Logan
deathly fears dogs. On account of a childhood event. He goes out to play on the
swing that hangs from the big willow in his front lawn. He doesn’t know the
tree is called a willow, he is that young. But it has green, spirally tendrils
that scrape the air, calmly. The wind picks them up and the looming tree swoons
and twirls its willowy fingers around. Logan surveys the tree before
approaching it. He sniffs but only smells his own sweat. His mom hasn’t found a
deodorant that works for him yet, so he just hopes the other kids don’t pick up
on it. But how could they not? He can’t smell the tree, and so he gazes. The
willow’s fingers toss up and about, scraping the breeze, and they could catch
him. But he just wants to play on the swing.
And
then the right moment arises, when the willows’ arms are distracted by their
heights, and Logan dashes. Under a blue sky. He doesn’t heed the ground as his feet propel him forward, his chin up, admiring the great blue that is overcome by
the dark green willow spirals, floating above. And that means he’s under the
tree, and it can’t reach him now. And he’s arrived at the swing. It’s a wooden
one, just a slat of wood. A rope dangles from a branch and comes to a knot
through the middle and underneath the slat, like a thread connecting the dead
wood to the living tree. A story of origins and ends. Like a little victory
over the tree, and rubbing it in the tree’s face, Logan touches the wood slat
swing with his index finger, as though pointing. Look, you’ve been killed and
defeated and you are now going to serve a simple human purpose only: I will sit
on you and rub your face in the dirt. Logan thinks that and sits down slowly,
carefully. Maybe the willow could take revenge.
So
he squares his bottom to the slat, his fifty or so pounds nimbly tugging on the
willow branch. It sags only slightly, the terrible tendrils lean down just
barely closer, edging in, encasing him in a just-tighter living green shroud.
And Logan feels a bit safe, strangely. He lightens and sits down heavier,
bringing the tree’s arms around him just enough more as to shut out the great
blue sky above. He rests in his coronet, prince of the willow and the moment;
triumphant, he smiles. It is the first smile in some time, at least since the
adventure into the depths of the willow began.
Logan
used to play with Rhett, his redheaded next-door neighbor, under the willow and
around the willow. Then Rhett moved away. Logan remembers that they played
Nintendo, and it was the first time he’d ever played Nintendo. As he looks up
to the spot where Rhett’s second-story room used to be, wherever it would be
beyond the encasing willow, Logan reminisces. Even at such a young age, he
feels the dull, seeping, withering sting of nostalgia, and it weighs heavy on
his brain, like a throbbing if only it manifested physically. His smile fades.
Rhett is gone. Logan remembers their back patio with the sharp sunlight casting
shadows on the glass table by the pool, like a memory of the future that Logan
might one day know, sitting in Los Angeles in his mid-twenties. His mom fed him
and Rhett some kind of sandwiches there. He remembers. But Rhett is gone.
Logan
turns away from the hollow second-story placeholder and studies his feet. He
will need them momentarily. A dog across the street, far too large to be
outside of a zoo, jumps over the wooden fence intended to limit its freedom.
The monster cur will not be having it today. And as it leaps over the five foot
fence, Rhett would have seen it from his second-story window, but Rhett is
gone. So Logan does not have any warning; he gazes at his feet. They are small,
which he supposes is suitable since he too is small, at fifty pounds. His feet
can only carry him so quickly, and probably faster if not for the fear that
guides him, that holds them back. Logan imagines that he’d be the fastest kid
in the neighborhood if fear didn’t handicap him. He hears a bark, a gritty
growl, emanate from the direction of the street. Logan looks up quickly. A
monster cur screams toward him, snapping and biting the great blue air down
here at Logan’s level. The dog’s teeth are yellow and veins laminate its gums.
It bares its teeth with a ferocity that Logan has not seen, and it keeps its
ears pinned back as the beast hurtles toward the boy. Logan can’t run very
fast, especially because of the fear that consumes him. And he is deathly
afraid of dogs, on account of this very event.
The
ravenous mutt lunges forward, howling, eating the great blue air in a rage,
enraged, engaging its target: little Logan. More quickly than Logan can bring
himself to cry, the dog shuttles inward with a trajectory that indicates only
one thing to Logan: vengeance. What did Logan do? The terrible dog barks
monstrously and sends street gravel shuttling backwards behind it as it advances
too quickly, Logan-bound. Their eyes are locked. The fear comes over Logan,
welling up like an oil rig discovered, blackness oozing upward and out, covering
his feet with fear. He remembers Rhett. Rhett is gone.
The
monster cur’s pinned ears rise up, demons consulting their murderous host,
Logan-bound. Logan-bound, the awful dog sprints with a vengeance that Logan has
never incurred. A gust of wind picks up the willow tendrils, and as the green
spirals dance frenetically around him in the liminal space between the great
blue air and the great blue sky, the incoming beast traverses the boundary of
the previous coronal shroud. The rapacious dog advances into Logan’s close
proximity with a single-minded purpose familiar to axe-murderers and psychopaths
of the worst variety: love. Logan’s feet kickstart. He is made to jump up,
alighting upon the green grass beneath him and crushing it with his meager
frame but crushing nonetheless. He has no choice as he cries. He is made to run
as his body carries him away from the monster cur, snapping, spewing its
devilish hatred. Logan cries, wailing. His feet carry him with the fearful
handicap; he cannot be made to run any faster. He yells, crying. As he
approaches his house, his arm is made to reach for the door. He cries and his
hand pounds itself against the dead, blue, wood door. Please let him in.
The
dog closes in, darting. A cacophony of terror in its velocity. Logan finds
himself pounding the door, crying, screaming, wetting himself. The door does
not open. And the dog, the hellish monster from across the street, nears. Logan
cries and his pants are soaked. He looks behind him at the coming dusk, as the
fear swells in him like a thick balloon, pressing his internal organs against
his skin from the inside. He turns his head to face his fear, not wanting to
but having no other choice. He backs up his butt against the dead, wooden door,
the willow’s revenge as it cackles in the distant wind. The monster leaps, its
toothy, satisfied, vicious snarl. Logan screams.
His
mom opens the door. He stumbles backward inside. His mom closes the door. The
dog howls, barks, pounds against the door. Please don’t let him in.
Logan
sits at the piano bench. The old yellow piano from his grandmother. He knows
how to play it. He never played it for Rhett when Rhett was around. Logan’s mom
brings a tissue for Logan’s tears. She puts her hand on him and feels his
pulse. She notices his pants, soaked. Logan shakes as he cries, saturated with
fear. He does not play the piano. He fears dogs deathly.
The
dog walks back to the willow, disappointed in its unfulfilled pursuit. It
gnashes its monster teeth, grinding them, growling. It rubs its back upon the
willow’s bark. The wind has died. The fear is alive. The monster cur does not
know that the fear is alive, though. It lives inside of the house, on the piano
bench, behind the wooden, dead, blue, door, next to Logan’s mom, above the wet
pants. It is in Logan’s brain, this fear. As the dog rubs its fur against the
willow to scratch itself, it is not aware of the fear. But this fear remains.
One
day, Logan will go to Los Angeles, and he will sit in an apartment with a dog.
It will be a small dog. He will be miles away from home, from that second-story
window where Rhett once was. Rhett will be long gone. And Logan will find
himself sitting with the dog, miles away, and he will find himself petting it.
Its owners will be gone on vacation. Logan will be compelled to pet the dog, a
small dog. It will not be a monster. It will just eat and sleep. Logan will sit
with the dog and find himself compelled to pet it, and he will feel a
connection to the animal. One that transforms his fear. The black oil slips
away. The willow no longer lashes. There will be something there, and it will
not be fear. Logan’s arm will guide his hand to pet the dog. It will be a
gentle dog.
