‘It might just be a cover-up for the fact that the South Pole expedition was actually pretty boring,’ I say.
Mrs. Thorkildsen does not disagree:
‘Day after day, hanging on while a pack of dogs charges across the ice. Just as white and flat in every direction, the sun never goes down. The weather gets better and worse, but the cold is constant. The same routines every day. Down with the tent, the same distance to travel as the day before. Tent up. Eat. Sleep. Follow the plan. The dogs deliver their predicted amount of miles day after day, the food rations are adequate, and the depots appear where they’re supposed to be. Had he not been living in a nightmare in which Captain Scott was already standing at the South Pole with his motorized sleds, the Chief might have enjoyed the expedition, as if it were a pleasant Easter ski trip.’
‘Well, isn’t that what it is, after all? A ski trip. If a slightly more momentous one. All they’re really doing is taking their dogs for a spin.’
‘Until they hit the wall.’
‘And when does that happen?’
‘Now.’
‘The wall is ten thousand feet high. That’s high,’ says Mrs. Thorkildsen, as high as the planes way up there in the sky, the ones I can never quite spot. The wall is built from ice over thousands of years, layer after layer of snow polished by the coldest winds that blow on Earth, and it’s full of murderous crevices. Here, at the foot of the climb, was the final depot, this is where the map ended. The rest of the way to the South Pole was all that remained of ‘the unknown’ in this world.
It was a game of chance. They could count every biscuit four times to make sure the margins were on their side, but the next step might lead them to death anyway.
Beyond being dead tired, the dogs grew terrified as one sled, then another, then another nearly disappeared into the cracks on their way up the glacier. After the restless, sick, or horny dogs are dispatched as the march across the oceanic ice continues, the pack on the mantle has now become the largest.
31
The Curse of the Home Help. I’m really starting to like the Home Help. In the beginning I found the constant transformations frustrating, but that was before I realized that mutability is precisely the true form of the Home Help. And why should a noble soul like the Home Help be tied up in a single persona?
Today the Home Help is—as far as Home Helps go—a relatively young man. He has a little daughter, a girlfriend who can’t quite decide what she wants from him, and he has dreams of becoming an ambulance driver. I can smell all of this. Just kidding! But this much he’s told Mrs. Thorkildsen, who listens in rapt excitement and goes to fetch more cinnamon rolls. The house is the way it always is when the Home Help arrives, spotless. There’s plenty of time for the only task she needs help with: bringing in the lawn furniture.
The Home Help goes out to retrieve garden furniture, and I plod along after him, pleased something is happening. Anything.
Three chairs and a small table. It’s not much of a job, but the Home Help still lets himself take a break in the shed afterwards. Takes out a cigarette and lights up.
‘You won’t tell, will you?’ he says, grinning. I don’t respond. Better that than to admit I have no clue in hell what he’s talking about. I wag my tail as calmly as I can, but it never seems calm enough. My goal is the swaying elegance of a large bird of prey, but the result comes out more like a windshield wiper at top speed.
Then the Home Help exhales through his nose and something falls into place. He’s sitting there in the white plastic chair smoking herbs!
‘Of course I won’t tell,’ I say.
The Home Help coughs. I let him finish coughing. The Home Help’s heart rate skyrockets for some reason, and he stares at me with wide eyes as if I were the first dog on Earth.
‘Just between you and me,’ I continue as he stares, ‘I was actually going to ask if you have any extra of … whatever it is you have. I think it would be good for Mrs. Thorkildsen, you see. She drinks, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, far too much Dragon Water for her little body.’
‘You can talk …’ says the Home Help, getting to his feet.
‘I will pay you for it,’ I say. ‘I know exactly which books Mrs. Thorkildsen hides her money in: The Future in America by H.G. Wells and the Complete Works of Robert Burns. Both of them are just to the right of the fireplace. She’ll never notice. I actually think she’s forgotten the money is there.’
‘You can talk!’ the Home Help repeats.
‘I’d do it myself, of course, but as you can see I lack thumbs, and simply getting a book off the shelf is a losing battle in and of itself.’
‘You can talk!’ says the Home Help. Then he has to go, and does so at an incredible speed.
Mrs. Thorkildsen becomes the Angel of Death again once the Home Help has left. With calm, measured movements, she picks paper wolves off the floor. One. Two. Three. She picks up four. Another one. Another one. And another one. And another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another almost at the end and one at the very end, and now they’re all gathered up in Mrs. Thorkildsen’s wiry fist, the whole bunch of them.
‘Twenty-four,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says. ‘These were slaughtered at the top of the climb by the same men who were assigned to take care of them.’
‘A good old-fashioned bloodbath.’ I can hear myself sounding trite. But what am I supposed to say? That I’m shocked. I could say that, but the truth is I’m not. Mrs. Thorkildsen tells the story of the great massacre that took place when men and dogs finally stood atop the plateau, after an outstanding team effort, after days of exhaustion, and I’m not the least bit surprised. If I had Mrs. Thorkildsen’s grasp on numbers, I could have just counted biscuits and rations to see that the math wasn’t working out, that the Chief’s strategy once again turned out to be based on having more dogs than he needed.
There will be a time for feelings, but that comes later. Facts are what matter now and, anyway, I’ve never been one to let my feelings run away with my manners unless I’m extra hungry, which I’m not right now. On the contrary, I’m nice and full. I’m warm. The likelihood of Mrs. Thorkildsen giving me a shot through the skull without warning feels lower and lower. I’m safe, and that’s really all a dog like me ever wants to be.
‘If they didn’t realize it right away, the dogs must have eventually known what was going on when they were served their dead friends for dinner,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says, flipping her way to one of the yellow flags in one of the books. What a strange experience it must be for a library book to accompany Mrs. Thorkildsen home, I think.
32
Today on the Dr. Pill Show:
‘They’re closing down my local library, but at least I’m going to die soon!’
Dr. Pill’s show about Mrs. Thorkildsen would be called something like that, I guess. At least if she got to decide. If the Puppy got to decide, on the other hand, I’m afraid the show about Mrs. Thorkildsen would be named something like:
‘My lonely old mother is drinking herself to death, and I’m not sure how to feel about it!’
The Bitch:
‘My mother-in-law is a feisty old witch who doesn’t want us to have a good home, and she never looks me in the eye either!’
The Boy Puppy:
‘Beep! … Beeeep! … Beeeeeep! Kabooom!’
But what about my Dr. Pill show, what exciting title would we give it to entice the viewing masses? I must say the answer to that question will entirely depend on what day you ask it. Here are a few fresh suggestions:
‘I think I’ve had sex, and I’d really like to be sure of it, but the bitch wants nothing to do with me now!’
‘My owner sometimes forgets to feed me, and then has the nerve to complain when I fart!’
‘I’m too fat because I love people too much!’
‘The Rottweiler down on the corner is getting on my nerves and I wish he were dead!’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to starve to death! Now!’
‘The Librarian is in love with me and I’m afraid Mrs. Thorkildsen will die if she finds out!’
I added that last point to the list today. I’ll return to this shortly but, first, I must point out how my list of show title suggestions reveals my problem:
I lack clearly defined enemies in my life. Antagonists, as nonviolent people call them. I’m obviously pro Mrs. Thorkildsen, no question about that, but that tells me nothing about who or what I should be against in the world, other than her daughter-in-law and Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, God’s only son. And truth be told, Jesus hasn’t really bothered Mrs. Thorkildsen or me lately. That leaves the Bitch, who is and will remain Mrs. Thorkildsen’s problem, and hers alone. I don’t want to get involved in all that. Okay, I do hate the aforementioned Rottweiler down on the corner, but only while I have to listen to his barking every time I walk past his house. I don’t hate him otherwise, unless I waste my time mulling over the curses of the past or the curses of the future. He’s just a stupid dog, anyway. The world is full of stupid dogs.
Could it be the Puppy who’s my enemy, my antagonist?
I certainly hope not. I only have good things to say about the guy, except for how he makes his mother nervous with all his papers and his talk about the future. I certainly hope he didn’t take the whole Satan Snarl episode personally.
The Bitch is no big fan of mine, but I don’t take that personally. Had I only experienced the opportunity to properly sniff her up and down, to smell what lies beneath all the antiseptic and camouflage stench, we might even become good friends.
Like I said: ‘The Librarian is in love with me and I’m afraid Mrs. Thorkildsen will die if she finds out!’
This is the natural conclusion I’ve drawn after today’s events. We’ve come home, which means we’ve been out. The Library/Tavern was the only destination for our walk today. The Puppy and Mrs. Thorkildsen left me alone forever while they went hunting this morning, and they came home with more Dragon Water than we’ve had in the house for a long time. The Puppy held the key this time, so he was the one to whom Mrs. Thorkildsen had to explain herself.
‘I’m having the old girls over for dinner,’ she said, and put on her wistful voice for the occasion: ‘It’ll probably be the last time.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ the Puppy snapped, with an emphasis I’ve rarely heard come out of him. ‘You’ve got many good years left, Mom. But, damn it, you’ve got to pull yourself together a little more. How old was grandma when she died? Ninety-four? Ninety-five? There’s no reason you won’t live just as long. Longer! People get older these days. You can’t just sit here feeling sorry for yourself while you slowly fade away. Can’t you just go to the Canary Islands? Have a little fun in the sun. Enjoy it. We’ll take care of Tassen, you know that.’
‘I don’t feel sorry for myself,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen said, and the room grew ice cold.
‘You know we do everything we can so you are able to live life on your own terms,’ the Puppy said. Mrs. Thorkildsen said nothing. ‘But if we’re going to do that, you have to hold up your end of the bargain. Be active. Think positive. Why have you fired the Home Help, by the way?’ the Puppy asked.
This was news to me. I peered up at Mrs. Thorkildsen inquisitively, but Mrs. Thorkildsen said nothing.
‘Mom?’ the Puppy said.
‘He’s the one who quit,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen finally answered. ‘They had finally sent me someone who both spoke my language and had time for a cup of coffee. Finally, I thought. So I sent him out to clean up the lawn furniture, and it’s like something snapped for the guy. He came back totally disturbed. Couldn’t get out of here fast enough, barely said goodbye, and you know what? I thought, enough is enough. If even the best Home Help is raving mad, what’s the point of waiting for the second best one? I called the municipality and told them I won’t be needing another Home Help.’
The Puppy sighed, but said nothing. Mrs. Thorkildsen kept going:
‘I don’t feel sorry for myself,’ she repeated. ‘If I did, I might need a Home Help, but as a matter of fact I don’t. Plus, you never know what kind of people they’re going to send, they come from all over the world, after all. No, let those who really need a Home Help get one. I’ll be just fine.’
The Puppy gave an even deeper sigh. Then he said:
‘And what if we need it? Part of the point of the Home Help, Mom, is that it actually makes me—us!—feel safer. Knowing that there’s someone coming to check on you every other day might make a bigger difference to me than it does to you, so I wish you’d talked to me about this.’
‘I can’t stand new strangers in my house two days a week, but thank you anyway,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen said. ‘And you never know what to feed them! Either they’re allergic, or they have some kind of religion that forbids them from having a cup of coffee and a pastry while they’re on the clock. I might reach the point where I need a Home Help eventually, but I’m not there yet. And that’s enough of that!’
Later, when Mrs. Thorkildsen, the wheely bag, and I were strolling through Suburbia towards the Center, I had to ask Mrs. Thorkildsen a question that had been weighing on my mind for a while:
‘Are you lying to your Puppy?’
‘Most certainly not,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen said. Indignant. I could tell.
‘So it’s true, you are having the old girls over for dinner?’
‘Sure it is,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen said, and there was something about the way she said it that made me not want to let go, so I hung on like a German Shepherd biting into the arm of a peace activist:
‘When?’
‘I haven’t quite decided that yet.’
‘Ha!’ I said.
‘Ha yourself,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen said. ‘As long as I’m alive, I can say I’m having the girls over for dinner, and no one can prove that is not my intention.’
‘Well, then I don’t understand why you’re so furious with the Chief. He could have said the exact same thing as you. I’m going to the North Pole, he would have said, just not today. Another day.’
‘I’m not furious with the Chief because he’s lying! Imagine that. Every man I’ve ever met is a liar. Men lie about big things and they lie about little things, not all the time and not about everything, but they all do it. I’m not mad at the Chief, I just think he’s a real dolt from time to time.’
It’s almost strange that we’ve never thought of it before. After Mrs. Thorkildsen has gotten her books and is having a quick chat with the Librarian, it’s time for Mrs. Thorkildsen’s regular visit to the Tavern, and a nervous wait in the hallway for me. But then the Librarian, bless her, says:
‘Feel free to leave him here while you go get a sandwich.’
I didn’t realize she was referring to me until Mrs. Thorkildsen addressed me in the voice she only uses when she’s talking to me out in public among people, the kind of voice I imagine she would have used if I were her slightly challenged human puppy:
‘What do you say, Tassen? Do you want to stay here while Mom goes to get a sandwich and a beer? Does that sound good? Doesn’t that sound gooood!’
‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘That sounds like a great idea, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’
That’s a strange thing about people, how much they change when you get them one-on-one. Mrs. Thorkildsen is obviously the prime example in my life, but I think most people are like this. On their own, they’re either better or worse.
The Librarian, who was already quite wonderful, became even better, and that’s what bothers me a little as I lie here in the Major’s leather chair watching Mrs. Thorkildsen obliviously read her book and drink her Dragon Water. Should I tell her about all the Librarian’s cuddles and sweet talk? How she got me to roll over—I couldn’t help it, it happened all on its own—and burrowed her snout into the fur on my neck as she made all kinds of sweet grunting noises. The Librarian thinks I’m a good boy, and she’s not afraid
to let me know it, and it strikes me that I’m not entirely sure whether Mrs. Thorkildsen feels the same way. That is, I think she does, but I’ve never heard her say it. That’s what happens when a stupid mutt starts to rely on words.
Am I lying if I don’t tell Mrs. Thorkildsen what happened and how wonderful I thought it was? Or, the other way around: what good could come from me telling her? If I know Mrs. Thorkildsen, she probably wishes she were young and limber so she could get down on her knees, the best position from which to enjoy a dog, but Mrs. Thorkildsen is old and she thinks getting old is a drag, so I think it would be best to leave it alone. To talk about something else.
‘So, what happened to the other dogs, who weren’t butchered to make an example out of them?’ I ask.
Mrs. Thorkildsen looks up from her book.
‘Well, they made it to the South Pole. The dogs got to eat their fill and rest for a few days, and the rest of the dog meat was left at the “Butcher’s Shop” as provisions for the way back. Then they continued on with that gang—’ she pointed to the paper wolves on the floor ‘—eighteen of them.’
‘What about this Scott? Did he make it to the South Pole?’
‘The Englishmen made it to the South Pole over a month after the Norwegians had been there, but where the Chief had fulfilled his dreams, Scott found his life’s nightmare. “God, this is a horrible place,” he writes. The Chief had registered no such thing. Do you know what really sank their spirits?’ Mrs. Thorkildsen asks, and answers before I have a chance to say no. ‘All the dog tracks in the snow. There were so many of them. An advantage, in every sense.’
‘But the South Pole itself, it’s actually … nothing?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing there at all. An X in the snow, framed by black flags that the Norwegians planted in every direction so no one who came to that place would doubt that someone had been there before them.’
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