by Lars Eighner
That shut him up. The student and his attendant went on, reached Guadalupe Street, and turned south. And that might have been the end of it.
I noticed that Mr. Two Dogs took off rather suddenly to the south, but whether he influenced the subsequent events I cannot say.
The student and his attendant returned after about twenty minutes. I held Lizbeth closely, thinking only they were returning the way they had come. But the attendant stopped to ask me whether Lizbeth had her shots. She had. From my experience as an attendant at the lunatic asylum, I could see the attendant had gone into cover-your-ass mode. He would not be approachable by reason and he could not be expected to exercise even a modicum of judgment. I asked the attendant to show me the bite. The student extended his hand. I could see a raw spot the size of a bit of glitter, between his large gold ring and his knuckle.
That Lizbeth, tied around my waist as she was, could have bitten him there was a physical impossibility. I pointed that out to the attendant. He shrugged. It was out of his hands. He had retreated behind policy and procedure. He was only following orders. I had seen other attendants adopt the same demeanor. I knew Lizbeth and I were in trouble.
I suppose it was barely possible that Lizbeth had reached the student’s knuckle with a claw. But the tiny wound looked much more like something the student had done with his own long, filthy fingernail. He had said nothing of the wound when it supposedly occurred, and the little spot he showed me seemed too fresh to be twenty minutes old. I believe the attendant thought as I did, but seeing that the student would not shut up about the incident, justice be damned, the attendant would do whatever was necessary to avoid a nasty note in his personnel file.
As soon as they were out of sight I bundled up my knitting, and Lizbeth and I hurried to the pew at Ramblin’ Red’s. We were quite in the open there, but I thought it was far enough away that I would have some time to think. A long time later I came to know that the pew faced the street whereby the blind school expeditions always returned, although it was not the most obvious route from the market to the school.
The attendant and his student had left the market ahead of us, and Lizbeth and I were afoot. But no doubt the attendant remembered seeing us on the pew many times before and had reported that. In any event, the dogcatcher found us very quickly.
The dogcatcher’s appearance was about as agreeable as his profession. He demanded to have Lizbeth. He said it was only a matter of observing her for ten days. He said she could be given her heartworm medication in the shelter. He said that in cases such as ours there was a process whereby the fees could be waived and I could reclaim her.
This last was a damned lie and I knew it.
I left my day pack on the bench and Lizbeth and I fled. It was hopeless, really. My only hope was to slide between buildings where the dogcatcher could not follow in his truck. If I could think fast enough and if the dogcatcher were not willing to go against the traffic on the one-way streets, perhaps we could evade him. But I was not thinking fast enough. I was not thinking at all.
I hoped to double back, perhaps to hide in the space under Sleazy Sue’s until it would be safe to see if Billy would give us a ride out of town. I ducked between two buildings: the building that housed The Austin Grackle and the adjacent apartment building. There I was cornered, for the way was blocked by a stout iron fence that was firmly anchored to the buildings. I had seen the fence a thousand times and had I thought I would have known that it was there.
It is no exaggeration to say I was hysterical, and even now I can recall the scene only in the third person, as in nightmares one sees himself from without his body. When the third police car arrived, I had nearly cried myself out. Being unarmed, I saw I had no course but to give up Lizbeth. If I were arrested, I could do nothing to help her.
I held her in my lap and she licked the tears from my cheeks. I cried that she was all I had. And that was so. My books and papers and every irreplaceable thing except my day pack had been taken a few nights before when I had gone to visit Tim in jail.
Now every so often a man takes a gun to a crowded place and begins to kill as many of the people there, although they be strangers, as he can. Commentators call these senseless crimes and they say no one knows why a person would do such a thing. But I know.
When I got up I could hardly stand. I led Lizbeth to the dogcatcher’s truck and let her into the cage myself.
As for the police, I suppose they perceived the naked sincerity of the scene. They did not detain me.
* * *
I GOT MY day pack from the bench and walked the considerable distance to the animal shelter. Of all the things the dogcatcher had told me, I thought it was possibly true that Lizbeth could get her medication there.
At the shelter I was told Lizbeth could receive the medication I brought as soon as the vet was in to order it, a formality I could consider as good as done.
The shelter was not, strictly speaking, a city facility. The building was on public land, but the shelter was operated under contract by the humane society. It was nothing more than the good-cop, bad-cop routine, with the society in the role of the good cop and the dogcatcher as the bad cop.
Yes, the possibility of Lizbeth’s fees being waived did not exist. It was a lie and, so said the society, a lie the dogcatchers commonly told in spite of the society’s repeated objections. Although Lizbeth was property, the law provided no pretense of due process in her seizure. There would be no hearing. It was not even necessary that the alleged victim produce a wound. Once a bite was alleged, the dog was seized. It was up to the dogcatcher, and no one would or could, according to the law, review his decision. (I learned later that this summary power of the dogcatcher was known to some landlords who would harass tenants they found undesirable by claiming to have been bitten when they came to inspect the property. The tenants’ dog would be seized repeatedly until at last the tenants moved or the dog was killed. I can only suppose the landlords provided something to allay the dogcatcher’s suspicions at being summoned to seize the same dog over and over.)
In all, Lizbeth’s fees would amount to about a hundred dollars, provided I could substantiate my claim that she had been vaccinated—her tags were not sufficient evidence. The bulk of these fees was what the society charged for board, but it was pointless, so said the attendant, to discuss whether the society would waive their part because the law required them to collect the city’s thirty-five-dollar fee for picking Lizbeth up. I did not quite see that it was pointless to discuss the difference between a hundred dollars and thirty-five dollars. Clearly this humane society would put Lizbeth to death before they would waive their portion of her fee.
I could not even hope that Lizbeth might be adopted by someone better able to provide for her—a faint hope at best, for she was a grown dog. According to the rules, Lizbeth was now a bite dog. If I could not redeem her, she would die. I would be allowed to see her only once; now or later. I decided I wanted to see her right away. If I could not get the money I might get a gun, and if so I would want an idea of the layout of the place.
Lizbeth was in a cold concrete cell. She was pleased to see me and seemed not so much unhappy as perplexed. The attendant would not let me into the cell. I put my fingers through the chain-link fence so Lizbeth could lick them. Then I hurried away so she would not see me cry.
The attendant offered me a paper towel. Surely, she ventured, it was not so bad as I made out—why all the time she saw people collecting cans, couldn’t I raise the money that way? I had ten days.
That was the world she lived in. Did she really think cans paid any better than a bottle of wine per day?
I was given Lizbeth’s collar.
I could not help asking.
No, the society no longer used the vacuum chamber. Dogs were executed with sodium Pentothal, just like the prisoners on death row.
* * *
AFTER I LEFT the pound, I went to Billy’s apartment complex. It was much nearer than camp and I could only ma
intain my composure a few moments at a time.
When Billy understood Lizbeth’s situation, he began to excuse himself from contributing. I had not thought of it, but Billy had computed that Lizbeth’s ten days would be up on the first of December, coinciding with Billy’s payday. Billy said his next month’s pay was spent already and I could see that everything that could be hocked had been.
The next morning I wrote letters. I thought I would write everyone who knew Lizbeth or knew of her. Unfortunately, my address book had been among the things recently stolen. I could write only three or four letters, but I was at it for a long time. I had to convey grim tidings and to beg, neither of which was easy for me.
Billy drove me to camp, or rather to Sleazy Sue’s. He still had the price of a couple of drinks and we could talk in Sue’s. Billy said he would try to find some money toward bailing Lizbeth out, but his tone indicated that he was wishing, not planning to do so. He told me again that he always thought it was a mistake for me to try to keep her. If I did not have Lizbeth, Billy said, I might have better luck getting assistance.
He had written her off and was thinking of reasons it was all for the best.
I could not follow this line of thought. I changed the subject slightly. I said, as I had often said to Billy, that I thought someone must have a bit of property out of town, a place with potable water where Lizbeth and I could camp and I could have a little tent so I could keep a typewriter. If only I could find that someone.
I was sure I could raise the money for a bag of dog food for Lizbeth and tobacco and a bottle of vitamins for me.
I needed someone to spot me eight months. That was how long it took to be paid for a short story once I finished it. If I could write for eight months I believed I would have a steady income.
Before, I discussed my hope of finding somewhere to camp as the only way I could think of to get off the streets and not as a reflection of my slight distaste for society. Once Lizbeth was seized, I hoped only to have her back and to go somewhere where we would never see another human being.
Oh yes, Billy remarked, he did know someone who had a place out of town. He had discussed my staying out there and the person had seemed agreeable. Billy said he would discuss it again with his friend, but the friend had already said I was welcome to stay on his property whenever I wished.
I wondered how long Billy had been sitting on this news. Why had he not mentioned this before? Had he thought I was kidding about wanting such a situation? If we had got out of town, I still would have had Lizbeth.
I urged Billy to speak to his friend again. If I saved Lizbeth, I would want to take her away at once.
* * *
I HAD COME to a decision. I was going to panhandle. Soon after Lizbeth and I lost our home, I had adopted the policy of taking whatever was offered to me and I had done so. But I had been resolved from the first never to beg, that is not to solicit cash on the streets.
I perceived a distinction between begging on the streets and hitchhiking, accepting the hospitality of Roy and others I hardly knew, and receiving gifts and open-ended loans from people I had known before. Whether there is any distinction in principle, as a practical matter I believed I did not present a sufficiently sympathetic image to beg successfully. Then too, in Austin panhandling is illegal. I had had to violate certain laws, by sleeping in the park, for example. But as I feared any arrest would be the end of Lizbeth, I had complied with such laws as I could.
Beyond these considerations, and perhaps above them, was a simple matter of taste. I preferred scavenging to begging. Begging was a desperate measure.
Only I could reclaim Lizbeth, and if I were arrested for begging that would be the end of her. But it also would be that if I did not raise the money to save her.
I had little difficulty extracting some poster paper and Magic Markers from the Dumpsters. I walked to the pound, which stood near the Colorado River in what had been the annual flood plane before the upstream dams were built. The entrance to the pound was a long gravel road. I stationed myself on it and made a sign. I scarcely know now what I wrote—SAVE LIZBETH in large letters and some more that was smaller. I stood with my sign from about noon until after dark. After sunset the road was quite dark. There were no streetlights. A young man stopped and gave me his watch. When the pound closed the watch was all I had collected. I was very discouraged.
I stashed the sign and walked back to camp, a distance not much less than three miles. I slept little and all of that was nightmares.
* * *
IN THE MORNING I had no better idea.
I thought of posting little notices at various places in the neighborhood, and then I meant to take a sleeping bag and to remain at the pound for the duration. The sleeping bag was one that had not been stolen because I left it under Sue’s for Daniel, if he ever returned.
I made the notices on notebook paper and posted them at Sleazy Sue’s and above the pew at Ramblin’ Red’s where Lizbeth and I usually sat. This took longer than it might have because I would break down at irregular intervals; I would be overcome with little warning.
I took another notice to The Grackle and began to tape it to a large window where fliers and notes were commonly posted. The Grackle’s business manager saw me and inquired about Lizbeth. I explained as well as I could. Of course most of The Grackle’s staff had seen Lizbeth taken away or had at least heard me when she was, but I did not know whether anyone had witnessed the dogcatcher’s assurances that Lizbeth’s fees could be waived. I told her the fees would come to about a hundred dollars. She went into The Grackle office. I had no intention of lingering around the office, but before I had finished taping up my notice, the editor came out and told me that he would give me the money to get Lizbeth out.
I never did understand whether he made this offer speaking for himself or on behalf of the paper or if they had passed the hat. I was grateful beyond words.
I had been submitting various things to The Grackle in longhand. Among these were a couple of small items the editor thought he could use. I thought he mentioned the pieces to make the offer to help Lizbeth seem less baldly a handout.
I had no objection to a bald handout if it would free Lizbeth. I thanked the editor profusely and incoherently. But once I left The Grackle, I did not know what to do. I had only the editor’s promise, and while I did not mistrust him, it was not the same as having a money order for the amount in my pocket. And even that would not have reassured me. Too many things might go wrong before I could get Lizbeth out.
I gave up the idea of begging at the pound. I wanted to mitigate the editor’s contribution if I could, but if I were arrested, no contribution could save Lizbeth.
If I was not to beg, I did not know what I would do.
I spent a few hours on the pew at Ramblin’ Red’s. The proprietor at Red’s asked about Lizbeth’s situation. I explained all of it, including the editor’s offer. I got the impression that Red’s was prepared to help Lizbeth if The Grackle somehow did not. But no impression or assurance would really console me.
While I remained on the pew, less sincere people asked about Lizbeth. I could not withstand that. I soon gave up sitting there. My response to misfortune or injury is something like shame. This is a peculiar feeling in any event, but it is most puzzling when I seem to have been the victim of happenstance. If I had not been poor, if I had not stayed in the market that morning, if I had sat down to knit facing the other way—in a thousand ways I could have avoided Lizbeth’s being seized. Yet there are always these tantalizing and wholly hypothetical alternatives in the aftermath of any accident. I did not see that I was at fault and I could not understand my feeling of shame. But I felt it.
Billy returned to Sleazy Sue’s. Evidently he found a little more money or some new place to pass a hot check. Billy examined the watch I had been given the night before. It seemed to me to have some value and he thought so too. He suggested we pawn it.
I would have done better as a homeless person if I ha
d been more familiar with pawn shops. I do not like pawn shops. I never pawned anything I found. One objection I had to the idea of pawning things I found in Dumpsters was the possibility that the item had been stolen before it was discarded, a possibility that seemed more likely when the item was in good condition and most pawnable.
Billy went into the shop with the watch. He was more presentable. They pay more if they think the item will be redeemed, or so Billy said. My share was ten dollars. Billy told me he had talked again to his friend who had the place out of town and I was expected whenever I might show up. I assured Billy I would want to get out of town on the first of December—as soon as I regained Lizbeth, if I could. I arranged to call Billy on the first, either when I had Lizbeth or when the issue was otherwise decided.
The following day was Thanksgiving. Sue’s had set a free buffet. I do not remember much of it, for I was lost in my own concerns.
Friday was my birthday. I spent my proceeds from the watch getting my ID card renewed at the Department of Public Safety. My ID expired on my birthday and my impression of the Humane Society was that they might kill Lizbeth if my papers were not strictly in order.
On my way back from the DPS, I stopped at Lizbeth’s veterinarian’s office to obtain the written record of her vaccination—this would not free her or improve her status, but it would save the expense of revaccination if she were to be released. I had expected a duplicate of the certificate I had been given when she was vaccinated, but I got only a note from the receptionist. I was concerned that this would not be good enough.
Then I could do nothing except to stay out of trouble until the first of December. I spent the rest of my birthday in Sleazy Sue’s. I had my complimentary birthday cocktail and a few more besides, because gentlemen would buy me drinks when they would not contribute the same funds to the cause.