She turned to Wade with an ashen face and said, “Christ forgive us, they fight like people, if people had only their mouths.”
“I told you it was cool,” said Wade, who was also somewhat ashen, though trying to appear nonchalant.
“It isn’t cool, Wade,” said Olivia. “It’s horrible.”
“I’m sorry, do you want to leave?”
“No. I don’t know. It’s ghastly.”
“Do you want to place a bet?”
“I’m no good at gambling.”
“How about a cup of coffee? They got cream.”
“No.”
Olivia tried to clear her mind. She studied the other people in the room, both condemning them and drawing on their brute strength. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. It was as if she had opened a familiar door and found, just inside the wallpapered room amid
antique furniture and hardbound editions of classical literature, a hideous creature devouring handfuls of rotting meat and smiling at her as though they were related. She understood now why some people relished dogfighting and others abhorred it. She also understood, perfectly, what “game” meant. It was as Wade had said—the quality of wildness, the blind inability to compromise or surrender.
But for the love of Saint Francis—the contradictions! It was almost too much to bear. Olivia found herself sitting in a roomful of Neanderthals who so honored the vital spirit of living that they willingly broke laws in order to glimpse a reflection of it. They were so much worse (through their unregenerate lack of compassion) and so much better (through their reverence of courage) than educated humanitarians. It was a maze of incongruity. The benighted willingly climbed down into the cellar and paid homage to the Monster of Survival living there, while the enlightened—with whom Olivia usually identified—refused to acknowledge their homes even
had
basements, let alone savage instincts living in them.
As though to nullify any possible generalizations to be drawn from witnessing her first dogfight, the second match was over in a matter of seconds. In this contest Lady Macbeth, the smaller of the two dogs—a long-haired mongrel bitch somewhat resembling a collie—sunk her teeth into the male’s shoulder, gave a lunging shake, and turned the pit bull over on his side. When she let him up he ran to the other side of the pit and jumped the chicken wire. The whistle blew and people rushed forward to collect their winnings and bet on the next match.
Olivia watched seven matches, most of them less than fifteen minutes long. One lasted about half an hour and ended in a tie, with both dogs exhausted and bleeding, carried out of the pit to the cheering of the onlookers.
As the night wore on, Olivia’s surprise over discovering a basement in the collective soul of animal-kind gradually abated, and the fascination-in-horror of making eye contact with the monster living below—due to its single, banal stare—grew wearisome.
Olivia’s introspective habit of sifting through the sands of her emotions, a process acquired over a lifetime of bad health, set to work.
The winnowing process rendered a hard, cold analogy. Suppose more powerful creatures, like Greek gods, wanted to worship the vital living force through the eugenic cultivation of savage human features—the breeding of genetically cornered animals—to hoot and holler over mortal combat from the immortal safety of their cloudy bleachers. What would be her judgment of that?
Wade noticed the change in Olivia’s attitude and said, “Maybe we should leave.”
“Yes,” said Olivia.
But then the main door opened and along with a cold blizzard of air came a huge man with a shaved head in a brown trench coat, leading a waist-high black dog so large and fearful-looking that its appearance silenced the entire barn. The creature felt the attention of the room and a low utterance curled from its massive throat—a growl descending into and beneath the registers of human hearing. This animal not only was a different breed, but also seemed a different species.
The woman at the door, still seated on her stool, held out the donation can, but the man waved it aside.
For the first time in the evening the blond youth by the blackboard moved. He walked around the pit, took his hands out of his pockets, and pointed at the advancing man. “You and your dog aren’t welcome here, Orville.”
“It’s a free country, Junior. But if I’m breaking some law, call the police.”
“Don’t come closer,” said the blond youth, looking not quite as large as before.
The man stopped, pulling the giant dog to heel with a single tug on the chain. “All right,” he said. “Take it easy. I just thought you’d want to see a real dog.”
“The last dog you fought was drugged, and you refused to call it off after the match was over,” said the blond youth. “We’ve got rules and you’re not welcome here.”
“That may be, Junior. But it still seems that in a room full of such great dogfighters there would be one, just one, willing to fight a real dog.”
“That’s a black Tosa,” whispered Olivia to Wade. “They’re a Japanese breed with a lot of mastiff in them.”
“I know what it is,” said Wade.
“I’ll say it again,” said the youth. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I see. But if I don’t leave, well, that would be interesting. I mean, here I would be, unwelcome, but still here.”
The youth reached into his jacket pocket and another low growl rolled out of the giant dog.
“Keep your shirt on, Junior. You there—in the wheelchair. Wouldn’t you like to see a real dog fight? I mean isn’t that what you came here for? Well, Ma’am, what do you say?”
“Your dog is too big,” said Olivia. “Anything over one hundred and fifty pounds is generally considered—by most experts—too slow. And I agree that rules should be followed.”
“Well, there you have it,” the man bellowed. “From the mouth of a cripple. My dog Cannibal is too big and slow. So why won’t anyone put a dog up against him? Why is everyone afraid? Come on, lady, tell them again why they have nothing to fear.”
Wade rose to his feet and picked up a length of two-by-four lying on the floor. “Back off,” he said, stepping forward.
“Wade, get back here,” shouted Olivia.
A short man in coveralls limped out of a horse stall along the wall and called out, “Damn it, Orville, shut your yapping mouth. I’ve got a dog outside.”
“Then you better leave it there. But if you have the nerve to bring it inside I’ll give you five-to-one. I’ll give everyone in this room five-to-one. And that includes you, Junior.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his trench coat pocket and held it above his head as he walked over to the card table.
Several men rushed forward to bet and the man in coveralls went outside to get his dog. The youth resumed his position beside the blackboard.
Wade sat on the bale of straw next to Olivia and explained, “Orville and Rusty Smith have hated each other for a long time. Years ago one of Orville’s dogs with gunpowder shoved up its ass killed one of Rusty’s.”
“A grudge match,” said Olivia.
Rusty returned from outside with an old white pit bull crossed with European mastiff—by far the biggest animal in the room with the exception of the Tosa. The dog was battle-worn, its face and neck scarred from a lifetime of fighting. One eye cocked to the side from vertical purple gash, and a large piece of her left ear was missing. A section of jowl was also gone, leaving several teeth—including an upper fang—exposed.
“That’s Trixie,” said Wade to Olivia. “She’s been around a long time. I never heard of her losing a match, but Rusty said two summers ago that he wouldn’t fight her anymore.”
Olivia looked at the white dog and felt an immediate kinship. The beast walked beside the limping man with such dignity and poise, ignoring the other dogs in the room as if they didn’t exist, her scarred head held high. Without a muzzle or leash, she kept her good eye on her owner and climbed onto the scale to be weighed as though she had done it many times before. Her weight was recorded on the blackboard at 142 pounds, the tosa’s at 176.
“I want to bet on that dog,” said Olivia and drew six hundred dollars out of her denim dress. The bills smelled faintly like cream chocolates.
“I thought you were no good at gambling,” said Wade. “Trixie’s too old and there’s too much of a weight difference.”
“You shouldn’t discount the advantages of age so easily,” said Olivia.
“I’m just telling you what I’ve seen. There’s a reason Orville’s willing to give five-to-one.”
“That man’s a bully and a braggart,” said Olivia. “I’ve seen men like him all my life. He would do anything for attention.”
“All that talk might also be sucker bait,” said Wade. “And Rusty couldn’t resist it.”
“Are you going to bet for me or do I have to do it myself?”
“And get us some coffee,” added Olivia. “Looks like it will be a while before we get to the truck stop.”
When the two dogs were brought inside the enclosure, the pit suddenly seemed too small. Trixie sat down next to Rusty with an
almost tired expression while Orville took the muzzle and harness off Cannibal as he paced and growled. Then both men stepped out of the pit and closed the gate. The barn grew silent, and at Orville’s signal, the black tosa leaped forward, met in midair by the white bull.
The screaming crowd came to its feet, but the noise could not compete with the great snarling inside the chicken-wire enclosure, where it sounded as if all of Satan’s demons had been turned loose. As the dogs wrestled to get hold of each other, they pressed forward until they stood on their hind legs.
This stance gave the advantage to Trixie’s lower center of gravity, and she succeeded in obtaining a mouthful of dewlap. But her purchase on the loose folds of skin proved impossible to maintain, and she only tore off a rat-sized portion of hair and flesh before the larger dog was on top of her, biting the top of her head and neck. By the time she escaped, her partial ear was completely gone and blood flowed freely over her head.
The size of the dogs added to the drama. Knowing a person would be torn to pieces in an unarmed fight with either one of them heightened the tension. It was an atavistic reminder of a time when the human niche in the world was by no means secure.
The fighting in the pit continued for almost forty-five minutes, until the dogs faced each other, heads lowered, necks and shoulders dark with blood, covered with open wounds. A final lunge from the tosa backed Trixie up against a post, where the black dog finally got a grip. And though she continued to fight, she could not free herself and soon lay in the dirt, struggling helplessly—providing an equally clear but less attractive glimpse of Wildness in Defeat.
The judge blew the whistle, but the tosa did not desist, even after Orville had entered the pit and covered his trench coat with blood attempting to pull him off. When he finally succeeded, Cannibal gave a final, victorious bark at his prone opponent, but no sound came out. He tried again, straining, opening his giant mouth and forcing air through his throat, but only a gasping wheeze escaped. Orville fastened the muzzle and harness into place and led Cannibal out, a signal for the winners in the crowd to rush forward and claim their cash.
When Rusty stepped into the pit, Trixie raised her head and attempted to climb to her feet. When she could not, she looked up at her owner in shame.
“That’s okay. Good girl,” said Rusty, falling to his knees. But the old dog was so embarrassed over losing the match and being unable to get up that she looked away, avoiding him.
This was too much for Olivia, who apprehended at once that the old dog wasn’t fighting out of an inbred fraternal aggression or from some expressed feral gene, but out of devotion to its owner. She wheeled over to the edge of the pit.
“You there,” she shouted. “You there! How dare you!”
“I seen you give the boy money to bet,” muttered Rusty, stroking the dog’s head.
“Yes, but you knew she didn’t have a chance against that dog. You knew it and still made her fight.”
“I didn’t know she would live,” said Rusty, looking up at Olivia, his eyes unexpectedly soft. “I thought he would kill her clean. She’s filled with arthritis and cancer. I thought if she could die doing what she was bred up to do and not suffer any longer . . . She can hardly get up in the morning. Who’d guess she would last this long? She even punctured his lung, damn near beat him.”
“You fool,” said Olivia and threw the blanket over the chicken wire. “Wade, go in there. Cover her up. For the love of God get her out of there. We’re taking that dog home.”
“She won’t live,” said Rusty, spreading the blanket in front of the dog.
“You were wrong once and will be again,” said Olivia. “If ever an animal had a soul, that one has.”
Wade and Rusty lifted the white terrier onto the blanket and carried her out of the pit. Outside, they laid her in the back of Wade’s pickup.
“That your older sister?” asked Rusty. “She’s really cute for a cripple.”
“Nope, she’s my girlfriend. You sure it’s all right—her taking your dog?”
“Trixie deserves a woman like that to die with,” said Rusty. “I just couldn’t figure out what else to do with her.”
“You could have put her to sleep,” said Wade.
“What kind of way to die is that?”
Back inside, Wade pushed Olivia toward the door.
“Wait,” said Rusty. “Take this. Those cuts will get infected.” He placed on Olivia’s lap a large can of tan powder with green flecks. “It’s antibiotics mixed with minerals and herbs. Put it in her food. Take some yourself. Who knows, it might help.”
The woman at the door answered a short crackle on her walkietalkie, and after listening to another crackle jumped off her stool and yelled, “Three patrol cars and two cage vans just drove through Snow Corners.”
A stampede of men, women, and dogs poured through the front door. Wade tossed Olivia into the cab and the wheelchair into the back with the dog. He followed other pickups and vans across the clearing and plunged into the narrow lane through the forest to the blacktop, the pine branches slapping with dark, leafy violence against the windows.