When we last left our confused heroine and her untrustworthy brother, Carlitos had fallen into a pool they thought was a lake or a moat, and with no way out and no way for Rosie to save him herself, he was in danger of drowning, and that was just the start of her troubles.
This is part three of an ongoing series. To catch up, you can read part one here and part two here.
Carlitos didn’t fancy himself a dragon like his older sister Rosie. As a rescue from China, who was flown half way around the world to New Jersey complete with a special doggie version of a passport, and who somehow was given a Spanish name, the black and white whippet was nothing if not confused. At times, he thought he was a superhero because his coat looked something like a costume, as though he were wearing a mask and cape by default. At others, he believed himself to be a secret agent, having traveled the world far more so than most of his kind, from infiltrating underground race tracks in Asia to family life in suburban America. Unfortunately for him, when he fell into the pool in that strange, alien backyard which was most definitely not his regular home, he was either Bruce Willis in Unbreakable, where water was his kryptonite, or he certainly wasn’t James Bond equipped with 007’s prodigious scuba diving and swimming skills. Instead, he was just a dog, a small one and a wet one, one who, like his sister, didn’t like water in the least. Though he did know how to swim as most if not all dogs do, he didn’t know that he knew and was therefore as panicked as if he were drowning, or more properly being pulled down by a whirlpool straight out The Odyssey, not that he knew what they were either. As a breed which originated primarily for racing, everything Carlitos did was faster than normal – in that sense, he might well have fancied himself a cartoon character at times, sliding all over the floor – and drowning was no different. His little arms, legs, and paws moved so fast in the water, he thought he should’ve been able to fly, but while Carlitos didn’t sink, not really, he just remained in the same place, so much energy wasted just to keep him afloat without going anywhere in a metaphor for something, making it an open question how much longer he could remain afloat in the first place.
Meanwhile, Rosie the Three-legged Dragon wasn’t drowning herself. She was safe beside the pool she thought was something like a lake or a castle moat, but you wouldn’t have known that from the way she too was frantically hopping around, moving almost as fast as her brother, back and forth, prancing up and down somewhat embarrassingly like a horse, the same as if she was caught in the whirlpool herself. For a dog who thought they were a dragon, her mind was moving just as fast and unfortunately for both her and Carlitos, just as uselessly. Rosie couldn’t fly. Though she fancied she could and even with three-legs, a greyhound can run like the wind, she couldn’t launch herself from the side and pick him up like a hawk, a rabbit or an actual dragon, an unsuspecting sheep. She too didn’t think she could swim, and even if she could, was missing a leg and couldn’t possibly carry Carlitos out of the water anyway, whether or not she was deathly afraid herself having falling in on a cold, cold day some time in the distant past, and while she found it somewhat surprising given her belief she was the absolute ruler of her domain, couldn’t simply will him to come out with the force of her mind either. This left her with very few, in fact only one, option. If she was a wolf and unwilling to ask for help from her human servants, Carlitos would probably have drowned. Since she was a dog, however, she did what canines do when they can’t figure out anything else: She barked, over and over again, as loud as she could, summoning her servants for much needed help the same as the fire alarm summons the fire department.
Generally speaking, neither greyhounds nor dragons are known for barking. Unlike a coon hound or other dog bred for their loud, high-pitched vocal articulations, Rosie was not gifted the sort of insistent volume that would lead hunters on their horses to a far off tree in search of game, but she certainly came close that rainy afternoon. In fact, her departed older sister, Lily was a coon hound, and though the two had a toxic relationship too long to get into here, for perhaps the first time in her life, Rosie tried to emulate her. She would do anything, even that, when her little brother’s life was on the line and as luck would have it – though she hated being away from her lair – the yard was smaller than the enchanted forest she called home and the sound of her barking was impossible to ignore in the confined space. Help in the form of a human servant shortly arrived, swiftly circling around the pool she thought was a lake or a moat to the rescue, almost as panicked as the dogs themselves, but of course, humans have no special capability to lift drowning whippets out of pools, either from force of will, flying, or simply scooping them up easily. In that event, there was nothing for my stepdaughter to do but jump into the pool itself, though it was still cold and rainy, and then do her best to push Carlitos, who remained struggling mightily, towards the steps. It was a close thing – or at least all involved believed barely a few seconds separated life and death for all involved as one of the servants inside barely noticed the drama happening just outside – but Carlitos made it out, fished from the pool like a lifeguard does a drowning swimmer, except far more epic and straight out of a movie. Afterwards, as he began to dry out a few safe yards from the water and resumed wondering whether he was a superhero, a superspy, or a cartoon character, Rosie rejoiced in the fact that she and she alone had saved him, standing guard, imaginary wings flying high, completely forgetting that it was actually a human servant who’d gotten into the pool, but what else can you expect? Whether dog, dragon, or human, we all take credit – and shift blame – for what we haven’t actually accomplished from time to time.
Regardless, the incident was a reminder that Rosie the Three-Legged Dragon was very far from home and in order to survive, she must stay on her guard the entire time. While her servants kept pretending everything was alright, despite almost losing Carlitos as if drying him off with a towel made everything better, she was well aware that wasn’t the case and as a dragon or even just a dog, must act appropriately to prevent additional disasters. This was her responsibility, her duty, her calling, her purpose in life beyond even eating. She was sure of that for a while, but as you might imagine, this was easier said than done for both real and mythical species, especially when it was getting close to dinner time and Rosie was nothing if not a creature of routine, as alluded to in an earlier installment. Though location might’ve been different – and she might not have liked the new lair one bit – certain rituals still needed to be observed and none were more important than those surrounding meals. To be sure, Rosie was not an aggressive eater for a dog or aggressive in general when it came to food to the point where she and Carlitos sometimes shared a plate. Convinced was the queen of her domain, she took a more casual approach to ensuring she was properly fed, or at least a more casual approach when food wasn’t left for the taking unattended on the counter – in fact, she was back to counter surfing less than 48 hours after having her leg removed, we believe she figured it was for the best because she could lean on that side and reach even further back to grab more goodies, but that’s another story and dinner was different anyway.
Instead of stalking around the table while the servants ate in some weirdly modern version of hunting as some dogs and she imagined some dragons, though she’d never met another, did, she was far more patient and dare we say, downright dignified, closer to playing hard to get while making sure she was noticed than actively engaging. Indeed, the ritual usually began with her not even in the same room where dinner was initially served. No, she preferred to wait patiently for a while, practically out of sight if not entirely out of mind, at least until the meal appeared to be ending. Only then would Rosie begin to make her approach, slowly coming closer to the table, before laying on the floor beside it in a position where she couldn’t possibly be missed yet where she could still reasonably pretend she wasn’t paying attention, making it seem as though she just happened to be lying in a place she never does except at dinner time and in this case, had never done because it was the first dinner in the strange new lair. All the same, being there with the smell of the food still permeating the air, rich enough to a dog with their incredible sense of smell it’s no exaggeration to say she could taste it from the scent alone, Carlitos, still a little wet but tucked comfortably under the table itself, and the soft conversation of her human servants began lulling her into another false sense of security, reminding her in a pleasantly bitter sweet way of all the things she loved about her lair and her life in the enchanted forest in the first place, giving her the feeling that she was both there and not there at the same time somehow.
Whether we refer to me and my wife as daddy and mommy, or a wayward, confusing daughter and a strange, wild son, Rosie was nothing if not bonded to us both. She took comfort in our presence and our stepdaughter as well, albeit for different reasons. In a sense, she saw reflections of herself in us. Being lithe and lean, beautiful and refined, with long, almost delicately chiseled features, and a soft and elegant frame and fur, fitted just as well for someone to carve a statue of or curl up under the couch, she related to her mommy, who she believed was also a super model, the same as her in human form. Yes, there was no one more beautiful than mommy, or at least no human. Daddy, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly so nice to look at. No one would call him a beauty, for he was scrawny and disheveled rather than model-like in any way, but he was fast, just like she was. Rosie was bred to race and indeed had a career at a track in Florida she only dimly remembers, and he was the same, a racer at heart, addicted to speed in any form, especially cars though we know she hates those things, even if he wasn’t nearly as fast on the two reedy, ineffective legs of a human, reflecting another part of herself. My stepdaughter might’ve been more complicated being on the autism spectrum, but few have ever doted on dog or dragon the way she did both Rosie and Carlitos, and both of them sensed her inmost desire to be a part of the pack in return, for the many to become one, and so it was that Rosie finally settled in beside the dinner table.
Perhaps needless to say, this wasn’t the end of the complications, but it was a much needed interlude before the incredible strangeness of this new lair once again intervened, starting with another important ritual: The after dinner treat. For reasons Rosie was completely unaware of, namely that she used to pee in the house otherwise, her human servants always expected her to go out between the formal dinner and dessert. Though the two were served practically back to back, the one coming wonderfully fast upon the other for dogs and dragons who always believed they were starving, there was a pause in between to relieve herself in the yard, during which Rosie the Three-legged Dragon would race out in front of daddy, practically throwing herself through the door, proceed to pee as quickly as possible, then race back in to the pantry where the precious treats were stored. Nightly, she would do all of this much faster than you might think a three legged dog as capable, up to and including jumping up and down three steps at a time, as though she truly were about to take off with her ghostly wings. So strong was this impulse, there were times when Rosie didn’t actually pee. Instead, she raced outside and faked it. There were even occasions when daddy found out she’d faked it, pointing until she went back out and peed for real. Carlitos, meanwhile, was a part of this ritual, yet took a slightly different approach. Rather than racing ahead of daddy, he preferred to follow right behind, matching his normally snappy pace to the slower human, waiting beside the human while Rosie was outside, then following right behind the human to the pantry. In fact, he excelled so well at this following stuff, it was enough to make daddy think their little whippet could truly be a spy and if daddy happened to be slow on any given day, or leave the room for some reason without completing the ritual, Carlitos would go, find him, and start following him around wherever he maybe until he and his sister received their treats.
At least, this was the way it was normally supposed to work, but they weren’t in the lair any longer, even as Rosie had forgotten that for a brief period. Sadly, the illusion things were normal was impossible to maintain when she shot out the back door, expecting to land on soft, comfortable, wonderful grass and instead hit a still-wet-from-the-rain concrete patio and proceeded to almost crash into a metal table and chairs in a fashion that would be ignominious for any animal, forget one who believed she was a dragon queen. Though she was not physically injured, you could not say the same for her dignity. Even forgetting the slide and the near collision, how was any self respecting dog or dragon supposed to do their business on solid rock, dangerous rock? Clearly, this wouldn’t do, but there was daddy in the doorway, expecting her to pretend like this wasn’t the least bit embarrassing or out of the ordinary. He looked down upon her, obviously intent on her doing her business before the nightly treat ritual could be completed, and Rosie looked up at him, imaginary wings curled close to her body, tail between her legs, snout pointed to the ground to fully expose the sad confusion of her eyes, three legs planted firmly on the cement suggesting a little defiance to temper the submissiveness, telling him without words that she wasn’t going anywhere, not this time. She could see little Carlitos, peeking out from between daddy’s legs from safely inside in something close to solidarity, though with him one could never be sure given he was only reliable to a point. The result was another one of those moments – this one a stand off of sorts with the rain still coming down a little bit – that seemed like it could’ve lasted forever or just a few seconds.
Then again, any wait for a treat for a dog or a dragon might as well be forever, but just when Rosie was convinced daddy would remain in the doorway, pointing out into the mainly concrete yard, dominated by the large dangerous lake with precious few places to safely do your business, he must’ve taken pity on her and relented. Rather than pointing, he stepped aside for once, and Rosie the Three-Legged Dragon truly could be said to fly back in at that point, leaping across the few steps to the pantry – except there wasn’t a pantry in this place, or at least not one she was aware of. The realization that she had no idea where the treats were in this cursed lair hit her as hard as the water hit Carlitos, prompting another moment of panic, followed by an exhausted whine that maybe, just maybe the world had become too much for her these past few days. She wondered whether a dragon-dog might ever get a break again, feeling that maybe some other dog had all the luck for some reason, but the feeling was short lived once daddy whipped out the two delightful treats, handing one to her and one to Carlitos. Alas, this prompted another brief moment of confusion when Rosie realized she had no idea where to consume the treat in this strange new place. Normally, she had her own private little space free from the intrusions of others and anything she could pick up – treats, small containers, bags, bones, you name it as long as it wasn’t bolted down – she would take there to be consumed in peace like a proper dragon, but there was no such thing there. Regardless, when you are a dog, nothing much matters when you have a treat and so Rosie made do with a spot in the middle of the floor, from where she could watch for anyone who attempted to steal it and after she was finally satisfied, finally felt like she might be home, even if she didn’t want this to be her home, at least there was something resembling the routine and some things she could count on.
At this point, you will not be surprised to learn this feeling didn’t last long and in short order, another seemingly insurmountable challenge arose. Though the notion was strange, Rosie’s pride had been wounded. She carried with her the distinct sense that daddy had taken pity on her and dragons in particular do not take kindly to pity. In her own way, she reasoned that she’d failed somehow, wasn’t strong enough or brave enough or whatever enough to cope with the strange vicissitudes of life, and had to rely overly much on others, which is not a feeling the queen of any pack ever wants to have. Basking in the warm glow of the treat, she resolved to do better. She would step up somehow and protect her pack, starting right after dinner. Even if these human servants and her own brother Carlitos continued to pretend everything was normal, she would set it upon herself to protect them from their own foolishness, guard them in the night, and make sure they were all safe. Yes, she would do that, do her duty, and regain her own pride in the process. The only problem was, the human servants retired down the damned wooden stairs after dinner to some kind of den. How was a three-legged dog who thought they were a dragon yet could not fly supposed to do her duty and get down there without breaking another leg?
TO BE CONTINUED…
Confessions of a Conservative Atheist 