Jacob Reina
Jacob Reina
Jacob Reina studied English at Fresno State and works as a substitute teacher by day and as a cook by night. Being heavily inspired by Impressionism and Expressionism; his poetry and stories largely focus on the impacts made by deep emotions, the chaos of human relationships, and our momentary connections with nature and art. His work has been features in a variety of journals, including Watershed Review, New York Quarterly, Rougarou, Paper Dragon, and Atmosphere Press, among others. He loves his wife, his children, and going on spontaneous adventures.
The Rabid Mutt
It took one second of my life to murder all the rest. Being 34-years-old: a rough total of a billion seconds lived, pissed upon, then forever lost. Beneath the empty eyes of the bald and bearded cop, beneath the end-of-August sun, beneath the upper-story apartment windows cracked slightly ajar, I watched those billion seconds melt down into a massive, filthy puddle then turn into a single second’s breath of foul street steam. Because of one swing of the arm, one flick of the wrist, one solitary projectile, one wounded arm, one horrified wife, one emergency call, one unbearable urge to destroy something brainless and lame–an inanimate, lifeless silicon box–because of one moment of poor aim, one wretched disorder, and one day of weakness devolved into the act of giving up.
I am now a caged animal–a dog who bites the trembling hand of an ambitious human being that insists on getting much too close. I am a sick dog. I am a drugged dog. I have been thrown into the pound. I think my snout has been busted. And here in this tiny square with cracked concrete floors, a mud-caked toilet, and a sliver size opening for being able to breathe, I sit amongst the others like me, and we spin ourselves in downward circles into our chosen corners, surrounded by the scraps of peanut butter chow we were all given to eat. I hear the others barking from their cages. The guards have separated the bitches from us unfixed mutts. The eyes of the green trousered guards prod us through the windows–pasta sauce still clinging onto their dark, coarse beards. Whenever the female guards pass by our window, the mutts in my cage pant and go bark bark bark.
My sentence could be a grave one–the charge, a full-blown felony. The guard who told me was another female–I believe she chooses to remain in this room to avoid hearing all the barking of my hungry kennel mates. She told me I was likely to be chained in here for quite some time. I want to tell her I’d prefer to be euthanized, but I know if I do, my chains will only tighten. I’m not allowed to be honest about my desire to die. I came to this place, at least to some regard, because this desire has eaten at my brain for my entire life. It makes me sick and exhausted, and everyone who sees it covers their eyes and runs away to retch. It is as if this desire is actually an enormous tapeworm that everyone else but me can see, and judging by the shock in their eyes, it must be clear as day, slithering and curling. All I know is that it has been more loyal to my body than any human being. It was with me when I was a young pup who attacked a boy on the playground, and it was with me when they sent me for a week to the veterinarian hospital just one year ago. When I experienced my first breakup, the tapeworm curled into an S, and again when I was left astray for roughly four months. When the humans dug up my treasured bones and took them to use for themselves, I whined and was kicked for whining, but the tapeworm nudged at my skull, as if to say, Well, I’m still here, my friend, and I’ll never abandon you. You’re all I have, and I’m all you have too.
So many humans, like that bald and bearded vessel, flaunt the virtue of perceived flawlessness as if it’s their own means to exist. Their smirks, remarks, and puffed-up chests radiate this obnoxious trait of false perfection, as does their frequent pat of the pistol strapped to their hips. I was leashed and shipped straight to this pound because of one second when I let my humanity slip, when poor aim decided I can no longer be seen to be a man. I wonder, when this protector of justice squeezes that trigger in his moment of fear, in his moment of poor judgement and poor aim, will he steal and repeat my own pathetic mantras? I really didn’t mean to cause any harm. It was seriously an accident. But I really do care about her! I wasn’t aiming at her, I wasn’t aiming at all. I just saw the table beside her. I just wanted to hurt this object, not any part of her. I like people, I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I am a loving human being. I’m not a rabid mutt. Bark bark bark. Can’t you hear me? Please tell me you hear me! Bark bark bark.
And now, I curl up into my corner. I am frightened. I miss my bed. I miss playing with the cat. Nobody believes that a mutt like me could be capable of loving a little cat. But, my god, how I love his whiskers, alligator eyes, tiny pink mouth, pointy ears, and striped tail! How I miss the comfort of my owner’s hug, with sad movies playing and lighting up the dark studio at night. How I miss the smell of fried bacon, parmesan cheese, and egg from the skillet that was cooking carbonara, when I could make it for us both because I was still a human being. And whenever the sounds of thunder or fireworks would rattle the windows, it was me who would comfort both my owner and the cat. Now, we all quiver–the other mutts and I–and all the nearby kennels flood the hallways with the sounds of aggravated barks. I whine quietly to myself. Actually, everyone here whines, but we pretend we don’t hear, because the excess shame already reeks.
One of the bigger mutts, a half-Pit with an enormous head, sits upon the concrete bench and stares at the ceiling. When we hear a series of low thuds and muffled howls, our ears perk up and our gazes also rise. The mutt licks his lips. He sits with his head high as he puffs his chest and pants. A battered bulldog sitting by his side whimpers the question, Is it true what they say, that upstairs is where all the big dogs go? That the guards get their bonuses by winning bets on the fights? The Pit nods, and though there is a flicker of fear gleaming from The Bulldog’s eyes, he returns the nods and licks his lips, accepting whatever fate the guards have already prepared. A little schnauzer tries to imitate The Pit’s statuesque stance, but his beautiful mind overtakes his spirit, and he accidentally releases a brief, piercing yelp. I turn my head to the floor. I’m just a terrier myself. How could The Schnauzer or I fight someone as big as The Pit? But could fighting set us free? Could winning reunite us with our owners? How could we be sure this wasn’t yet another trick unleashed and falsely reported on by the green trousered guards? They want us to sweat. They want us to cry. They want us to believe that we may be forced to fight for our freedom and our lives, so that when we do bite–whether in self-defense or as a premeditated plan to prove ourselves–they could look at our wounds and the blood on our paws and say to each other, See! What did I tell you? All these mutts are exactly the same.
Yes, it is amusing to these men, these green trousered guards. They jeer at us. They mock us and stare at us through the glass. I can’t say it too loud, but…I so badly, in these times, want to bite their chests and rip apart their hearts. I am already a mutt and will be a mutt for the rest of my life. Why try acting any better anymore? Besides, their hearts are hollowed shells. They are tough, rubber kongs where all traces of love have been gutted and filled with pleasant smelling waste. But also…how I would just love to be that close to another human’s heart again. How I long to feel again the beating force of a beautiful human heart. How I would let myself be one’s slave to just be touched by the hand that’s guided by a warm, human heart.
Oh, how these tears burn my eyes! How I miss my own pup, who might grow to be in a cage just like mine! The tapeworm splintered and entered her brain too. Why won’t they let me save her while I can? But again, who am I kidding? It’s no use. I can merely howl all day and try to be King Hamlet, leading her toward the light the way a service dog is allowed to lead. I can only close my eyes and think about my owner until I fall asleep and dream that once again she’s my wife, and that I am back in my human form, holding her and brushing her hair and telling her don’t worry, we’ll make everything alright. We just gotta keep trying. We just gotta let things go. We can’t be bothered by it all - no money, new names...it means nothing at all. There’s more to being human. There is both softness and strength. Loyalty matters. Love matters. Loyalty and love are what we need as humans to know how to breathe. Do you remember where we started? Do you remember the cool morning wind scraping against the rolling, grassy hills, making whistles along the coned-roof churches that sang along the cobblestoned alleys of our town? And do you remember how those songs entered the windows and the balcony where we swore to each other eternal love? What you never knew is that the wind was you. Before our town, there was the wind, and it was you. Do you see that dog on the road? Look at how he smiles! He is looking at you, and he is following you. He has seen you for one second, and it took only that single second for him to fall in love with you! And you can see that nothing could stop him. He will continue to live hundreds of millions of seconds, and in each one of them, he will feel love for you–no matter how hungry or lonely or sick or rabid he becomes. He may be just a dog, but he has a heart that beats entirely for you. Let’s all wander this world together until the night arrives and swallows this town in a deep and sudden darkness. And even in that darkness, love will guide our dog-like souls toward tight intertwining to make a life worth living.
I wake to buzzing and the cage door being slammed. I sit straight as a board and look hard out the window. After all, I am still a mutt, which is why one guard looks at me and snarls in disgust, pointing up. Yet, for one single second, I just happen to smile.
For more of Reina’s work, read his poem The New Year from Behemoth Magazine’s debut issue, as well as his work Purity of the Sky (from Atmosphere Press).