"Cur"
by Whitenoiz


     All his life, Samuel has felt wrong, off. Felt a strong sense of not belonging, of being not quite right. It didn't help he was Jewish - that alone set him apart. And he's queer. Though things have improved considerably in the last ten years - gay rights were inevitable - you can't legislate how people feel. Often still, there are people who are barely able to conceal their disgust towards us. But it wasn't just that.

     Among his own, Samuel still doesn't feel quite right. So you understand - all his life, Samuel has felt like a dog. So you understand - I'm not saying Sam's felt treated like a dog, I'm saying he's felt like he was a dog. Though it's hard for me to get used to, Sam is a dog.

     When I first met him, you wouldn't have noticed it. It was only that there was a certain unthinking loyalty, a submissive manner in his behavior. There was his predisposition towards licking, biting, smelling. None of this made a blip on my radar screen. Hell, we met at a leather bar. That's what it's like out there.

     We became lovers - master and slave, you know. I couldn't help myself - Sammy blew me away. The amount of trust he put in me was incredible. I was high on the trust. I was high on Sam.

     The scenes we played were hot - I didn't find them odd at all. Only in retrospect, did I see them for what they were - the cage, the leash and collar, swats for losing control of his bladder. By our agreement, he slept naked on the floor, ate off the floor. All the time he spent with me, he was, by our agreement, beneath me in station, but also position. He was not to speak to me unless spoken to first. He could only get my attention by butting his head against my leg, my crotch and silently begging me.

     If this is shocking to you, just get over it. We're S and M - you can read up on it at the public library, for Christ's sake. It's not all that abnormal and it's how we choose to live. It is a very loving relationship, despite what you might think - perhaps you can never know unless you've been there. Love is trust and devotion, loyalty. We have all of that.

     At any rate, I didn't think too much about how we played. I've been in the leather scene for awhile. I've done it all - the sergeant and the private, prison guard and prisoner, daddy and son. Dog and owner wasn't a stretch for me. Yet, at times, I wondered if there wasn't something more there.

     I was talking to him one day. I said, "Sing." This is our safe word. "Do we need to talk about something?" I asked.

     He stood up and faced me, "I don't know. What?"

     "I'm gonna get a beer. Come with me," I say and head for the kitchen. He follows me. I open the refrigerator and ask, "Want one?"

     "I guess," Sam says and sits down at the kitchen table. I can't believe how wrong it looks to me, him sitting there like that - him sitting in a chair.

     "Is anything wrong?" I ask.

     "Not really, I guess. I don't know. Why?"

     "You just don't seem like yourself lately."

     "I don't know. I've been feeling a bit down."

     "You're not bored with... " I pause, "You're not bored, are you?"

     "God, no!" he says.

     "I've felt this from you for awhile now. I was starting to wonder if it was me."

     "God, no!"

     "I mean, I'm getting fat."

     "No! I love you, John!" He stops, thinks. "It's me, I guess."

     "What then? What's up?"

     "The scene is hot - I like it, but... I don't know. It's not enough."

     "You want a dog? I'll buy us a dog."

     "No... " he says, "I mean, it's not like I haven't thought about that. It's just... "

     And that's when he first told me.

     He told me about the dreams - dreams he's been having since he could remember, since he was four or five. It was hard for him to find the words to describe them. These dreams were without words, without the thoughts that words convey. I'm talking about his dreams of being a dog.

     His dreamscape, though wordless, was rich in smells - a complete vocabulary of smells: wet grass, wood rot. His vision, dimmed and brown like old photos, was complemented by a world of acute sound. Sounds in his waking life that were mere shivers at the threshold of hearing were, in his dreams, palpable like a weight in his mind: the rustle of dry leaves, the buzz and hum of insects.

     He dreams of rolling in dead squirrel. He dreams of eating things to figure out what they might be. He dreams of barking at strangers and howling at the night sky, though in his dreams there is no "barking", no "howling" - no idea of these, no words - they are simply what they are, what he does.

     He tells me stories his family tells: of how even as a baby he slept at the foot of his crib. When he was older, they'd find him asleep on the floor invariably. He had a full set of teeth at three months. His mother has saved none of his baby toys because he had completely chewed them up. How he'd been to the hospital five times when he was little because he'd swallowed something he shouldn't have - a cigarette butt, a marble, the head of a G.I. Joe, a toggle bolt, and one of his sister's earrings.

     He told me all of this and more besides: about his childhood obsession with Snoopy. He had Snoopy bedsheets, lunchbox and thermos, and dolls, and t-shirts, and posters... everything Snoopy. Sam explained, "Snoopy was important to me. He's this dog who feels like a person, where I am... well, a person who feels like a dog." He told me about his first sexual experiences at twelve or thirteen - jacking off with the family dog. Snoopy, of course; Sammy named him.

     I said little, made no judgments - I just listened. We drank every beer in the refrigerator. It was finally down to him sobbing, "I hate my body! This is not my body!" and me holding him very tightly as if I could squeeze this unhappiness out of him.

     That night we screwed like anybody else does - very straight, very tender - but in my mind, I vowed that I would do whatever it takes. I vowed to treat him like I would a real dog. I only wanted Sammy to be happy.

     This is not so easy as I thought it would be. Our scenes aside, I wasn't quite sure how to do this. I never had a dog when I was young. I never had a dog ever. I started taking long walks in the park, watching other people and their dogs - how they interact, relate. I wanted to be authentic, genuine, sincere in dealing with Sammy.

     Did I make good on my vow? Some of these, some of those. Sam has always responded to simple direct statements and a bellyrub. What more could I do? I wasn't going to the park and play Frisbee. I draw the line there.

     OK, to tell the truth, though I did my best - at the heart of me it often felt counterfeit, insincere. No matter how much a dog Sammy seemed, I couldn't forget Sam as a person - that Sammy who'd get up at seven every morning, get dressed and go to work. Sam's a broker - he does things I'll never comprehend with lots of other people's money on Wall Street.

     Did you think we didn't have jobs? that we just played doggie all day and night? We do what we have to - I work at a bookstore and I wait tables. We could get by nicely on Sam's money, but I like to work. I like to have my own money. I will quit waiting tables, though.

     I care about Sam, care for Sam. I give him a lot of my time and can't say I find it unrewarding. I love Sam... and sometimes Sam is up and sometimes Sam seems down. I understand.

     On Wednesdays, Sammy and I go out to restaurants. He has a handful of favorites - mostly Asian or Middle Eastern cuisine. All places you can take your shoes off and sit on the floor to eat. We were at this Japanese place we like to call Suk Dik. After much sake, many beers - we were talking, joking around.

     I look across the table at him and say, "Woof!"

     Sammy says, "Maybe I could see a doctor."

     "You're not crazy," I say, ironic and post-modern, "you're just different."

     "No, like a doctor doctor... "

     "A medical doctor?"

     "I was talking to Indonesia about her surgery... " Indonesia is this black girl we know, a girl now. Sam goes on, "You go to a doctor and make you who you wanna be."

     "Wanna be? Who she has to be! Could you see Indonesia as a man?" We burst out laughing.

     "Oh, sure - we'll start you out on hormones, get you a nice, shiny coat."

     " ...and a prosthetic tail."

     "You have muscles down there - you could probably learn to wag it."

     "I could!" he says, laughing, "What kind of a dog would I be?"

     "Hmmm," I think about this, "If we're going to have construct a maw for you, you better stick to something more flat-faced, a bulldog? No... " and we say this at the same time, " a Rottweiller!"

     "They'd probably have to break every bone in my face, break my jaw. Maybe they have some kind of synthetic bone, now."

     "Ouch!"

     Sam holds up his hands, "And these? What am I gonna do with these?" He lifts his leg over the low table like a dog about to piss, "And these?" He shakes his foot in my face.

     "We're talking radical surgery here."

     "Cut my fingers down to the first joint... " he scrunches his fingers down, hides his thumb, "There! that looks more like a paw."

     "I'd keep the thumbs," I say, "Thumbs are very useful." I make a motion with my hand like jacking off.

     "If I'm going to do it, I'm going to go all the way!" Suddenly, it doesn't seem so much like he's joking.

     "Oh, sure... " I say laughing, but the joke isn't funny anymore.

     That night, I have a strange dream. I'm walking in the park I always walk in. I'm walking with Sammy, only he isn't Sammy, he looks just like Chewbacca in "Star Wars". What did they call him? a "wookie"? Other than that, he's exactly like Sammy. He's on all fours, in his leather collar and leash. He romps along ahead of me. He stops to sniff another dog's ass - a Rott - and I yank his chain and warn him. He growls at me and walks on.

     As we continue through the park, we come upon this old lady, dressed all pink and floral. "What a nice dog you have, mister," she says, "What's his name?"

     I say, "Sammy."

     "Well, Sammy's a nice doggie," she says, tousling his hair. "What kind of dog is he?"

     I answer her, inexplicably in a Texas drawl, "I don't rightly know, ma'am - he's a mixed."


(Feedback is welcome; you may contact the author at <wberry@cyberstache.com>.)
