Happy Valentine's Day

Horror Happens This Fast

You’re Walking Down the Sidewalk

And a woman with a dog on a leash comes toward you. The dog strains, pulling the leash tight, almost walking on its hind legs. A smaller dog, it wears a harness the color of a uniform. The harness isn’t badged as a Service Dog, and the owner clearly isn’t blind as she pulls back, a half-smile on her face. Her lips grin, but her eyes scrunch with upset.

Ears-back, nose-first, the dog comes toward you sniffing. Fast, short sniffs lead it straight to your shoe. The woman and you pause as the dog smothers your shoe and ankle in attention. You say, “He smells my cats.”

The woman holding the leash fakes a laugh. The sniffing roves up your leg before the dog’s nose moves to your other leg and the dog gives a whimper of excitement.

You lean over and offer your hand for the investigating. The dog licks your fingers, still whining. “He likes me,” you say, “Or he likes the chicken I had for lunch.” Such excitement from a happy dog. It’s such a validation when dogs or little kids like us. People, other walkers pause and smile. A passing stranger says, “Looks like you’re a hit!” You feel like Saint Francis surrounded by singing birds. You feel like Snow White having her housework done by squirrels and sparrows. The dog walker yanks the leash, but the dog surges to keep sniffing and licking your fingers, giving excited little howls. Here’s a friendly dog story you’re already shaping to take home and tell. You love this dog.

The walker says, “Hugo, leave it.” She tugs the leash, and the dog retreats to accept a treat she takes from her pocket. To you, she says, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

What’s to be sorry about? It’s a friendly dog. You feel flattered.

“No,” the walker says, “Hugo’s been trained.” She doesn’t look happy, as if either the dog has done something wrong. Or you have. She launches into something about ketones and alarm pheromones or cortisol, some gibberish about adrenal glands. With one hand she rummages in her shoulder bag.

The woman is making a fuss about her overly rambunctious canine. You had fried chicken for lunch. To the dog you say, “Good Hugo! Good boy!”

Hugo yips. A high, pure bark of happiness.

“It’s not like that,” the walker says. “He’s trained to detect late-stage pancreatic neuroendocrine tumors, but only in a clinical setting.” She produces a business card and slips it into your hand. The printed word “Oncologist” jumps out at you. “Hugo,” she says and pulls the leash. “Come!” The two of them continue down the sidewalk.

She calls back, “I am really sorry.”

The card drops from your fingers. You tell yourself that you’ve just met your first genuine lunatic. You tell yourself today is still a lovely day.

(end)

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As an adult, whenever I watch a good movie I tell myself that a beer or a glass of wine would make the movie perfect. The more wine, the better the movie-going enjoyment. A fear eats at me: I just don’t enjoy movies as much as I did as a child. Movies such as The Monolith Monsters or Sunset Boulevard or The Swimmer or What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? or Citizen Kane, those stories left me scarred with fear. Nightmares haunted me for weeks. Why can’t today’s movies hit me that hard?

Today it dawned on me that I watched those movies always too sick to go to school. With two working parents I’d be left alone to watch the local Morning Television Movie. Usually a feature like The Incredible Shrinking Man, my nose almost touching the TV screen. Always with a fever and headache. Always with a glass of 7-Up to drink for my upset bowels. A little delirious from a high temperature. And always alone, with no one to share and process the experience. It’s no wonder I’m tempted to get high when I want to fully “enjoy” a movie. In particular those black-and-white stories that borrow so much from German Expressionism.

Maybe people should be raging with the flu or strep throat before they watch The Brutalist or Oppenheimer. And we should only watch a film while feverish, sweaty, weak, and alone. In particular this one. Imagine being a lonely urchin with the mumps watching this? That might heighten the old magic.

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Hereabouts, I’m happy to report that at least two Plot Spoiler people have reached the finals in the Silent Nightmares selection process. I’ve still got a big Drop Box of submissions to read. For now, Happy Valentine’s Day. In Spain they celebrate St. Jordi’s Day on April 23rd. Everyone gives everyone a book with either a rose or a sprig of wheat between the pages. Your publisher sends you to autograph books all day at festivals in Barcelona, and it’s all pretty wonderful.

This past week, I was sad to hear Tom Robbins had died at the age of 92. For Valentine’s, Mike surprised me with all my favorite Robbins novels.

How’s this for another flu story? In 1992 (’91?) I came down with influenza and sought out a steam room. On an otherwise deserted mid-week workday, in the gym of The Princeton Athletic Club, I came across a mob of people wearing bathing suits. It was the cast and crew of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, directed by Gus Van Sant and starring Uma Thurman, all of them sick with — the flu. It was an afternoon Tom Robbins would appreciate.

For now, don’t be too eager to get sniffed by friendly dogs. See how easy a nice dog can wreck your life?