There we sat, dog and man. I imagined this Doberman as a kind of animal fiend, instinctually drawn to my blood-smeared shirt. I pictured Gunner releasing the pork bone, then leaping powerfully forward, attacking the shirt, driving sopping teeth through cotton cloth into my chest, puncturing my lungs or my heart. I barely breathed. Facing the dog, my sad copy of A Complete Guide to Heraldry clenched in my hands, I felt deliciously close to death.
Elsewhere people came and went, played card games and chess, tended to one another’s injuries, chased the bats. These men’s lives seemed, for the moment, untouched by fear. But I did not envy them. I felt the way humans must have felt in earlier times, at the dawn of our history, when the world was alive with primitive dangers and life depended for its preservation on the graces and fancies of hateful gods.
“Go ahead, kill me,” I commanded the dog. He held on to his bone. What was he thinking? There was no way of knowing. He was just a dog.
Winds blew and the music played. Snow piled up. People talked but I was not paying attention to their conversations. I felt the cold air. Gunner’s eyes shimmered and I held my book close to me. It was easy, looking into the dog’s mouth, at those white teeth and black gums, to imagine the power and authority our ancestors must have felt with companions like Gunner at their sides.
What an animal. What was he doing with an alcoholic like Chuck for a master?
“You understand about death, don’t you?” I said to him. He growled quietly then readjusted the bone, expertly, in his teeth. Snap snap. I regarded this as an answer of sorts. I confided to the Doberman, “Once upon a time men celebrated the seasons of death and rebirth with sacrifices and burnt offerings. The world was cold and forbidding, and if you didn’t watch out, your enemies would come up behind you and kill you with a spear or a club. A single night’s foul weather could destroy your crops, and then you might starve. Each day brought terror. Angry spirits unleashed thunder and lightning, diseases and pestilences, every species of ferocious beast. Men developed language to communicate their terror to one another. People were in pain all the time. They believed they would be rewarded for their pain. This is what is known as the human condition.”
It seemed to me that the dog was paying attention. What a fierce nose Gunner had. Perhaps he knew, from my serious tone of voice, that I was speaking on weighty matters. I told him, “Over the years mankind has devised many ways to alleviate the pain of living, and much of human history can be understood as a death march toward this goal. Although suffering in life can sometimes be postponed, it can never be avoided. This is the central lesson of the world’s religions. Please don’t drool on the book. All right, Gunner? Good boy. This is the central lesson of the world’s religions. Where was I? The pain of existence is ours to bear. In order to bear it we must make sacrifices. We must offer ourselves up before God and our fellow man. That is the function of the Corn King.”
The dog really did appear to be listening. It was as if he knew — was letting me know that he knew — what I was talking about. Of course I realize it would be going too far to suggest that animals comprehend the symbolic realm. But I gave Gunner the benefit of the doubt. “The Corn King is an archetypal harvest spirit. His story is as old as recorded time. In rude societies, before the dawn of civilization, when it was believed that spirits resided in all things, in the mountains and lakes, trees and grasses, cats and dogs”—I gave Gunner a smile; his ears pricked up and I went on—“no spirit was regarded with greater awe than the spirit of the corn. From corn came food and grain alcohol. Life depended on the harvest, and so human beings were routinely sacrificed to ensure the fertility of the crop. These were martyrs. While alive — and death was painful, very painful, Gunner — the Corn King’s human representatives were worshiped as gods. It was their blood that enriched the earth, their tears that brought the rains, their flesh that fatted the land. They died so that others might live. Today, mimicry of this ancient practice is common in many popular religions.” At this point the dog began to lose interest. He made a yawning sound and fiddled with the bone in his mouth. I quickly said, “In some instances, the Corn King’s still-beating heart was cut out and devoured!”
I felt nervous telling Gunner this. That blood on my shirtfront was a perfect target. We’ve all heard the frightening stories of domesticated animals regressing into feral states and tearing their owners limb from limb. Gunner had made short work of that pork chop. The dog’s nose twitched. Perhaps he had eaten enough. I explained to him that modern men had lost touch with ancient rhythms of death and regeneration, but that it was possible — if you took intoxicants and wore the right mask and costume — to regain connection with the primeval aspects of the Self, and to enact, in ritualized form, the important celebrations of sacrifice and abasement; that this was, in some respects, what family get-togethers were all about. I wrapped up, “You see, Gunner, the Corn King is my gift to my brothers. Every year I have a few drinks, then get in costume, and they try to catch me. Luckily, most of those guys are out of shape. Ultimately, the Corn King must die. In this way the family of man can prosper and thrive.”
This ended my talk with the dog. But Gunner did not back off right away. First he allowed me to pet his head. What a pleasant creature. He only wanted what we all want from time to time, to submit and feel love. “Gunner, how would you like to be my dog?”
My fear of him was gone. In fear’s place was a new self-possession; I understood why people keep animals. I rose from my chair — carefully holding A Complete Guide to Heraldry in front of my body, just to be safe — and I didn’t even bother pretending to have a hurt foot. So what if Lester said something? It was late and the time had come at last to go over to the African masks, choose a colorful headdress from the wall, put it on my head, then run around and shout the kinds of obscenities that get people mad.
“Come on, Gunner.”
Together this dog and I padded quietly past the injured sprawled on the sofas, past the men lying on pillows or simply facedown on our colorful rug. Along the way I peered up to see whether Father’s face had reappeared while I was getting acquainted with Gunner. But there was no face, only the brown water stain, made darker by a new leak running from the area where Father’s mouth would be, if Father were present. A bunch of men were convened around the big leather sofa. They called to me as I approached, “Doug! Think fast!”
I looked up and saw a sofa pillow flying through the air at me. The pillow was blue and I wouldn’t’ve seen it had it not worn gold, braided tassels. These caught the light and I caught the pillow, and Seamus, our coach, hollered, “Good reflexes, Doug. Bring that pillow in.”
There was nothing to do except cooperate. Seamus said, “Doug, you’re a veteran quarterback so I’m going to let you call your own plays.” Then Angus kindly pointed out the scrimmage line — it was the place where our Bokhara’s rich blue border meets red — and I placed the pillow right on this woven border, and Seamus said, “The rug is the field.”
We huddled. Gunner stuck his wet nose into the huddle. That made eight of us plus the Doberman, who could be counted on to growl at oncoming rushers. I got down on one knee, peered up into my brothers’ faces.
We were not young men. Not at all. None of us wore the right kind of shoes. I said, “What in Gods name are we doing this for at this hour?”