by DM Bryan
Through the opening, the gravelled yard shows grey and particular. In November, at that season when wet branches bleed upwards into cloud, she will die. Then she will be forgotten.
At the door, Sarah shows me her sleeves. No ink stains the lawn fabric. “This is my last word, dog,” says she, “so mark me well. The novel is not an invention. It is all seed, rooted, and sprouting dark tendrils like an inkblot. Its pages, like laundresses, teach the love, not of principle, but of variety, in every shape and size and colour and kind.”
Then she says, “Please notice the roses as you pass. They are fragrant beyond belief.”
e
I have reached the hedgerow and the road. A trick with a branch and a shadow reminds me of watching my Master at work. Master Hogarth is employed on the engraving he does not know will be his last, but he is tired and out of sorts. He endeavours to keep his imagination in the sunshine. I watch him using his burin, sending up arcing trails of copper. With the instrument’s tip he shapes emblems of extinction: a cracked bell, a ruined tower, a waning moon, a shattered scythe. A gallows. Then, moving to the center of the composition, Master Hogarth shows even Father Time expiring. Over the figure’s head he writes Finis. Time’s last word.
The man sets down his pencil and turns to me. He says, “The deed is done, Pugg—it is all over.” He gestures towards the engraving, but he seems to mean more. Ahead of us lie the vomiting, the crying out at the light, the pain, the drooping eye done in wet paint.
Every portmanteau must be opened so that we might crack its spine, slit its pages, devour its contents. Close its covers. Dying art—blank pages, unnumbered.
Dying dog. I close my eyes and the ceiling comes down to meet me—not the smooth plaster of a London condominium but a painted vault with angels and putti, spiralling like dropped feathers from the sky’s blue dome. This is my death at last. Golden light picks out the odd, quadruped bodies of these divine messengers, and as they draw closer I see they have the faces of dogs. Greyhounds, mastiffs, collies, terriers.
Now, the heavenly effulgence illuminates them to a supernatural degree. Eyes glint, diamond hard. Minute adjustments of their jewelled wings emit rays of ruby, emerald, and sapphire light. Every hair in every coat stands alone for counting. And as they descend, the dogs begin to sing in unison. An anthem of praise or welcome? I cannot tell. I prick up my ears. Closer and closer come the seraphic dogs, hovering on their wings. They hang motionless above me, like slung cattle with useless legs dangling, and their hymn piddles away into silence. Their wet noses and moist eyes stare down beseechingly.
As one dog, they begin a new canticle, a new song of praise, a new alleluia. This time, I understand the words. They are urging me forward into the light.
I cannot help myself. I am Pugg. I snort, as only a pug can. What manner of ending is that? With a kind of derision, I howl at the skies.
Hideous barking bounces off the waisted curves, the supple vines, and cascading shells of the vaulted heavens. Between wings, hackles rise and ears compress twisted skulls. Yellow fangs stretch cruelly, snatching for my imperiled flesh. Spittle flecks silver in the golden glow. And when I fear I can no longer evade the fatal attack, I open my eyes.
With a faint dripping of smoke, like the snuffing of a candle, the vision vanishes, and I am here again.
No one can compose their own death. I must go on in silence; I must go on alone. Unclip my lead. Give me my head. Watch the tip of my tail waddle off into the wide world one last time. The portmanteau is yours to keep or pass on, as you see fit. More capacious than wash water, it holds not only these pages but many more besides. Past pages, future pages. Remember how accidentally it began, invented with stitching, starching, copying. Remember how tenuously it continues, sprouting dark tendrils. Elegant inkblots. It is so generous an object that even a dog might tip pages into its accommodating cover. And now it is yours.
Keep my portmanteau various in your own way. I cannot say fairer than that.
The End
Illustrations
William Hogarth, The Bruiser, Charles Churchill, 1763, print, in John Trusler, The Works of William Hogarth; In a Series of Engravings: with Descriptions, and a Comment On Their Moral Tendency (London: Jones and Co., 1833), 141.
William Hogarth, The Harlot’s Progress, plate 1, 1732, print, in John Trusler, The Works of William Hogarth; In a Series of Engravings: with Descriptions, and a Comment On Their Moral Tendency (London: Jones and Co., 1833), 39.
William Hogarth, Marriage A-la Mode, plate 2, 1745, print, in John Trusler, The Works of William Hogarth; In a Series of Engravings: with Descriptions, and a Comment On Their Moral Tendency (London: Jones and Co., 1833), 195.
William Hogarth, The Rake’s Progress, plate 3, 1735, print, in John Trusler, The Works of William Hogarth; In a Series of Engravings: with Descriptions, and a Comment On Their Moral Tendency (London: Jones and Co., 1833), 15.
William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness, plate 9, 1747, print, in John Trusler, The Works of William Hogarth; In a Series of Engravings: with Descriptions, and a Comment On Their Moral Tendency (London: Jones and Co., 1833), 101.
William Hogarth, The Bathos, 1764, print, Author’s collection.
Acknowledgements
The eighteenth century really knew how to pen a page of acknowledgements. The language was high-flown and the purposes rhetorical. My version is plainer but heartfelt.
This novel was begun as part of the PhD requirements in the Department of English at the University of Calgary, and I would like to thank the faculty and staff for their assistance in many matters related to the completion of this book. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Aritha van Herk for her tireless red pen, Suzette Mayr for continued support, and David Oakleaf, whose help on all things eighteenth century was invaluable. Barb Howe got me out of more jams than I can number. And, the encouragement and support of my classmates is a big deal, so thanks to all of you, with a particular tip of the hat to those who read and provided moral support: Heather Osborne, Steven Peters, Emily Chin, Emma Spooner, and Jane Chamberlin.
The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC), the University of Calgary Faculty of Graduate Studies, and the Department of English all provided generous financial support, without which I could not have undertaken this work.
My family has put up with me in every kind of internal weather. The best of all parents, Lawrence and Eleanor Bryan, know when to take me to lunch and tell me it will be okay. Greg Bryan and Anne Laurent, Christine Sutherland, John and Jane Sutherland, Jim and Julia Sutherland, and the late, great Tim Sutherland have never flagged in their love and encouragement. Elizabeth, Hayden, and Jacinta Ashby provided inspiration, while George Fenwick and Mindy Andrews are simply the best. My amazing children, Aphra and Joel Sutherland, motivate me with their own scholarship and hard work—I am so proud of them. Richard Sutherland is my best friend and companion in everything, and I can never thank him enough.
Photo of Fawkes and the author by Joel Sutherland
D. M. Bryan is a novelist, living and writing in the city of Calgary. She is the author of Gerbil Mother (NeWest). She holds degrees in art, film, communications, and English. Currently, she teaches writing and English studies at the University of Calgary and Mount Royal University.
Brave & Brilliant Series
Series Editor:
Aritha van Herk, Professor, English, University of Calgary
ISSN 2371-7238 (Print) ISSN 2371-7246 (Online)
Brave & Brilliant encompasses fiction, poetry, and everything in between and beyond. Bold and lively, each with its own strong and unique voice, Brave & Brilliant books entertain and engage readers with fresh and energetic approaches to storytelling and verse, in print or through innovative digital publication.
No. 1 ∙The Book of Sensations
Sher
i-D Wilson
No. 2 ∙Throwing the Diamond Hitch
Emily Ursuliak
No. 3 ∙Fail Safe
Nikki Sheppy
No. 4 ∙Quarry
Tanis Franco
No. 5 ∙Visible Cities
Kathleen Wall and Veronica Geminder
No. 6 ∙The Comedian
Clem Martini
No. 7 ∙The High Line Scavenger Hunt
Lucas Crawford
No. 8 ∙Exhibit
Paul Zits
No. 9 ∙Pugg’s Portmanteau
D. M. Bryan