The Excuse
Aug. 25th, 2011 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolI can smell them. How can the boy not smell them? They are perched on the branches of the tree just outside his bedroom window, small as squirrels, but shaped more like a man, and their coverings make them blend in with the leaves and bark. That must be it. The boy uses his eyes more than he uses his nose. But eyes lie. A nose never lies.
Once I can smell them, I know where to look, and I see them plain as day. I hear them too, wittering amongst themselves in their squeaky voices. They are hostile, greedy, unpleasant. I know it just from the tone of their speech. A dog knows such things.
I put my paws up on the boy's desk and yell at the things. You! Yes, you! I see you! I know what you want! You're stalking the boy! You've been stalking him for weeks!
The boy puts his pencil down and scowls at me. "Jeez, Tripper," he groans. "Could you please, please quit barking?"
No, I can't! I growl at the things. They carry tools – barbed darts, and smaller things – tiny versions of the incomprehensible machines people use. They speak into them, or wave them around. I inform them: the boy is off limits, and so is his work!
Oh, it's the work they want. He's been sitting at his desk for many days, now, doing nothing but thinking and writing, working on something smart. I have been helping by lying on his feet. Whatever he's writing must be very, very important. I know this, because the boy is working on it, and the boy is very smart. How smart is he? Think of something really, really smart. Okay, he's as smart as that. Maybe smarter.
Go away, things! Stop leering at his stack of papers, all now soiled with pencil-scratchings! It is plainly the papers they are after. I think they are watching him write, trying to puzzle out what he's working on as he goes. They have come a long way to steal the boy's work! Bad things! Watch out!
The boy glares at me. "Tripper!" he says in real exasperation. "Give me a break here! I'm on the edge of something special here, but I can't concentrate. There's nothing outside!"
Of course there isn't, I want to tell him. There used to be squirrels in the yard. The things have brought them all down, one by one, and cooked the carcasses by some chemical process. They had a big luau out on the yard at 3 in the morning. That was when the boy threw his slipper at me for keeping him awake. But I can't tell him, I'm a dog. Dogs don't talk, it would be presumptuous. I have to bark, to warn him. That's my job.
The boy comes and scratches behind my ears. "Tripper," he says affectionately, "if I give you a rawhide bone, will you be quiet for a while?" I whine. I love a good rawhide bone, but I love a boy more. I can't shut up when there are things outside. But of course the boy cannot understand me. Curse this language barrier, and all things!
"I'm gonna go down to Yarley's and get you a treat," says the boy. He pulls on his cap and runs out of the room. I bark after him. No, you're playing into their tiny hands! This is what they want! You're leaving the work! TAKE THE WORK!!
I put my paws up on the desk and look at the things. They have crept out along the branch and are peering through the window, now, and muttering amongst themselves uncertainly. Where has the boy gone? they ask one another. I growl at them. Don't even think about it, things.
The boy's bicycle bell jingles merrily as he rolls down the driveway, hops the curb and is speeding off out of the cul-de-sac. The things and I all watch him pedal furiously down the road out of sight, our heads turning in unison. Then the things fall all over themselves, babbling and yammering, and a clutch of them swarms the window.
I bark! Oh, how I bark and snarl! I run in small and furious circles, all impotent rage, but the things are up high. I cannot reach them. They are using their little darts to pry the window open, just a crack. They are slipping through! One is ON THE DESK!
This calls for desperate measures. I must save the work. I rear myself up as high as possible. The stack of papers lies in the middle of the desk. The thing stands uncertainly on the far edge, its hide now matching the striated grain of the wood. To it I am a giant. A thing-biting giant.
Scrabbling with my paws for purchase on the smooth top of the desk, I lunge forwards. The thing cheeps in terror and leaps back for the safety of the window-ledge, but it is not the thing I am after. It is the work, the boy's precious, precious papers. I slap the side of my head down on the papers, and my gummy, rubbery lips stick to the stack. Then I rear back, dragging the work off the desk, and the papers fall to the floor in an untidy heap. High-pitched shouts of alarm come from the window; the things have realized what is happening. They will be angry now. They will be bold.
I bunch the paper up between my paws and seize the mass in my jaws. Things, you may not have the boy's work. I am Tripper, guardian and henchman of the boy, the most intelligent being in the universe. His room is his sanctum, and his work is inviolate. You shall not have it, things. Have at you!
Things appear atop the desk. The main force of their squadron has come through the window, now, and they point at me. I growl an answer. Then the things raise their barbs, and there is the sound of a mosquito's buzz. A pain, a stinging pain from a dozen bites on my sensitive, sensitive nose!
I yelp and bolt. The things are cunning. They are puny, but they have tools – tools like people use. Even a boy's dog has little chance against a large, well-organized force of things, if the things are determined. And they seem determined to get the work at all costs. They have come so close, and now they will not be denied.
I run, my paws skittering and sliding on the smooth hardwood floors. I ungracefully take the corner and scramble down the stairs that spiral to the ground floor. The dog door, I must reach the dog door! If I can gain the back yard, I may be able to push the fence gate open again and escape. Good luck catching a four-footed dog, things! Once on the downstairs carpet, I have much better traction. I fly through the family room, stick to the rugs on the tiled floor of the kitchen, and barrel for the flap in the back door that I use when I make my perimeter rounds.
I come up short without really knowing why. Some instinct from ancient times has stopped me. Something is wrong. I look at the flap, gently flapping in the air currents. There is a shadow faintly visible through the semi-translucent plastic that I do not recognize. Things are still, perhaps unnaturally so. Something is WRONG.
A wind gust makes the flap bob inwards a bit more than usual. A thing, blending perfectly with white enamel paint of the dog door frame, peers through the opening. Behind it I see a spider-webbing of black thread, a mesh of sorts. A net.
Oh, things. You are indeed clever. I almost ran right into your trap. But you must work harder than that to catch Tripper. I turn around and race towards the other end of the house. Perhaps I can hide in the mother's closet. She hates when I do that, but this is an emergency.
The first wave of things hops off the stair just as I come out of the family room. They are textured like the wall-to-wall carpet, now, but I know just where they are. Their smell is so strong, like crushed pine-nuts and roasted squirrel. The vanguard huddles back against the bottom riser as I bear down on them. It is good to inspire fear in the evil and weak. But I cannot bite them; I have the precious work in my jaws. I content myself with sweeping them with my tail as I run past. They fall over like the pins in the boy's bowling video game. Most satisfactory.
There can be no thoughts of hiding now. They know where I am; there is no place to go but the master bedroom suite. They will find me in time. I must find a place to hold out, to defend in place until the boy returns. Oh, super intelligent boy! Return early from your errand, recognize the things for what they are, and save your vital work from being pilfered!
The master bedroom door is closed. Curse the luck! There was that incident with the spot on the carpet in that room; I swear to you, I have no memories of how that could have come to pass. I suppose closing the door was mother and father's attempt to keep that unfortunate sequence of events from recurring. Oh, cruel fate!
I am left with the bathroom; I bound inside. This is a dead end; there is no escape for me now. I must choose the means for making my final stand. I push past the shower curtain and leap into the tub and sit down, dropping the work on my front paws. If the things want to come get the work, they will face a dog who has his jaws free.
The shower curtain is plastic and transparent. It shimmers once, then again. Then it shivers in agitation. The first thing appears, climbing up the curtain and using its little dart as a climbing-axe. Its tiny head appears over the edge of the tub. The thing is as transparent as a bead of water. Emboldened, it climbs higher, and its friends come along. I bark at them, ten, no twenty things, dotted on mother's shower curtain, yammering to each other, strategizing regarding their end game. They all have tools in their hands. Soon they will sting me again, and again, until they can take the work from me.
I cannot allow this to happen. No matter what the cost, the work must not fall into the tiny, clammy digits of these horrid things.
A thought occurs to me. There is something I can do. I can keep the work from falling into the hands of the things. It would be a Pyrrhic victory, but it would be better, far better, than allowing the things to take this prize away. The boy would understand. But even if he wouldn't, a dog knows his duty.
The decision made, I take the work into my jaws once more. Ignoring the rising protests of the things, I begin to gnaw.
**
"Really," said Mister Root flatly.
"Yes, honestly," said Burt. He looked honest when he said it, but Mister Root was a veteran teacher. These kids, they were turning into expert liars at a younger and younger age. It was all that television.
"Burt," said Mister Root, trying to conceal a smile and not entirely succeeding, "I have to tell you, that excuse isn't just the oldest trick in the book, it's also the dumbest one. There's nothing about paper that makes a dog want to eat it."
"I know," said Burt, embarrassedly.
"And even if a dog wanted to chew on something, it might make a soggy, toothmarked mess, but at least you'd have something to show me. But you don't have anything to show me, do you?"
"No," admitted Burt.
"Then how do you know he ate it, huh?" asked Mister Root.
"He pooped it all out," said Burt. "It was really gross. Tripper's been sick for the last two days in a bad way. All the paper came out of him. It was a lot of paper. No, I know what happened."
Mister Root shook his head. "I'm sorry, Burt," he said, "but I'm going to have to mark you down for this. And this was a major grade, too. I thought you were going to turn in something really special, too?"
"I was!" wailed Burt. "I was right on the edge of getting it. It was going to be beautiful. An equation for describing the shape of the universe in all possible states. It was…" Burt's voice trailed off as the adequacy of the language to describe his thoughts reached its limits.
"Huh," said Mister Root, intrigued despite himself. "Don't you mean some kind of function?"
"No, it was an equation," insisted Burt. "I don't know, though. I've lost it now. I guess I'll just turn in something on boring old polynomials."
"All right," agreed Mister Root. "If I can get it by Friday, it'll just be twenty percent off."
"Okay," said Burt. He said goodbye and trudged through the empty school. He got on his bike and pedaled home.
Tripper greeted him at the gate like always. He woofed and licked as much of Burt as he could reach. The rash on his face still looked gross, but the vet had given them some ointment and it seemed to be getting better.
Something smelled gross in the back yard. "Tripper, what's the hell?" said Burt. But it didn't smell like another digestive mishap; it smelled like fire and pesticides. Tripper barked and danced around, and he raced to the far corner of the yard behind the large elm.
There was a blackened patch there a yard across. The grass was scorched away, and something slick and dark coated the dirt. Burt poked it with a stick; the end steamed. Tripper barked again, looking up into the tree. Burt followed his gaze and gaped.
There was a hole in the foliage, a ragged gap where leaves had been torn away by force. There was more of the black tarry stuff up there, too, although it was hard to see from the ground. Burt shaded his eyes and peered up at the patch of sky he could see through the canopy.
"What do you think caused that, Tripper?" he asked. "Squirrels?"
Tripper barked.
Once I can smell them, I know where to look, and I see them plain as day. I hear them too, wittering amongst themselves in their squeaky voices. They are hostile, greedy, unpleasant. I know it just from the tone of their speech. A dog knows such things.
I put my paws up on the boy's desk and yell at the things. You! Yes, you! I see you! I know what you want! You're stalking the boy! You've been stalking him for weeks!
The boy puts his pencil down and scowls at me. "Jeez, Tripper," he groans. "Could you please, please quit barking?"
No, I can't! I growl at the things. They carry tools – barbed darts, and smaller things – tiny versions of the incomprehensible machines people use. They speak into them, or wave them around. I inform them: the boy is off limits, and so is his work!
Oh, it's the work they want. He's been sitting at his desk for many days, now, doing nothing but thinking and writing, working on something smart. I have been helping by lying on his feet. Whatever he's writing must be very, very important. I know this, because the boy is working on it, and the boy is very smart. How smart is he? Think of something really, really smart. Okay, he's as smart as that. Maybe smarter.
Go away, things! Stop leering at his stack of papers, all now soiled with pencil-scratchings! It is plainly the papers they are after. I think they are watching him write, trying to puzzle out what he's working on as he goes. They have come a long way to steal the boy's work! Bad things! Watch out!
The boy glares at me. "Tripper!" he says in real exasperation. "Give me a break here! I'm on the edge of something special here, but I can't concentrate. There's nothing outside!"
Of course there isn't, I want to tell him. There used to be squirrels in the yard. The things have brought them all down, one by one, and cooked the carcasses by some chemical process. They had a big luau out on the yard at 3 in the morning. That was when the boy threw his slipper at me for keeping him awake. But I can't tell him, I'm a dog. Dogs don't talk, it would be presumptuous. I have to bark, to warn him. That's my job.
The boy comes and scratches behind my ears. "Tripper," he says affectionately, "if I give you a rawhide bone, will you be quiet for a while?" I whine. I love a good rawhide bone, but I love a boy more. I can't shut up when there are things outside. But of course the boy cannot understand me. Curse this language barrier, and all things!
"I'm gonna go down to Yarley's and get you a treat," says the boy. He pulls on his cap and runs out of the room. I bark after him. No, you're playing into their tiny hands! This is what they want! You're leaving the work! TAKE THE WORK!!
I put my paws up on the desk and look at the things. They have crept out along the branch and are peering through the window, now, and muttering amongst themselves uncertainly. Where has the boy gone? they ask one another. I growl at them. Don't even think about it, things.
The boy's bicycle bell jingles merrily as he rolls down the driveway, hops the curb and is speeding off out of the cul-de-sac. The things and I all watch him pedal furiously down the road out of sight, our heads turning in unison. Then the things fall all over themselves, babbling and yammering, and a clutch of them swarms the window.
I bark! Oh, how I bark and snarl! I run in small and furious circles, all impotent rage, but the things are up high. I cannot reach them. They are using their little darts to pry the window open, just a crack. They are slipping through! One is ON THE DESK!
This calls for desperate measures. I must save the work. I rear myself up as high as possible. The stack of papers lies in the middle of the desk. The thing stands uncertainly on the far edge, its hide now matching the striated grain of the wood. To it I am a giant. A thing-biting giant.
Scrabbling with my paws for purchase on the smooth top of the desk, I lunge forwards. The thing cheeps in terror and leaps back for the safety of the window-ledge, but it is not the thing I am after. It is the work, the boy's precious, precious papers. I slap the side of my head down on the papers, and my gummy, rubbery lips stick to the stack. Then I rear back, dragging the work off the desk, and the papers fall to the floor in an untidy heap. High-pitched shouts of alarm come from the window; the things have realized what is happening. They will be angry now. They will be bold.
I bunch the paper up between my paws and seize the mass in my jaws. Things, you may not have the boy's work. I am Tripper, guardian and henchman of the boy, the most intelligent being in the universe. His room is his sanctum, and his work is inviolate. You shall not have it, things. Have at you!
Things appear atop the desk. The main force of their squadron has come through the window, now, and they point at me. I growl an answer. Then the things raise their barbs, and there is the sound of a mosquito's buzz. A pain, a stinging pain from a dozen bites on my sensitive, sensitive nose!
I yelp and bolt. The things are cunning. They are puny, but they have tools – tools like people use. Even a boy's dog has little chance against a large, well-organized force of things, if the things are determined. And they seem determined to get the work at all costs. They have come so close, and now they will not be denied.
I run, my paws skittering and sliding on the smooth hardwood floors. I ungracefully take the corner and scramble down the stairs that spiral to the ground floor. The dog door, I must reach the dog door! If I can gain the back yard, I may be able to push the fence gate open again and escape. Good luck catching a four-footed dog, things! Once on the downstairs carpet, I have much better traction. I fly through the family room, stick to the rugs on the tiled floor of the kitchen, and barrel for the flap in the back door that I use when I make my perimeter rounds.
I come up short without really knowing why. Some instinct from ancient times has stopped me. Something is wrong. I look at the flap, gently flapping in the air currents. There is a shadow faintly visible through the semi-translucent plastic that I do not recognize. Things are still, perhaps unnaturally so. Something is WRONG.
A wind gust makes the flap bob inwards a bit more than usual. A thing, blending perfectly with white enamel paint of the dog door frame, peers through the opening. Behind it I see a spider-webbing of black thread, a mesh of sorts. A net.
Oh, things. You are indeed clever. I almost ran right into your trap. But you must work harder than that to catch Tripper. I turn around and race towards the other end of the house. Perhaps I can hide in the mother's closet. She hates when I do that, but this is an emergency.
The first wave of things hops off the stair just as I come out of the family room. They are textured like the wall-to-wall carpet, now, but I know just where they are. Their smell is so strong, like crushed pine-nuts and roasted squirrel. The vanguard huddles back against the bottom riser as I bear down on them. It is good to inspire fear in the evil and weak. But I cannot bite them; I have the precious work in my jaws. I content myself with sweeping them with my tail as I run past. They fall over like the pins in the boy's bowling video game. Most satisfactory.
There can be no thoughts of hiding now. They know where I am; there is no place to go but the master bedroom suite. They will find me in time. I must find a place to hold out, to defend in place until the boy returns. Oh, super intelligent boy! Return early from your errand, recognize the things for what they are, and save your vital work from being pilfered!
The master bedroom door is closed. Curse the luck! There was that incident with the spot on the carpet in that room; I swear to you, I have no memories of how that could have come to pass. I suppose closing the door was mother and father's attempt to keep that unfortunate sequence of events from recurring. Oh, cruel fate!
I am left with the bathroom; I bound inside. This is a dead end; there is no escape for me now. I must choose the means for making my final stand. I push past the shower curtain and leap into the tub and sit down, dropping the work on my front paws. If the things want to come get the work, they will face a dog who has his jaws free.
The shower curtain is plastic and transparent. It shimmers once, then again. Then it shivers in agitation. The first thing appears, climbing up the curtain and using its little dart as a climbing-axe. Its tiny head appears over the edge of the tub. The thing is as transparent as a bead of water. Emboldened, it climbs higher, and its friends come along. I bark at them, ten, no twenty things, dotted on mother's shower curtain, yammering to each other, strategizing regarding their end game. They all have tools in their hands. Soon they will sting me again, and again, until they can take the work from me.
I cannot allow this to happen. No matter what the cost, the work must not fall into the tiny, clammy digits of these horrid things.
A thought occurs to me. There is something I can do. I can keep the work from falling into the hands of the things. It would be a Pyrrhic victory, but it would be better, far better, than allowing the things to take this prize away. The boy would understand. But even if he wouldn't, a dog knows his duty.
The decision made, I take the work into my jaws once more. Ignoring the rising protests of the things, I begin to gnaw.
**
"Really," said Mister Root flatly.
"Yes, honestly," said Burt. He looked honest when he said it, but Mister Root was a veteran teacher. These kids, they were turning into expert liars at a younger and younger age. It was all that television.
"Burt," said Mister Root, trying to conceal a smile and not entirely succeeding, "I have to tell you, that excuse isn't just the oldest trick in the book, it's also the dumbest one. There's nothing about paper that makes a dog want to eat it."
"I know," said Burt, embarrassedly.
"And even if a dog wanted to chew on something, it might make a soggy, toothmarked mess, but at least you'd have something to show me. But you don't have anything to show me, do you?"
"No," admitted Burt.
"Then how do you know he ate it, huh?" asked Mister Root.
"He pooped it all out," said Burt. "It was really gross. Tripper's been sick for the last two days in a bad way. All the paper came out of him. It was a lot of paper. No, I know what happened."
Mister Root shook his head. "I'm sorry, Burt," he said, "but I'm going to have to mark you down for this. And this was a major grade, too. I thought you were going to turn in something really special, too?"
"I was!" wailed Burt. "I was right on the edge of getting it. It was going to be beautiful. An equation for describing the shape of the universe in all possible states. It was…" Burt's voice trailed off as the adequacy of the language to describe his thoughts reached its limits.
"Huh," said Mister Root, intrigued despite himself. "Don't you mean some kind of function?"
"No, it was an equation," insisted Burt. "I don't know, though. I've lost it now. I guess I'll just turn in something on boring old polynomials."
"All right," agreed Mister Root. "If I can get it by Friday, it'll just be twenty percent off."
"Okay," said Burt. He said goodbye and trudged through the empty school. He got on his bike and pedaled home.
Tripper greeted him at the gate like always. He woofed and licked as much of Burt as he could reach. The rash on his face still looked gross, but the vet had given them some ointment and it seemed to be getting better.
Something smelled gross in the back yard. "Tripper, what's the hell?" said Burt. But it didn't smell like another digestive mishap; it smelled like fire and pesticides. Tripper barked and danced around, and he raced to the far corner of the yard behind the large elm.
There was a blackened patch there a yard across. The grass was scorched away, and something slick and dark coated the dirt. Burt poked it with a stick; the end steamed. Tripper barked again, looking up into the tree. Burt followed his gaze and gaped.
There was a hole in the foliage, a ragged gap where leaves had been torn away by force. There was more of the black tarry stuff up there, too, although it was hard to see from the ground. Burt shaded his eyes and peered up at the patch of sky he could see through the canopy.
"What do you think caused that, Tripper?" he asked. "Squirrels?"
Tripper barked.
