Tamberlin's Account (17 page)

(*Busy Bodies)

Feb 11 2:49pm

The freeway exit slopes deep and curls down and to the right where a Wal-Mart parking lot grabs it. I would love to see what I could find there. I was thinking about it when the dogs came. Probably forty of them. They are chasing down something small, too bloody and too far away to distinguish.

They are biting each other and fights break out among them. They are thin and miserable and ugly.

They’ve noticed me.
Shit.

3:24pm

I wish I could describe what Mr. Age’s face looked like watching them.

I might be projecting, I don’t think so, but it was easy to imagine that he was probably feeling what I did when I watched other people not acting like people.

There was something about the feral animals that makes calling them dogs seem really inappropriate.

They belong to the wild now.

Feb 12 3:41pm

I’m not gonna lie, it really looks delicious. It smells smoky and meaty. There are actually strips of meat packed into luscious looking gravy.

I tried to be enthusiastic about the first bite, because it looked so good, but the smell lied about the flavor, which was pretty bland, but not disgusting.

So I wonder if appetite and craving is largely based on smell for dogs.

Dog food keeps a long time, unopened. This kind still has a couple years on it.

I think I could like it.

I will
not
be eating any with carrots or peas. And for the first time in my life I’ll get to have “lamb”. At least I won’t have any preconceived ideas of how it should be.

Feb 16 11:19am

I’m at a country greenhouse shop. I found seeds and a lot of other useful gardening equipment. I’m going to take the seeds with me.

I like it here. I feel something good here, even as I have descended deeper into the world of freezing ice. I don’t care. I hope I won’t be traveling much longer, so what does it matter?

Something almost feels like it’s saying, “What took you so long?”… maybe even, “Welcome Home.”

Not to be cynical, but that would be the first time in my life when anything that said, “Welcome Home” wasn’t synonymous with a bad thing… at least, somewhere I definitely didn’t want to be.

I think I’ve found what I’m looking for, but there’s only one way to know—to find exactly what I’m looking for. The nearest town is Poplar Bluff. I have an idea about how to find the perfect home. What I would do in my other life, a normal life (if I didn’t have internet)—I’m going to check the paper.

5:02pm

I’m sitting in a room in the Relax Motel in Poplar Bluff. Other than dust, it is untouched. The beds are made. There’s no vandalism whatsoever. Light is streaming in through the unboarded glass and I am falling in love with this place.

After collecting and scouring through newspapers and real state ads, I think I found a house about 9 miles out of town. I just got back from a little place just off Highway 60. It was for sale and all the furniture but the beds were gone so I could really see what I was getting into, from its also unboarded windows – including a hall almost completely lined with bookshelves. When I get settled I’m going to try to adopt copies of the books I left behind. It
will
feel like home when the shelves are stuffed with books.

The property is sprawling. There is a small shed and a large detached garage. The house is single level with a fireplace and a pond. I can do a lot with this place. Mr. Ages liked it too. I’m going to get a new door and boards and a new lock set because I’m sure I will have to break in and I want to have my own keys. I’m really excited.

I am
happy
. I am happy. And I feel so, so close to living. There is something vibrant in my chest, right in the spot that gets tight when you panic. My spirit?

I am so relieved. Mr. Ages is smiling and content. He ran around like a fawn on speed, checking everything out too.

I just asked him what he thinks. He’s strung out on the other bed. He only bothered to roll his head at me and wag his tail a little. He’s exhausted in the most wonderful way. Blissfully.

I’m going to go jump on him. I’m thinking a belly flop will do it. I’m too excited to sleep, so I’m not going to let him either.

I’ve got my earbuds in. I turn up Guardian Hacker’s
Mr. Jingles
. I’m not afraid. Mr. Ages will let me know if anything is wrong. I trust him. I can depend on him.

Being able to do that is harder than to love someone. I’ve loved him for what feels like all time. It doesn’t feel, anymore, that he was ever
not
in my life. Which reinforces the theory that he was sent by God.

I think I have actually met my guardian angel.

And I
do
trust him.

After all these nights of bio-warfare I should question if that is wise.

Goodnight.

Feb 17 7:19pm

I found a travel bathroom kit. I melted some snow and have just brushed the hell out of my teeth. I feel instantly healthier.

Marie used to say, if she wanted an instant goddess makeover she’d shave her legs and lose five pounds at the same time.

That woman didn’t worry about “letting herself go.” She was never stupid enough to give all of herself away. She knew herself so well. I always admired that about her. If she didn’t feel like shaving her legs for five months, why the hell should she?

I know that it was hard for me to give a damn when I wasn’t involved. Who was I doing it for?

Only my capri’s.

They better know how to run and hide—but I don't think they do. People like that are never afraid or they would never do what they do. Even if they try to get away—and maybe they will—I know what
I'd
do, but it’s because it’s what I do—what I
did
. I’m gonna find them.

If all we're doing is waiting for the inevitable, then I guess what we should really be doing is choosing the best time and way to die.

If I can make them sorry, before they kill me, that is good. Then I can do what I have to do for him, because I can't take the time now, but I hope I get to.

I'm alive right now—I can't bring him back—so why take chances?

Because that dog took chances all the time for me - ALL THE TIME - I can't take the chance of any of them being around anyway.

I’m going to kill every last one of them—twice.

It's getting dark—I see the smoke of their camp. They are in the ravine just about a hundred yards from where they jumped me. They may move on if I wait until morning.

they may
try
to run away

I can’t give him back to God like this. I can’t do
anything
right! It’s so fucking backwards! I couldn’t do anything for him and now Mr. Ages… he wouldn’t want to be burned, but I can’t – I can’t – I can’t! I CAN’T!

I can’t give him back to God like this.

He would have wanted to be
buried
—with his face in the dirt; with the earth in his fur. Soiled. And that – so very fucking wonderful to a dog.

But I can’t return something I borrowed in this condition.
I won’t take the chance
I can’t take the chance that anything should dig him up.

I
can't
do right by Mr. Ages in the dark; they would see the fire and might surprise me again.