Authors: Anneke Jacob
Suddenly the room was pretty much back to normal. Almost.
The surface I was sitting on was naugahyde with a bit of cushioning.
More comfortable than a wooden crate. There was a feeding slot in the door.
I couldn't quite sit up straight, nor could I stretch out, but I'd be able to eat all right.
Anders came back with the shiny new dog dish in his hand, set the bowl on the bars above me and squatted down. I looked up at that face, jaws haloed with a glistening unshaven prickle, the mouth with its finely cut lips calm and considering, acute eyes observing me, stripping me bare, going through whatever checklist he used to gauge the state of his property.
Apparently satisfied, he went off and returned with the mitts. "Give me that paw, hunhund."
My right hand was through the bars without a thought. Then a fugitive, foolish notion flashed. Could I have refused? Used the cage as some kind of refuge?
In my dreams. The bars were no barrier to his long arm. He had the key, and the punishment for such waywardness would be unthinkably awful.
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Safety? This had nothing to do with safety for me; it had to do with tucking me away in a safe deposit box: security for my owner. So why did I feel so safe?
The mitts were the usual black leather, just narrow hand-shaped bags that locked onto my cuffs. Padded a little on the palm side. Thick and only marginally flexible. Paws. Clawless, clumsy, non-opposable animal paws.
"There. Now your hands can be on the floor when you eat." He tied my hair back and slid the dog dish through the slot. Leftover goose in bite-size pieces, bits of potato and cabbage. I turned onto my knees and put my face into my food. This was certainly more comfortable than having my hands tied back. The mitts blended in with the black naugahyde of the floor, giving me an odd peripheral impression of my arms ending at the wrist. I could see Anders with a plate on his lap, turning on the TV. Cary Grant was talking to Sylvester. Soon he was skating with the bishop's wife.
I heard rather than saw the rest of the movie. Nothing unusual about that. I often shared the room with the TV, nose pressed into a corner, or head locked under the edge of the couch while my ass served as footstool.
Sometimes I could even take in the story line, though action sequences left some gaps in my notion of the plot. Or I'd surface from subspace and catch snatches of news and Anders' cynical growls at the newscasters and talking heads, before the restraints or the teasing pulled me back down again. This time I managed to follow the story, mostly because I'd seen the movie before. I sat, I lay on my side, I crouched on knees and elbows. Whenever my master got up and down, brought back this or that, my eyes followed him. He ignored me. I might have been furniture. No, I was enclosed in furniture, like a fish in an aquarium. My master showed every symptom of being alone in the room.
Again, this was nothing new; I was frequently ignored, all or parts of me. Watching, bound, as he moved freely was part of the everyday fabric of my life. But I'd never been set aside quite like this. Set aside, put away. I thought about that closet in the trailer; now I had a view; one with solid bars in the foreground. I thought about the space under the desk, except this space was made of metal and was locked. I grazed the bars with arms and legs, pressed them with my feet, turned around once or twice as if making a nest, and began to wish rather hard for some attention.
But slave care, it seemed, was a job that came after going out to shovel 314
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snow and before the next movie. There was a blast of cold, snow-scented air and daylight in the front hall, the clang of the shovel, and then silence. I could just see the TV's flicker playing on the couch, but the sound was off.
One drip in the kitchen sink. The whump of the furnace going on down in the basement. Then after a while a whoosh, more cold air, and boots kicking off snow against the doorframe.
Anders padded over and eyed the TV screen, and then came over to the cage, bringing that clean outdoor smell with him. He removed the bowl, and with chilly hands buckled a bridle tightly round my head. The bit gag thoroughly occupied my mouth, and the web of straps brought the bridge of my nose and my jaw to a fixed distance from each other; no wiggle room.
No pleading for attention, either.
The next movie was It's a Wonderful Life, and with commercials it must have been at least two and a half hours long. I listened, and I watched when Anders got up to pee, and I thought. There was plenty of time to revisit my shameful display, my pointless and pathetic leg-humping. I thought of his hands having difficulty pulling me back, and felt my face go hot again beneath the bridle. Was I that creature? Yes, it seemed so. He could have stopped me with a word, but I knew he loved it, loved reducing me to nothing but a frantic, primitive, urge, all higher brain regions turned to jelly.
Only memory storage remaining, for the sake of later humiliating retrieval.
On my back, feet up on the bars, I lay and stared at the Christmas tree lights, blinking on, off, on. He'd shoved the little sleigh behind the tree, out of the way, the shafts down against the wall. Not shafts for a human slave, with hands with which to pull, but shafts to be attached to a draft animal's harness. I could feel their drag, heavier and heavier; my thighs would feel it tomorrow. Between my thighs I felt it now. I turned to my side and sucked back escaping saliva, wiped up a drop or two from the black surface with my forearm. Jimmy Stewart's friends were serenading the newlyweds in the rain.
I watched the black and white TV shadows play over my master's face. He had his feet up on the coffee table, not on me. I wanted to be under those legs and feel their warmth and weight. But I also wanted to be where he had put me. Where I seemed to fit, like a mollusc in a shell. Gently I ran an undifferentiated lump of a paw across the bars, one side, then the other.
Eyed the bars above me, the small cage door through which I'd come. My bounds.
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I was let out at some point on a leash so that I could crawl into the bathroom and use the litter box. But I was back in the cage before Jimmy Stewart could miss yet another chance to get out of Bedford Falls.
I don't know if Jimmy Stewart ever got out – that's one of the least satisfactory things about the movie, in my opinion – but I did eventually get out myself. I got to crawl around blindfolded on a leash, sniffing for hidden cookies and chocolates. The whip let me know when I was 'cold,' but I got to eat what I found. Unable to see, I was distanced from any self-conscious worry about how I appeared, and foraged away, deep into animal mode.
Then I was blinking in the sudden light, and having my face wiped. My master glanced at his watch.
"All right," he said. "You'd better call home."
I stared, squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, not a refusal but a confused attempt to reorient myself. Call home? Of course. We'd discussed it days ago. I attempted my first words in several hours, and a croak came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Master … it's… I… " Helplessly I shook my head again. "Uh – "
He smiled and stroked my shoulder. "Here, I'll help. Think about work yesterday. That student who called at the last minute. How you helped her.
Remember?"
I nodded.
"What did you help her with?"
"Uh…um…hydrogen…engine …"
"Data. Good. What did you get me for Christmas?"
"The – the mantelpiece."
"Yes, you wonderful girl. What books did I buy you?"
Gathering speed, I named them.
"What's your mother going to say to you?"
"Um…eat organic."
"What's your dad going to want?"
"Oh, you know… for me to apply to – to one of his contacts for – for some high-powered job."
I'd been boosted back up the evolutionary ladder. My master settled me on the floor by the desk, one mitt off so I could hold the phone, and chained me to the filing cabinet. At least my parents weren't expecting a webcam visit over a computer link. Anders dialed for me, and then left me to myself.
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It went okay. I managed to keep my chain quiet, listened to stories of my nephew's brilliance, and handled not-so-subtle interrogations.
"I get a lot of exercise, mom. Yoga and aerobics. And we're going to go skating.”
“Skating through all that snow and ice? Surely that's not safe."
"Not rollerblading, mom; ice skating. Some Winnipegger you are.
You've been in California too long."
"Oh my god! You're right!" For a time we explored the insidious influence of the west coast on northern souls, her own in particular. Then she was back at me. "I hope you're staying out of the grocery chains, Maia. I know there are very good organic markets there, plenty of options for vegetarians. Something called the Big Carrot on Danfield, no, Danforth…?"
Anders, in the kitchen, was carefully slicing something that looked to me like it had recently been on the hoof.
"Sorry, Mom; nice try. But he usually buys organic meat. Anders? My mother wants to know if you buy organic meat."
He took the phone and discussed naturally-raised beef and free-range poultry with her, one rough jeaned leg pressing between my breasts. He and my mom had an affable long-distance acquaintance over such topics. Then he handed the phone back to me and the leg was gone. I swallowed and took a long breath. Normal voice, normal voice. "How's Daddy?"
"Impossible. I can't get him out of his chair even for a walk. Heaven knows what his arteries look like. And he's smoking those cigars again.
Dan? Dan! Come talk to your daughter." A pause. "No, I won't bring you the phone, it's too noisy in there. You can walk this far.”
“Hi, Daddy."
"Hi, honey. How's work? Great. Listen, there's someone I'd like you to talk to. He's from a very good firm…."
Dinner, a kind of smorgasbord, was very late. I knelt beside my master with my hands fastened behind me, ankles locked together, nipples stretched once again in pretty filigree, with dangling bells. A bit of herring dangled above my nose. "Come on, puppy." It was the signal to beg. I stretched and arched and extended my tongue and was rewarded.
But after that he picked up a book and read while he ate. I nudged his leg with my head to remind him of my presence. He teased me, holding the food too high and flicking my painfully extended nipples. I had to whine and 317
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whimper and pant to be fed at all. Then he wouldn't deliver until I managed to ring my nipple bells for him.
That night, bloated with so much rich cuisine, I floated just on the surface of sleep. Steam swirled around me; that and the clang of metal doors seemed to reflect the state of my digestion.
A whistle shrilled. "All aboard!" Time to get on and go.
No! Panic surged. Where was Anders?
Frantic, I turned my head to search, and discovered him right beside me.
His leg was against my side. There was the reassuring pull of the leash at my collar, the platform hard against my hands and knees. He had me safe.
Relieved, I settled down and observed the maelstrom of moving feet rushing for the train. High heels clacked, pant legs swished, last minute luggage was rolled and hefted. A long pair of legs dressed in suit pants dodged through the crowd. They stopped two feet from my face, shiny wing tips pointing my way. I looked up the line of trousers to the double-breasted suit jacket, further up to the high face crowned by a fedora, interposed between me and the sky. A whistle blew; wheels began their slow revolutions. Jimmy Stewart leaned down to ruffle my hair. Then he turned and stepped onto the moving car. I wagged my tail and watched him go.
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I sank to my knees, careful to keep my coat up, out of contact with my slushy boots. Hat, scarf, and coat went neatly onto their low shelf. Then the special twist with which I took my boots off without rising. I glanced at my watch as I removed it. Well within the time allowed, despite Vera's sluggardly ways. Dress and slip were over my head with no effort but a shiver, and the moves to get stockings off were now second nature. I unsnapped the leather over my breasts and watched my nipples harden in the chill by the door. When everything removable was neatly shelved and behind doors that shut with a snap, I crept forward to don collar and cuffs, see what else was laid out for me, and read my orders for the afternoon.
Anders wasted no words. Each afternoon note was divided into three sections with thick horizontal strokes of his pen. The top section listed what was required before I left the bench. The middle part was what I'd have to do or put on once I'd eaten. And the last covered the final locking up to wait for him. I read it all carefully; errors were a stupidity that he never overlooked.
First was the nose ring, as usual. No attachments. Today he'd left a chain to run through the ring at the small of my back to each ankle. This was something he'd come up with that forced me to crawl from place to place, but also allowed me to stand on one leg to reach things like the kitchen sink.
After I ate there would be pots to scrub, furniture to polish, and the leather corset to be cleaned and conditioned, which, done properly, was going to be a long job. No reading today. Better get going. And when I was done? The orders concluded: Bridle. Mitts. Cage.
I looked at the little piles of black leather and metal on the bench, and they looked smugly back at me, their locks glinting. Soon they'd have me. I glanced off to my right at the uncompromisingly clean and rectangular lines of the cage. Soft and wayward flesh did its internal, shuddery dance.
Into the kitchen I crawled, chain jangling, clipped my hair back without a thought, and hunkered down on folded knees over my bowl, aware of the eye above me.
Distress over this routine was long since in abeyance; I was a creature that ate out of a dog dish, that's all. A creature that had no right to eat any 319