the trainer

Every evening (and there had been several), since his retirement, Henry liked to sit by the fireplace in the front room of his home, sipping red wine. He would rest his feet close to the hearth; he had bad circulation, and toward the end of the day, his feet would go numb, especially now since it was winter. Sipping on his Nebiollo (his doctor said it was good for his heart), Henry would often look out through his bay window and onto the neighborhood. His house stood atop a steep hill, and as an old and rather porcine man, his visits and ventures outside of his home were few. And anyway, he preferred to watch, not interact. After a few moments of inactivity, Henry said "Must be a quiet night," drew in the dark green curtains, and hobbled back to his armchair.

The dusty floor sighed as he made his way to the chair, but ultimately there was silence. There were a few cracks from the fireplace here and there, but other than that, nothing. Henry had lived by himself a while now, so he was used to it. He wriggled his toes gingerly. "Fire's nice, though."

It was only a matter of time before Henry's eyes made their way to the mantle. This was also part of the evening ritual. His eyes widened as he gazed from left to right: every inch (spare the small gap toward the right) was covered, not in pictures or portraits, but in golden trophies. Each time he looked at them, Henry would lick his thin lips like a lion does before ripping into his prey. Then, once his lips were properly moistened, he would read their engravings aloud. But most of all, he loved how they glowed by the fire. And how, by comparison, he glowed. When he read his trophies, Henry would admire his own reflection staring back, bronzed and glowing like an idol.

"1992," Henry read, "Best In Show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Toy Breed." Pride warmed his body, and he licked his lips once more, sipping the wine. Some of it spilled from the glass and down his jowls like candlewax. He paid no mind. "Ah," Henry said finally, "that was a good year. Such a good dog."

That year, Henry trained a bischon frise named Beverly Bisou. He loved the toy breeds, especially the bischon. She was small, easy to train, and rarely barked. Henry was a rigorous and demanding trainer (that's why he was so highly acclaimed), and did not necessarily follow the most orthodox training techniques. However, with Beverly, he didn't have to resort to those. She was perfect: petite, pure, and with adorable beady black eyes and a puffy white tail. She charmed everyone she encountered, and easily won Henry First Prize.

Henry's eyes moved toward the next trophy. He licked his lips, then read "1993. First Prize: non-sporting group." He shook his head, took two sips of wine. "Not as easy of a win as old Bev, that one."

In 1993, Henry trained and showed a french bulldog named Stella. Stella was smart, that was certain, and because of that, she was stubborn. And she was dark, darker than his Beverly. Sometimes, no matter how Henry tried, she refused to train. Even when Henry took his newspaper to her nose, she refused. Inevitably, Stella gained some weight, exceeding the 28 pound limit. This angered Henry the most. "You fat bitch," he would say while jerking her leash, "I'm not going to feed you anymore, and I'll beat you 'til you're black and blue 'slong as you don't listen to me." So he continued to beat his dog, and she continued to be fat.

One day, he'd had enough. It was summertime, and the show was a week away. Stella was still overweight and stubborn. A relentless competitor, Henry refused to throw in the towel. He grabbed Stella by her pointy ears, and threw her outside into the summer swelter, without food or water, for days. "That'll show her," he said, watching as the dog wheezed and emitted long streams of saliva, "that'll make her mind."

And on the fourth day, when he began to see ribs peeking out from her tan coat, he slowly opened the door, allowing a now silent and servile Stella to enter. Henry placed his bloated fingers onto his gut and rubbed it. "Well, Stell," he began, "we'll get you washed and groomed, and you might be able to pass as a Frenchie. Maybe even win me a prize. Whaddaya say, Stel?" She was gone, but he heard a crunching sound come from the kitchen. Starved, Stella was eating cracker bits that Henry had left on the floor. "Stop that!" he yelled, kicking her emaciated frame from he food. "You always were a fattie," he sneered.

Henry's eyes moved to the next trophy. "1994," he read, "First Prize: terrier group."

This one's name was Lola, and she was a norfolk terrier. Henry liked her enough; she wasn't fat and stubborn like Stella. But that bark. Lola liked to talk, and Henry had little time for that. She would bark in the morning, bark while being groomed, bark while training, and even at night when Henry was trying to rest.

One evening, while Henry was enjoying his TV dinner, Lola began to bark at his feet. She barked for five consecutive minutes. Henry's heart was acting up that day, and he had no more patience for that insouciant yap. "You obnoxious rat," he shouted while moving his tray off of his belly, "you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep this shit up!"

He clutched his heart with his left hand, the newspaper with his right. Henry beat Lo so hard and for so long that when he let go of the newspaper, there were ink stains all over his right palm. He looked to the corner and saw Lola: she was trembling, her head tucked in between her legs. Henry sneered. "For your sake, you better not open your damned mouth again." He made his way to the sink. "Oh, and this ink better wash off. I don't want to have a dirty hand in the competition." Thankfully, he ink rinsed off, and Henry won First Prize.

Now, Henry's eyes rested heavily on the gap. He shook his head, and gripped the stem of his wine glass harder.

The year was 1995. Feeling confident of his training skills and propensity to win, Henry decided he would take on a group unlike anything he'd ever trained before: the hound group. In particular, the irish wolfhound. He was always fascinated by this breed; they were massive creatures, and he loved the lines their legs would make when running. Unfortunately, they were not the most sound investment for training. While they were beautiful, they came laden with health problems. But, Henry was determined that his foray into the hound group would be a strong one, and he would settle for nothing less than a wolfhound.

Her name was Luiath (Lou for short), and she was magnificent. Lou had a shiny dark coat that reminded Henry of a storm, and she came up to the top of his belly. And when she ran, she resembled a stallion. Her personality, which most captivated Henry, was bold, resilient, and strong. Lou was unlike anything Henry had seen before.

At first, he was transfixed by her strange beauty. He loved watching her run, and sometimes he'd run with her, laughing, breathing, and forgetting about his condition completely. Other days, he would not even train her, but rather watch her sleep. He loved that, watching her ribs slowly rise and then fall, and the deep and cavernous sound her body made as she breathed in and out. Sometimes, Lou would kick in her sleep, and he would wonder what she was dreaming about. Each evening, Henry would sit in silence with her (she slept by the fire), listening to her breathe.

The show came sooner than he remembered, and Henry came to the disconsolate conclusion that he hadn't trained Lou at all, and that she was nowhere near being ready for the show. Begrudgingly, Henry pulled out the familiar collars and leashes. Henry had to train her hard, and it began to hurt his heart watching her run. For soon, Lou developed a bit of a limp, and no longer resembled a stallion, but rather a mule.

But Henry could not lose. He kept training, hoping that Lou would grow accustomed to the pain and just endure for a bit longer, just so he could win First Prize. "I promise, Lou," he said as he was doing the drills, "after all this is over, we can stay by the fireplace all the time."

So the competition came, and Henry thought Lou was ready. She was striking, and people could not help but stop and stare at this commanding black dog entering the room. Word generated about her, and what a strange choice it was for Henry to pick her. He was proud of Lou, though. And, as no surprise, Lou won First Prize in the hound group. And, because her scores were so high, the two were eligible for Best In Show, something Henry had not won since Beverly.

It was the night before the final evaluation, and Henry was doing last minute training when he saw it: Lou's limp had returned. The black dog turned toward Henry as he whistled, and began to whimper. "C'mon, Lou," he said, "do it for me." She stopped. "OK," Henry said, "we'll rest."

The next day, it was time for the judge to come round for final examinations. She made her way to Lou. "I pray to God," he thought, "I hope she doesn't reach for Lou's leg." The judge began feeling around. Ears: good. Eyes: great. Snout: great. Coat: excellent. Front legs. Right hind.

The judge didn't even have a chance to reach for the left before Lou leapt from her pedestal and tackled the judge to the floor. Unaware of her own strength, it took two men to pull the 150 pound storm off of the mauled judge. "Damn it, Lou," Henry cried, clutching his chest. They took Lou away.

After a while, the competition's veterinarian came to Henry. "Sir," he said, "your dog has attacked the judge, and it goes without saying that she's disqualified."

Henry nodded.

"Additionally," added the vet, "when we were checking the dog for any injuries on her part, we found out that she has a rare but serious heart condition. It's called dilated cardiomyop--"

Henry clutched his own heart. "So what are you saying?"

"Well," the vet said, "she appears to be in a lot of pain. That outburst she had today put a lot of stress on her heart."

"And?"

"Well, we think it's best for her sake if she's put down."

All Henry could hear was the sound of her breathing.

"I know it's sad, sir, but you've gotta know that comes with the territory with this breed. And anyway, you're a trainer, you can't get too attached as it is. You think about it, and whenever you're ready, let us know."

"Can I at least see her before I make up my mind?"

"Of course," said the vet. "Right this way."

He took Henry into a small white room where Lou lay. Her eyes were sad and grey, her head lay heavily on the floor. "Oh Lou," he sobbed, "I'm so sorry. I killed you, I killed you and I'm so sorry." The dog lay still, and he could barely hear her shaky breaths go in and out. He kissed the top of her black head. "OK," Henry said, "you can take her now."

The shiny needle went into Lou's side, and Henry watched in despair as his beautiful thunderstorm disappaited into nothing but a faint cloud.

When Henry left the vet the day, he retired and hadn't stepped out of the house since.


Henry's eyes finally left the gap and lowered themselves to the fire. It was dwindling now, small blue flames licked the soot covered walls with their charred and cracked tongues, and he could hear nothing. His heart tightened, and he clutched his wine glass harder. A cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He released his fingertips from the wine glass, and watched as it fell to the floor, spilling red wine all over the white carpet. He clutched his heart with his hand, and crumpled to the floor, limbs jagged and splayed like a battered insect, staring at the cold ceiling. His chest was still tight, and now his feet were numb.

As his vision was beginning to fade, he could only see that small, dusty gap on the mantle. He closed his eyes. "That bitch," muttered Henry. But before he could finish, he died, silently and alone, in a room full of old trophies. Soon after, those stubborn blue tongues of the fire finally retreated into their dry, spindly mouths, and all was dark in the house. And then, the neighbors would say, the old house that sat atop the very steep hill looked like a massive, magnificent storm cloud.

a few things: nothing profound.

so as i'm sitting here in bed, listening to my mother warble away to a pbs special on leonard cohen, i've been able to reflect on a few things.

first of all, after spending the day wandering the streets of salem, i realized i can't be that surprised when a man on the streets will go out of his way to tell me to, uh, move your cahh forward a bit (six inches) so mah people can pahk, please. except he didn't say please, just extended a patronizing tap on the hood of my car. he's a descendant of a Puritan, and well, they're all assholes. while eating lunch today at the nathaniel hawthorne inn (my food was served cold, and it was overpriced...how fitting), some bostonian was escorted out of the restaurant for threatening to "have a go" with a fellow diner for looking at his wife the "wrong way." i couldn't help but stare. but when his eyes met mine i quickly turned back to my mesclun. salads don't beat you up when you stare at them, anyway.

second of all, i realized why my parents got divorced. driving from the hotel to salem was quite a cumbersome task, apparently. but, story of their relationship short: they always have a map but can't follow their own directions. my mom does this thing where when she's upset, her hands turn into the paddles of an oar, and she flicks them back and forth. from the amount of flailing, one might think she was paddling upstream in class 5 whitewater rapids. i don't know what dad did, at this point i had drowned both of them out with trumpets and violins.

i had my "aura" photographed today. it was a bona fide polaroid with bad exposure. anyway, my aura was yellow-orange. aka, disease+least favorite color. great...apparently it means i'm creative and overflowing with ideas, but all i could concentrate on were the bags under my eyes. the orange means, according the the self-proclaimed clairvoyant, i've been overworked recently. well, right. i'm surprised when i checked my bag at the airport the other day they didn't charge me for three.

went on a ghost tour--fascinating stuff. i think it's the best way to learn about a city. i've done it in st. augustine, charleston, savannah, and now salem.

tomorrow we're heading to walden pond (side note: thoreau didn't do his own laundry, too busy reflecting i guess), and i'm trying to look forward to it. but right now all i can think of is the fact that i didn't work out today and hinduist contributions to global responsibility. theology test on thursday. i didn't have any cardio today. satyagraha. muscles are softening. reincarnation? fuck it.

i have some ideas for short stories, but am afraid to write in front of my parents. they write, and i dislike answering questions.

potpourri of conclusions:

1) if i get a dog that's not a mutt, i want a bulldog. its name will be anton (get it? i'll be the lady with the pet dog, even though she had a white spitz. but who would really want a dog called a spitz?)
2) a honeybun from walgreens contains 97% of your daily saturated fat intake, and remarkably, over 100% of your daily guilt intake. i didn't have one, but could feel my arteries constrict as i even glanced at it.
3) jeff buckley's "hallelujah" is way better than cohen's.
4) gothic townies piss me off. somehow, i'm pretty sure that if the devil existed, he'd wear a finely tailored italian suit, not some black parachute pants riddled with chains. or eyeliner. nix that.

I'll delete this tomorrow when I have something to say (of self-deemed merit, if it so exists)

Every word that escapes your fingers is completely ersatz and makes my eyes want to bleed.
I would say that trying to read your "work" makes me want to kill myself, but that would just be redundant, now wouldn't it?
Some people say practice makes perfect, but you don't see people training runners without legs.
You can't construct something from nothing. That's not poetic, that's just fucking science.
A pretty pedestal made of air is nothing to be admired. Hell, it doesn't even exist.

Maybe to be a little less cryptic, I'll say this:

stop copying, i see right through it.
develop your own hobby.
or personality.
whatever.

...better?

you're paint-by-numbers.
i can still see the 1's and 3's and 8's no matter how much you try to drench them in acrylics. and it just doesn't hang as pretty. it's crooked, and no matter how expensive of a frame you get for your sunflowers à la van gogh, it still looks like a tacky artificial flower arrangement at a dingy mortuary. no life, just cheap "i love you daddy but not that much" death.

People who tell you to never give up aren't well-adjusted individuals. That flowery "believe in yourself" bookmark you keep (though you rarely use it) was just made by some middle-aged suit who wanted to make a buck or two, anyway. And I mean, he's good at it; it's gathering dust right now in your pseudo-intellectual novel that you can't comprehend. But unfortunately for you, no amount of deceiving diction can transcend reality.



So, here's something to keep your page, something I'm giving to you, something I want you to copy:

"Take off the glasses and put down the pen. Be you and give up."



(this brought to you by a PMS-ing, water-retaining, frizzy haired ((thanks torrential downpour for being my companion to and from class all day, didn't put a damper on my sunny spirits one bit!!!)) bitch named Savannah.)

Fifty.

Dave had never been much of a runner. It wasn't that he was out of shape; he was thin, but he just never ran that often. But today, for whatever reason, was different. He felt like running, so he did. Grabbing a pair of dusty tennis shoes that had found their way to the dark corner of his closet, he put them on: left after right. They were a bit snug in the toe, but they would do.

He realized quickly why running was never one of his hobbies. While it was a beautiful October afternoon, his lungs were singing a different song. He heaved heavily as the cool autumn air filled them. Dave's goal wasn't lofty: "If I can just make it to the top of this hill," he said, "I'll be fine."

In order to distract himself from this daunting task, he decided to concentrate on his surroundings. Amber and golden leaves seemed to drip one by one from the trees; it truly was a sight. As he rounded the corner, however, he was haunted by the image of a girl staring at him through the window of a nearby blue house. Or, at least, he thought she was staring. His breathing grew heavier, and he had to fight to tear himself away from the pale, grey eyed figure gazing blankly into the distance. Dave looked to the sky, only to find that it was the same shade of blue as that house, and as her eyes. Not the girl's eyes, but hers.

The pale sun began to blind him, so he averted his eyes to the trees, and how they swayed easily in the wind as the leaves kept falling. It was the moss, this time, that reminded him of her. Dave remembered how she would wake up early in the morning sometimes and take a shower. And then, while he was still in bed, she would crawl up to him, skin damp, clean, and fragrant. Her hair would hang from her head loose and slightly curly, like the Spanish moss. Sometimes, warm drops of water would tickle and trickle onto his chest as she leaned in to give him a dewy kiss. He always liked her hair that way, but she didn't; she preferred it straight.

The top of the hill can't be that much farther, he thought. From behind, he heard the rhythmic breaths of others who would soon pass him on the trail. His lungs were about to burst. As they passed him like gazelles, he sneered. With each of their steps, he hated them even more, even though he didn't have the slightest idea as to who they were. A gust of cool wind, and even more leaves were falling.

There was a small creek to his left. The runners had passed, so he slowed down. The leaves in the water obscured most of his reflection, but another gust of wind revealed to him a tired and hollow face. Is that really me? he wondered. He kept staring at the creek, and how the tiniest stone created a new ripple in the stream. And then he thought about her again, and her butt. He loved it; it was always so smooth and cool and round like a weathered pebble, with slight dimples here and there. She hated those. Any time he tried to touch her there, she would release an exasperated sigh and roll onto her back. The leaves kept falling.

Each of Dave's feet weighed one thousand pounds now. His cheeks were blotched and red, and he was sure that his lungs were being digested by his stomach, and he was sure that he would never reach the top of the hill. He could feel his shoelaces coming undone. His toes began to throb. And the wind picked up right as his eyes left his feet, and the dry, dirty leaves poured into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see anything now. "Goddamn it," he cried. "I give up."

Like a wounded soldier, he fumbled over to the nearest park bench and sat down. He began to wipe the bits of leaves from his eyes. Once they were gone, he began to look around. He was at the playground: the top of the hill. "Would you take a look at that," he said while staring at his feet (they were dirty, untied, and still covered with bits of leaves), "I ran up a fucking hill in shoes that don't even fit."

Reminiscing in his newly-found nirvana, he studied the bench. He could barely make out the words written in ink. Etchings of colored-in hearts still remained, but they too were faint--each day slowly being bleached by the autumn sun. And then he looked to the trees: tall, thin, and (to him, at least) weak. He watched in disgust as they were pushed back and forth by something unseen and without weight. He saw the leaves falling, but this time they did not resemble jewels. One fell by his foot; he picked it up. While they glittered in the sunlight as they fell delicately to the floor, upon closer examination, he realized that they were transparent. And they were dead.

Dave released his skinny fingers from the brown leaf, and for a moment it flew like a sparrow, but soon it dropped like a stone. He didn't recognize it anymore. Dave looked to his dirty shoes once again, and began to tie them. He stood up: tall, thin, and tired, and admired the trees as they shed the dead from their wooden skin.

He moved his feet, and heard the faint snapping of a leaf. Moved the other, faster now. And then one more, and one more, and one more! His feet flew forward one by one until they were unstoppable. Snap, snap, snap! The wind tore through his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his hair, and crunch! went the leaves and I'm leaving it all behind me!