she breaks left, and runs up the path to one of the houses on the row. I follow closely behind.
She reaches the door, and searches frantically for what I assume is a door key.

Too late, my love. I am here for you now.

"No!" she screams, turning to face me. "Get away from me, you fucking psycho bastard!"

For the third time, I grab her and try to kiss her.

God, she is so beautiful. I only want to feel my lips against hers. Why would she want to deny me this? Can't she see how right, how perfect, our everlasting love could be?

She struggles frantically.

She is my angel, my goddess, my bride. If she would only admit her feelings to herself, she would express the love for me that I know she feels deep down.

I find that my hands have slipped around her neck.

She is thrashing like a wild thing from side to side. Obviously, she is still in denial.

Why can't she simply embrace the fact that she and I are meant to be together as long as we both live? Why can't she give me the chance to prove the sincerity and purity of my yearning to be with her?

I'm squeezing my hands together, shaking her, begging her to give love a chance.

If only I can make her see sense, everything will be perfect for the rest of our lives.

"Please!" I'm screaming. "How can you reject my everlasting love for you? How can you do it? How?"

Yet again, I try to kiss her. I only want to express my love for her in a sensual way that will be instantly understandable.

She's struggling too much. I tighten my grip around her neck, pressing my thumbs into her larynx.

"PLEASE!"

Gradually, as I tighten my grip, and hold her still against the pink door, her struggles diminish.

Still squeezing her neck, to make sure she can't get away or deny me, I finally manage to kiss her properly for the first time. It is everything I imagined it would be, and more. It is a long, and wonderful kiss. Her lips against mine. That's all I want. To show her my love. I'm sure that now she must at last understand the true depths of my feelings for her.

On some strange instinct, I try to explore the inside of her mouth with my tongue. Strangely, her tongue is slack. It is just getting in the way. She is quite unresponsive.

Puzzled, I pull away, and let go of her neck.

To my shock and absolute horror, my nameless love slumps to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

No! What's wrong with her?

Distraught, I put my fingers to her carotid artery, feeling for a pulse.

My own heart almost stops when I realise there is none.

I fall to my knees. A wave of pure emotion hits me. It is so hard, that tears stream freely down my face. I kneel there, sobbing, for what seems like hours.

She's dead. DEAD! How can I ever go on without her?

The prospect is too horrible.

I can only conclude that, at the final moment, when my bride at last felt the genuine nature of my love, the realisation was so powerful that her own heart stopped beating. Her own love for me, when it finally flowered, must've been so strong that it killed her.

The tears stream from my eyes. My despair is great.

Finally, after crying for some unknowable period of time, I'm drained of emotion.

My tears are all dried up.

Maybe, in a while, I will find another who can capture my heart as this lady did. It's not that unlikely, when I come to think about it.

I'll remain hopeful.

As for the moment...

I reach into my pocket, and pull out my pack of razor blades. I select one blade from the pack, and return the small box to my pocket. Taking the blade in one hand, I grab the leg of the lady who would have been my bride in the other.

I am partially aware of a strange pulsing at the back of my head.

Yes, the injury is healing nicely.

Now, though, at this moment, I find that I am desperate to find out what my wife's pink blood tastes like.