RESULT: Saw no one, not even a deer. Saw the trees in front of me, so many of them dead, so many of their limbs down. Bits of leaves sticking up between a lightly fallen snow and after my anger I became sad and it hurt in my heart and I wondered if people’s hearts would not hurt when they were sad if people hadn’t always said things like “their heart was heavy” or that there was a pain in their heart.
WHAT I SAW ON MY WALK BACK HOME AT DUSK: Not the rock wall I had followed to get to my spot against my beech.
WHAT I FELT: Fear. I was lost, but I knew where the sun had set. I knew which direction to follow, but still, where had the rock wall gone? I had no light. My clothes would not be enough to keep me warm throughout a night until daybreak. Would I freeze to death? I was lost and would never be found. Hunting deer will kill me, I thought, and I thought didn’t the deer know already how high my levels were? Didn’t the deer already know what had happened to my son and it was already killing me and that there was no need to kill me like this, and then, in that moment, I loved the deer more than I had before, because of course they did not care about my levels, or feel sorry for me about my son. The deer would kill me the same as any other man, with the fever, buck fever.
WHAT I DID: I walked downhill, through woods I swore I had never walked through before. My feet on thick, carpeting needles of pine I could not remember having felt before beneath my boots. I listened for the sounds on the road, for the cars that might be driving up or down to steer my way. There were no sounds, just the sound of the wind in the trees, creaking tops. I walked on, going down, not sure which side of the ridge I was on, thinking I could have turned myself around completely when I had stood up from my spot against the beech. Finally I saw the bright lights. I thought it was the object from the sky that had landed. I followed it. It turned out to be my house. I felt stupid to see it. It was so large, the light in the kitchen window so bright. Inside I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I should have known I was never lost at all but just letting myself enjoy the thrill of fear, a thing that seemed to be alive. It was so strong I thought that if I were smart enough, if I were pig enough, then when I looked in the mirror I could have seen the fear standing there and I could have turned to it and dealt with it the way the pigs could understand a mirror and turn and find their food when they looked in it. I was not pig enough, I decided, nor was I man enough, I thought, because I wasn’t any closer to finding the man who had shot my son.
CALL: A Weimaraner that was listless and had stopped eating.
ACTION: Had owner, my neighbor, bring the dog to my garage. Turned on X-ray machine, laid dog down on blanket. X-rayed belly to see if there was an obstruction.
RESULT: Noticed significant signs of bloat. Dog had eaten a “greenie,” a processed dog bone, two days earlier. There was a substantial amount of air in the dog’s stomach. Told Sandy, my neighbor, whose hair was coming undone from her ponytail, that the dog was not in good shape. I pulled back the lips of the dog and showed her his gums. They were not pink, they were gray, almost the same color as the dog’s coat. I told Sandy she had best take the dog for emergency surgery at the small-animal clinic. I helped lift the dog into the back of the car. Sandy asked how much she owed me and I told her nothing. I told her she better get going, the dog was very ill. I also told her that the surgery works sometimes, and sometimes it doesn’t. She nodded her head. Let me know how it turns out, I said, and then she drove off.
THOUGHTS ON WALK BACK INTO HOUSE: I wonder if Sandy has German in her blood. She looks like she knows about kugel and schnitzel. She looked strong, like I think German women would be. She hardly needed my help carrying that dog to her car. She probably could have lifted Sam as easily from the ground when he had been shot and carried him back to our house. I could have sworn that when she drove off she said “tschüss,” good-bye, to me and maybe I said “tschüss” back and maybe she thinks I’m German too and maybe next time she has to come over because her dog has bloat, or whatever, we will practice our German together. Maybe she has a good German accent. Maybe she can help me say the things I cannot say.
WHAT THE WIFE SAID WHEN SHE SAW SANDY DRIVE OFF: Will the dog be all right?
WHAT I SAID: The dog is in good hands, I said. Feeling for sure now that Sandy was German, that Sandy would drive as fast as she could, as fast as one would on the autobahn, to get to the animal hospital, that she would not waste time at the front desk, that she would probably, on her own, carry the bloated Weimaraner in her strong arms into the surgery and onto the table. Maybe Sandy even could help me find the man who had shot my son. She could come with me to every house near our house. She could hold my son in her arms while I knocked, she could lay him on my neighbors’ kitchen tables, his eyes still shut, and she could say, look, who has done this to this man’s son? “Gott im Himmel,” she could say, pounding the table, making plates and cups jump, “answer me!”
WHAT I DID: I called the animal hospital and told them to expect her and the dog. I told them that I was sure she would be there very soon.
WHAT THE WIFE SAID: What do you want for dinner?
WHAT I SAID: Bratwurst.
WHAT THE WIFE SAID: Well, we don’t have bratwurst. How about chicken?
WHAT I SAID: Then why did you ask?
WHAT THE WIFE SAID: I was being polite, wanting to know what you felt like eating tonight. That’s polite, she said.
WHAT I SAID: If you already know the answer, then how is that polite?
WHAT SHE SAID: It is, it just is.
WHAT SARAH SAID: Poppy, there have been eighty-two deer bagged in our town so far. We read it on a piece of paper hanging on the wall at Phil’s, beside the shelf for videos, above the special soup for the day.
WHAT I SAID: I am going out now. And to myself I said what Sam would say, “Kill the deer, eat the meat, kill the deer, eat the meat.”
WHAT I SAW GOING UP TO MY SPOT: Three coyotes. They were beautiful and big. Their silver-tipped winter coats, already in, made them appear fluffy. They turned and looked at me, as if waiting for me to come along, and then they trotted east, over the ridge, where I couldn’t see them any longer.
WHAT I HEARD WHILE AT MY SPOT: Three rifle shots.
WHAT I SAW WALKING BACK HOME: Two hunters who told me that earlier they had shot three coyotes for fun.
WHAT I WONDERED: Why everyone is shooting everything that shouldn’t be shot.
CALL: The caller who hangs up. The caller who my wife thinks is always the hospital when it’s not. The caller who lets me listen to the dial tone of our phone. The caller who makes me turn the phone off and on again and say “hello, hello, hello,” even though the dial tone drones on.
CALL: A retired veterinarian who needed some bute for his horse.
ACTION: Drove to his farm. Saw that he was combing his horse. Handed him the bute. He would administer it to his horse himself. He talked very quietly, so quietly I had to stand very close to him. I could see the short hairs of his horse on his sweater, sticking to the woolen sleeve. I used to work at Suffolk Downs, he said. Really? I said. I had worked at the racetracks in Southern California for years, before moving here, I told him. He nodded his head. I think he began to speak even more quietly, and so I leaned in even closer to him, my chin now almost touching his shoulder. Is that so? he said. Well, then we have something in common. Tell me, he said, do they still use as many drugs on the track as they used to? Even more, I said. He shook his head again. You know, when I started practicing near here, I saved my clients money on the goners, I carried a Colt.45 pistol in my truck. It was much cheaper than that fancy euthanasia solution.