They keep throwing parades for me. They keep telling me I\u2019m good, a real hero. I keep telling them I do what I do for no reason, except maybe that I like it. They don\u2019t take my words too seriously. They cheer for me and maybe nod, but they don\u2019t listen to what I\u2019m saying. Not a hero. No hero.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s been maybe three decades since the city had the kind of stray dog problem it has now. Cute and adorable animals, domesticated, turned feral and mean by the hard realities of life on the street. A simple metaphor anyone could understand, sure.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t understand it, though.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn\u2019t moved by compassion to save your life so much as a desire to kill those dogs,\u201d I said again, this time to a lady.<\/p>\n
They were near the edge of the woods, the dogs and the woman they attacked. She wouldn\u2019t stop fawning over me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf these dogs had escaped into the woods, I\u2019d have lost my chance. That\u2019s probably why I seemed to react so urgently and heroically to you. It was urgent. I wanted to kill dogs. Those stray dogs that plague our city, though that suggests more purpose to my actions than intended. I couldn\u2019t really care less that they plague our city. They can plague whatever they want. I\u2019ll kill them regardless.\u201d<\/p>\n
I find myself over by the edge of the woods often, until I am told to leave. Kindly and politely, usually by a forest ranger. I\u2019m a hero to many even though I\u2019ve never pretended to be a hero. And in fact I\u2019ve had the very opposite intention.<\/p>\n
At my job at the dog food factory I\u2019m employee-of-the-month for the thirtieth month in a row. After making this announcement to everyone, Mrs. Jarmusch, the forelady, said some nice things about me and my work ethic, and then we got back to work. I check for quality. If there are too many bugs in the dog food then you terminate the product. I stack about thirty cans next to me by the end of the day, on average.<\/p>\n
I usually go to Bob\u2019s Ammo after work. Bob has asked me more times than I can count why I wear a hairnet on the job. I alway tell him, \u201cWho wants hair in their food?\u201d \u201cYeah, but dogs?\u201d he usually says. \u201cNobody deserves hair in their food, mangy mutts or no mangy mutts.\u201d He usually gives me this look, and I usually respond, \u201cIt\u2019s protocol.\u201d He then almost always asks why I\u2019m still wearing the hair net, which is disposable, and I always respond, \u201cWhat\u2019s all the interrogation for?\u201d He laughs and goes to get me my boxes of ammo. It\u2019s always the same with Bob, and I like that.<\/p>\n
Driving home, there was the Brewster boy on the corner, being chased down by a wild pack of dogs. I strained to ignore what I was seeing. I didn\u2019t want to be praised again, but I did want to shoot the dogs. It\u2019s a common problem. Wanting something and not another thing. But that other thing being necessary to get to the something wanted.<\/p>\n
In the end I couldn\u2019t help myself, pulled a U-turn like a stunt driver, stepped out of the car and dispatched the offending dogs with six or seven rounds. Got back in my car and drove away, with the Brewster boy trying in vain to catch up to me while crying out, \u201cHooray, hooray!”<\/p>\n
There was another parade. People sang, juggled, and danced joyfully around me. There was a big old poster of the Brewster boy, looking happy to be alive and just finished eating something chocolatey.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dogs are beginning to head off to greener pastures,\u201d the mayor told me. \u201cThey\u2019re moving further and further from our town and the citizenry, all thanks to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat sucks,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIndeed, indeed,\u201d the mayor said.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t go home after the parade. I went straight over to the edge of the woods. But there were no dogs. There were no dogs anywhere. Had I completely annihilated the one thing in the world that gave me pleasure?<\/p>\n
It seemed so.<\/p>\n
Very soon, I moved my things to the edge of the forest, every last worldly possession I owned. An old couch, some other things. I set up a fire pit. I made myself at home. The forest ranger was called out to get me to leave. His name is Gus, a rotund man, late thirties. To his credit, he cared about the woods. I admired him for caring about the maintenance of something.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou gotta go. I know I don\u2019t need to tell you that. I know you know. But all the same. Pack it up,\u201d he said, a little bit nervously.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s no place left for me, now that all the dogs are gone,\u201d I said. \u201cGreat big packs of feral strays used to race around all over these lands, biting people. They\u2019re virtually extinct, now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about those dogs over there?\u201d Gus said. He pointed at some stray dogs chasing a hermit around on the hills a couple dozen yards away. I drew my pistol and went running. Gus called after me, \u201cI\u2019m going to start throwing away all your stuff here.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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