Needlemarks covering their matted flanks of one vast scar, slicings through their coats, of which some are merely pilled, and others totally ragged, prophesizing in their motley markings the ineffable, the excruciatingly obscure. Those scrappy slits of weather, nature, and affliction untold loosing, also, the inner jellies of bulging, bloodshot eyes: there’s one eye bleeding, the other hanging out the socket by only a single thinning dangle; noses veined on by a mere shredded nerve, a fringing, a scapular tassel; frayed straps for tails and phylactery ears; hairs skewed in the electric antennal as if their existence shocks even themselves. It’s evident, too, they’d been rolling around in their own dreck, as the reek’s overwhelming, and black, both excremental and fleshified, and fiery, ash, with a whiff of the marshy egg to the east, it’s cold, and it dizzies: Mada’s loafers encased in droppings, these sickening green flecked in red, and pissyellowed, in every color of traffic’s bypass, control — the lanes that divide the forest into forests, the wood into woods, the known into all these many separate unknowns; every three steps or so he lands a foot in a leftover dogdish, overflowing with urine so acidic it scalds through the turd, then his loafers, dress socks, skin; then how he steps into it all over again as if to salve, and shrieks, inhaling remnants of the latest autumn, fall down the wrong throat.
They bury their burrows in wormy dens, hidden by snow, in pocks emptied by the force of forepawed rain, nests of leaf and needle, piles, logs hollowed for infestation. And then, come the dawn of late afternoon toward winter’s dusk, they crawl themselves out, to prey — what’s left of them, that is, what’s been left, their own stray parts, their lost. As many of these dogs are missing limbs — some with limbs hanging by torn tendons, others dragging themselves on two front legs only, on two rear legs, on one up front one rear left and right, right and left or, one leg or anything less how they’d deal. It’s apparent they’d long ago adapted to cannibalism: once rich dogs fed and watered well, exercised and groomed, even with papers, certificates of bloodline, shots and widely accepted veternary approvals, though now straggling superlean, scraggled scrawny; in their mouths, hunks of other dogs, either gnawed from them or loosed in miscellaneous incendiary, strayed in unfortunate mishaps, lost to accidental deterrence: four legs to stagger into errant leashtripwire mechanisms, you have to be careful, traps set down, concealed, leafcovered; dogs, only a handful, that still have their collars, their tags, by which they’ve been leashed up to treetops, hanging spread for the eagles, the night owls, and noontime hawks: who’d hung them; what, exactly, merited them this punishment — that they’d been coupled in heat on the Ark two-by-two…beware, what’s justice to the dogs?
With saliva freezing in jaws, both sires and dams, dogs and bitches, pups and whelps, slash at one another, then huddle together over their weakest dead to warm with the last pumpings of innards, and then, finally, with the smokelike steam of their panting; in masses emitting whines fiercely piercing at the chirpless pitch of dovish, preyedupon snowbirds flown south to tend to their Nest Eggs, anywhere but here with its graygrim weather and violence. With slobbersome, hotheavy tongues, they bay their own natures separate again in a snort, in a terrible gasp, dispersing in whimpers at dawn, with raging stomachs, with the stirrings of growl, a roar echoing from within the past shared. An instinct, they sense — intruders; they want their bones, a life to bury, other than their own, to grave down into earth.
The sun setting, and in its wane a host of tapetum lucidum reflect the moonlight risen over the snow, its dusky sandsheen — the Kieferöde, aglow with their eyes. Though it shouldn’t be in conjunction until the opposite season, the Dogstar winks above, Sirius to shine at the very height of the sky: nature resigned to regression, whistled home, put to sleep. Time is dark, and the packs attacking, not attacking, too tired, reluctant, retreating, seem deeply afraid — of what, the lost light, the starlight, the moon’s…of what else might night up ahead: a clearing, burnedover, barren, a forlorn expanse of sand topped with the rime of the prevailing hyemal, the whole of it ringed with stones ritually, and so as if a firepit or altar sunken, unmarked by tracks. Mada meets up with Hamm here, fetched and dogtired, they’re bit up, their clothes hanging in tatters; wounds flapping like the tongues of their limbs, they suck them warm with the wound of the mouth. Then, they hurl the stones of their encampment at the dogs more to air emotion than to injure, soon tiring, toward morning, the death of the stars. Hamm heels up a turn of sand, Mada sighs doubt.
