Man, Dog (?) and Gun.
Somehow, by some act of God or the Devil or someone between, his dog has been transfigured into a block of cheese.
For S and P.
I write this now to present to you my account of a most hornswoggling tale. It may not, in contrast to much of the text you plausibly engage with, be a story of celestial proportionality — to the contrary, it concerns something so particular, so localised, that it includes but one principal character. John Johnson is a man unremarkable in all respects besides his head. By this, I do not mean to suggest his possession of any noteworthy cognitive abilities, nor sexual. Rather, John Johnson possesses a head of such scale, hairlessness, and shine that many passersby believe it to indeed be luminous. Upon first meeting, many presume he puts this cranial quasi-luminosity to good use, perhaps by working in a mine or routinely camping (since, the aforementioned many reason, in each case a head-torch would cease to be necessary). Alas, I do digress, for this story concerns itself not with the aesthetic defects of John Johnson, but an unmistakable tragedy that befell him on a relatively unremarkable Thursday morning.
The sun rises, as it is wont to do at the start of each day. John Johnson sits erect in his bed, and is moreover upright. Indulging his like of habit, he stands and performs a brief, mostly superfluous stretching routine before opening his bedroom door and calling his dog in for a morning snuggle.
Rupert, he calls.
Rupert, he calls again.
There is no verbal response, as is regular for Rupert — a corollary of his doghood. However, John had come to anticipate non-verbal cues of acknowledgement, the excited pitter-patter of paw on tile as his pup runs into the room. A contrast to most mornings, Rupert does not respond with the boundless enthusiasm and unbridled joy John expected of the dog — let alone at all. The silence sits thick in the air like a smog, the more of which John inhales the more afeard he grows. He equips himself in a pair of leopard-print Uggs and ventures down the corridor to Rupert’s room, only to make a most concerning discovery — in place of Rupert, in his very bed, sits a block of cheese. A cheese belonging to the holed family. Swiss. Through one hole, Rupert’s baby-blue collar is looped, his bone-shaped dog-tag hanging limp against one face of the block. The block’s colour is a nigh-on perfect match to that of Rupert’s fur, and in some peculiar sense its posture is likewise familiar. As John draws closer to the block, the scent grows, a scent sufficiently reminiscent of Rupert’s breath, which leads him to a disturbing conclusion.
Somehow, by some act of God or the Devil or someone between, his dog has been transfigured into a block of cheese.
Image credits: Mike Geno, Ameribella
The horror! exclaims John.
Come now, John, he mutters. Calm yourself. Think critically.
He thinks critically.
Perhaps, he reasons, his dog had always been of such a geometry, and had simply lost its fur overnight (previously concealing the gaping holes and pointed vertices). Alternatively, could the dog have simply undergone some process of evolution, as the caterpillar into the butterfly, which, in his months of pre-puppy purchase research and discussion, he hadn’t happened upon?
Slow down here, John. Take a deep breath. Test the cheese, observe its mannerisms and abilities before making any absurd inferences.
He stands over the cheese.
Sit, he says.
The cheese does not move.
Roll over, he says.
The cheese does not move.
Stay, he says.
The cheese does not move.
Seemingly able to complete thirty-three percent of Rupert’s trained commands, the case for transfiguration grows in John’s mind. Aiding this fact is another — that Rupert, in his (let us say) original state, was never particularly obedient anyhow, having responded to about a third of the commands given then too. He ponders whether the cheese still somehow carries Rupert’s sentience. Of course, he’d require a brain for this. He could always cut into the cheese to check for one, but invariably this act would be deeply immoral should the result be positive. Instead, he gathers his belongings and buckles Rupert (at least, what he believes to be Rupert) into the passenger seat of his car by the collar.
I can’t help you with that.
With what, vet?
It’s ‘animal doctor’, thank you. And that’s a piece of cheese.
He was a dog, animal doctor.
Is he now?
I don’t know.
Then I can’t help you.
Do you know any vets who could?
‘Animal doctors’. And no. I suggest you see a turophile.
A tour of what?
A turophile. A cheese expert.
But he might be a dog.
Then see a dog expert.
I’m trying to, but you won’t examine him.
I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know where to start.
Why not?
Why yes?
What?
Why would I know where to start?
Aren’t you a dog expert?
Yes.
Then examine him.
He’s not a dog.
He was.
Is he now?
I don’t know.
Well there you go. Good day. I have patients to whom I must attend.
John stands outside the vet’s — sorry, the animal doctor’s office. On the pavement beside him sits Rupert, not as jumpy or readily agitated as usual. A tall, lanky man approaches.
That cheese looks dry, he mutters in passing.
Shit.
Rupert has had nothing to drink all day.
Frantically, John procures from his backpack a bottle of water and begins to search Rupert for a mouth. Perhaps one of his holes leads to the vital organs he suspects reside somewhere within. Alas, he tries each and every hole, pouring water into it, only to see it trickle out of Rupert’s other end. Is this how urination works? John reasons that humans are much like cheese with holes, having among other less crucial holes, one essential hole stretching from oesophagus to urethra through which fluids pass. Perhaps this process has hydrated Rupert after all; the comparability to the hydration-urination process familiar within the human idiom is undeniable. No — this is unlikely. The interval spanning water-in to water-out is much too short.
What to do.
What to do.
What moral obligations does John have to this ‘dog’? Any? As many as he did to the poor thing prior to his transition from flesh and fur to whey and curd? Perhaps he puts Rupert out of his misery. Yes. This is what he’ll do.
Hello, gun store owner.
Hello, gun store patron.
I’d like to buy a gun.
What kind?
One that can kill a dog.
What kind of dog?
Swiss.
A Swiss dog?
Yes.
A Smith & Wesson 29 should do.
It’s afternoon now, but barely. The sun sits heavy in the centre of the sky as John points his revolver at Rupert, squinting in the heat. Is this really his moral imperative? Doesn’t God say not to kill? He does, but why? Based upon what? Is killing bad because God says so, or does God say so because it is bad? What comes first? Or are they one and the same, one a necessary and sufficient condition of the other?
Grow up, John. Stop stalling.
Do it.
It’s the humane thing.
The nice thing.
Existing isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, anyhow. Existing means death and suffering and poverty and all sorts of terrible things like addiction and murder and embezzlement (of which John is unsure the meaning, but he knows it is bad). Fundamentally, existing entails pain, which is bad, and pleasure, which is good. Not existing entails no pain, which is good, and no pleasure, which isn’t necessarily bad. There is only good in non-existence. There is only good in non-existence. Perhaps… perhaps Rupert, this cheese, whoever or whatever it is, perhaps he’s the lucky one.
At some point during this sequence of thoughts, John had turned the gun on himself. Its end is pressed firmly beneath his chin.
See you on the other side, Rupert.
He pulls the trigger.
A bullet leaves the chamber of the revolver.
It travels through the barrel at over six kilometres an hour.
It leaves the barrel and rips through the underside of John’s head.
It passes straight through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth and into his brain.
It leaves the top of his head, followed closely by a Kill Bill-esque spray of cherry-red blood.
He falls to the floor, landing like one of those crime-scene victim outlines, slowly bleeding out.
And Rupert, left alone in the sun, begins to melt.
This (obviously) concludes John Johnson’s story. For those curious, a total of two (2) people attended John’s funeral, while thirty-three attended Rupert’s (a closed-casket affair, given he had fully melted by the time he was found).
The end.