21 November 2007

Chapter 7: Etiquette is etiquette

I must say I do not like pooping indoors.

The last time it happened I was still at the farm. I was young: not yet seven, not yet a man. After the family dinner, Dick's oldest sister Petra fed me the fat she'd shaved off her pork chop and by the wee hours of the morning it had already worked its way through the many miles of my digestive system. Dick refused to respond to my muted petitions. So I went in the kitchen. Then I slunk back to Dick's room and onto the bed. A short time later I hear Scholten Sr. roar. He bursts into the room, yelling after me, scaring the shit (no pun intended) out of Dick. I scramble out the door between his bowl-legs and he comes chasing after me. Finally, he gets me cornered on the living room couch. I'm shaking for fear of my life and he lays into me with a hard open hand. On my face, the side of my head, my exposed flank. Grabs me then by my neck-scruff, takes me to the kitchen and puts my nose into the still soft coils to teach me a lesson.

I'll never understand why people do that. I guess they must think it's some kind of punishment to make a dog smell or taste his own shit. I guess they don't realize the sheer amount of information packed in and radiating out of it. To us, it's quite the opposite of revolting. It's irresistible. Indeed it's much like writing. It gives us a strong indication of where we are in life, where we've come from and where we're going.

Anyway, the beating sufficed to instill me with a strong sense of etiquette. Later that evening, Scholten Sr. came round and made motions that he forgave me. Can you imagine? I had never cared much for him before that event. His small leathery brown face and hard glassy eyes didn't give out a lot of love to latch onto. After that, though, I hated him. The hate would grow further as I became more aware of the depths to which he had adversely affected his son.

But right now all that is secondary. It's Saturday afternoon and nobody has come. Red is still dead, and I haven't been outside since last evening. I will go downstairs, in the furnace-room where Red set up his grow-op. Perhaps the plants will be able to read my shit and come to understand what I think of them. Or maybe in their primary perceptiveness they already know.

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