Poor Moxie
2002
I'll never forget the sound of all those flies. Goddamn flies.
On a gorgeous, dry breezy warm Texas spring day in late May, I stepped out of the radio station in Houston, and David John picked three magnolias from the tree in the yard. One for him, one for the dj and one for me. I put it in a styrofoam cup of water on the center console of Karen's Honda to take home to her.
I think he must have died just as that delicate, full bloom was picked from its branch.
I stopped for gas and lunch at the Coastal/Subway on the outskirts of the metropolis. I had a fake seafood sub. I might go to Subway again, but I'll never get fake seafood again. Not just because it was so unsatisfying, but because it will forever remind me of that terrible day.
When I drove into the yard, Huddie wouldn't come near. She wagged excitedly and had her head down shyly, almost gulltily. Like she was afraid I was mad at her. Moxie wasn't around. I called for him. Huddie seemed to have a little mud or her belly. What had they gotten into? The neighbor's landlord, an unfriendly old guy, broke through the brush to tell me:
-About 11 o'clock I heard a couple of shots - a 22 maybe - then these two dogs come barrelling into the yard from across the street. Their dog and yours. Their dog was shot. They took her to the vet.
-Just two dogs? You haven't seen a third?
-No.
My heart sank. I knew it was bad. I knew this was going to suck. I was scared. I dreaded calling Karen. I would have to tell her, my wife, that someone had shot our black lab, Moxie, a sweet and loving 2 year old pup. Her first pet. She loved that dog like a baby. I didn't have much hope.
Just two days before, we'd been walking our two dogs near a swollen creek. A big storm had just passed though, with some tornadoes nearby. The water wasn't going over the bridge, but it was over the culvert inlets, and it was shooting out the other side like jet engine exhaust. It was fun to see the little creek all wild and flooded - powerful, like we'd never seen it before. We weren't thinking when Moxie, the lab, jumped in for his customary swim. We loved to watch him paddle around happily. Huddie wasn't much for swimming, but Moxie got wet any chance he could.
Then he dissapeared. We both saw him go down, a slight look of confusion as the whirlpool suction of the culvert dragged him under. It was just a second. Karen screamed his name and headed for the water. I was afraid that she would jump in. She would have if I wasn't there. I knew that was not the thing to do. I was pretty sure Moxie would be alright as long as there wasn't a grate in the culvert. I had a horrible image of him caught in the grate . . . I ran to the downstream side of the bridge. No grate there. The water pounded out. Karen was pretty hysterical. One. Two. Three. Boom! He popped out of the shute. Head up, eyes open, he dunked into the pool below. We both screamed at him, and he dutifully paddled through the churning water to the shore, climbed out on the rocks, claws spread, made a good shake and came up the bank to greet us. Karen jumped on him in a hug, crying. I laughed, congratulated him on his flawless stunt. We walked up the road back to the car, feeling like we had just cheated death. I said - We were just really stupid to let him go in there, and really lucky no one got killed. Some 30 people died that weekend in Texas tornadoes. We had a brush with the awesome unsentimental power of nature and came out unscathed. All Moxie had on him was a little scrape on his ear. We showered him with all kinds of love that day, thankful, so thankful.
I had to give a try before I called Karen. I ran through the property, ducking under cedars, crashing through briars, calling out his name. My heart wasn't in it though. I knew he'd come if he was all right. So I called Karen at work. I told her what the neighbor had said, and that it didn't look good. She was terrified. She tried to work, but her boss, seeing that she was useless, sent her home early. We trudged up and down the road, through the trails and scrub. Vultures were swooping low over our heads. I thought the worst. But I didn't tell Karen what that meant. At some point we noticed that it was blood, not mud, on Huddie's belly. Two little red holes. One in, one out. Just a little flesh wound. Two inches higher and it would have gone through her heart. We took her to the vet just in case. She was fine.
At home, it was getting dark. On the couch I held Karen in my arms as she sobbed. Like a child losing her first pet. We theorized he might be wounded, unable to move. But deep down we both knew he was gone. I was in disbelief. How could someone shoot a dog? Three dogs! Pets. We don't have kids. I was frustrated and angry.
Things had been going so well. Karen loved her job. We loved this little house we were renting and had just renovated. After years of struggle, I finally got a record contract and had just put out my first national release. It was getting good press and radio play and allowing me to begin a touring career. We felt good about our lives. We'd worked hard and found a good life in Texas. We felt in control.
But we are not in control. Here is a situation that I would do anything to change. Pay any price, endure any hardship. But I can't change it. There is nothing I can do. We are at the mercy of . . . what? Fate? I don't believe in fate or a personal god. One that looks over us and decides what happens, who listens to us and judges us. I don't believe there is a meaning imposed on the universe. We find meaning in the lives we choose to lead. Some asshole shot my dog. What can I do about it?
Karen went to work in the morning, cried all day, her boss said. I spent the day looking for a sign of our dog. About 100 yards down a small path, at the crest of a small slope, I looked down and saw about 25 vultures hunched over something. I ran at them, and most hopped up and lumbered off. There was a black carcass, stretched out long and lean. A head and shoulders, an empty rib cage, and the hind quarters and tail. And the flies. Like a swarm of bees. And the stench, it was almost physical. Like a bonfire that flares up too hot, you've just got to move away a bit. This animal had been out in the sun for a long time. This couldn't be my dog. I saw a leather collar, like Moxie's. But I knew that Karen had replaced it with a reflective one recently. That couldn't be Moxie. There was a tag on the collar. I took a stick - I couldn't get closer to the stench - and I flicked the tag over so I could read it: MOXIE. I fell back on my heels. I reeled like I'd been hit. I looked at this hideous corpse, bloated and putrid. Hair was falling off the skin, where there was skin. The eyes and ears had been torn out, all internal organs were gone. The black lips had dried like beached seaweed, washed up on the sand and brittle in the sun. They lay over perfect young white teeth. Moxie's teeth.
I looked up and down the broken body, trying to reconcile it with the goofy, loving, healthy animal I had known. I looked with a morbid fascination, a clinical eye. This is what we all look like inside. This is a dead body. Poor Moxie.
I walked home to call Karen. She was prepared. But she wanted to be sure it was him. I told her about the collar, and she confirmed that she had switched back to the leather one after the culvert incident.
Our neighbor Pat came by. Her dog was going to be ok. She graciously offerred to help me retrieve the body. It was a gruesome affair. I raked him into a blanket - he almost broke in half. We braved the stench and flies and hauled him up to the road. He wasn't that heavy, but it was messy, drippy. We put him in the trunk of the Dart. Pat helped me place him in the yard. Karen came home. I wouldn't let her see him. She wanted to, to be sure it was him. But I told her how it didn't look anything like him.
We dug a hole in the back yard. Karen went to gather some rocks. We stood by the grave, with Huddie, and we thanked Moxie for the wonderful, loving time he had spent with us, and we lowered him in. One last look at a paw, sticking out of the balnket, then shovel the dirt back in. Place the stones. We loved on Huddie and gave her a milk bone. She ate half of it (something I've never seen her do before) and placed the other half on the grave.
Dogs. You gotta love 'em. They are designed to break your heart. They give love and they recieve it. And they always die. Hit by a car or old age or shot by a redneck. Gauranteed to break your heart.
The closure of finding the body for burial helped a little, but the sorrow was far from over. And the horror of the dead body. I had trouble sleeping for a long time. The gruesome sights and smells and the sound of all those goddamn flies. And the rage. Someone did this. Someone took him away from us.
I spent the next couple of days walking the neighborhood, lots of trailer homes, ranch houses. Cedarchoppers is what the locals are called. No one was very helpful. We got burglarized 3 times in three years. Now this. It made me want to move back to Maine, where a dog can run free. Neighbors help each other out. I put up posters, pledged a reward. I wanted to know who did it and why. Shooting a rabid dog or one that takes down lifestock is one thing. That wasn't the case here. I suspect either a stupid kid wanted to try out his .22, or some mean old man didn't like dogs running across his property. But I never found out anything.
We fenced up the yard so Huddie can't run anymore, except when we take her to Maine.
It's 5 years down the road now. The feelings of powerlessness, sorrow and rage lingered for a long time, but they fade, as everything does. They come back to haunt from time to time, but less and less these days. Karen wants another black lab someday. I don't subscribe to reincarnation, but I must admit, I've seen that same goofy friendliness, a sweet eagerness to please both before and since Moxie was around. I suppose I'll be blessed with such a companion again someday. |
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