Repression

By

Gary Dorman Wiggins

As dogs go, he was pretty dumb. He came flying into the November sun, a scowl of playful uncertainty of possible martyrdom. The object of his spontaneous attack realized the lack of danger. There are some people born with this “dog sense.” This one knew the feigned fierceness was only remotely related to some almost extinguished attack urge, mostly discernible in dogs such as the Doberman Pinscher, which have it carefully bred to the point of constant eruption.

The pup had reached that gangling stage typical of six-month-old dogs. The culmination of the primitive thought train had been reached, and a terrifying growl shocked both man and dog. Legs unused to such sudden attack found themselves entwined in uncoordinated retreat.

There really was no need for such a fierce growl. The effect could have been achieved by the man with the slightest purr. The poor pup was so startled that he didn’t stop until he reached the middle of the street. There, he blinked, confused, with tail down. One ear was thrown back, revealing the pink caverns which had a moment earlier reverberated with the man’s fierce yell. The pup looked puzzledly at the upright thing that had emitted such a cry. “Well, you had to learn,” the man thought. “You might have bitten me.”

He closed the car door, started it, and turned on the radio.

“… Enemy losses for the week in Vietnam were 537 dead. Government losses described as light.”

Sometimes regret can take strange forms. He wished the dog had bitten him.

October 1967