Dog Eat Dog World

Dog Eat Dog World: by JBK
 
“The dog kennels were stacked three high, and packed two wide, for a total of six in each stall. The stalls were designed for cows, but nobody raised cows around here anymore, and hadn’t in a long time. My workplace, the barn, had big open doors at each end, running between them there was a cement strip big enough to drive a truck right through the middle. There were food troughs on each side of that, then the stalls, then excrement sloughs on the outside. It was clad in red corrugated aluminum panels that didn't reach all the way down to the ground, so there was always a breeze, but it still smelled worse than anything I have ever encountered, before or since. Where the walls met the roof there was a strip where, instead of aluminum, the corrugated panels were made of a translucent plastic, allowing in enough light, along with what leaked in from the doors, to work between dawn and dusk. The barn was visible from the road, and even from the freeway exit, as it was in the middle of a large unobstructed tulip field. If it were to be lit up at night, it would have acted like a searchlight at a grand opening, and everyone would have wanted to know what was going on, since all the locals knew that the place was supposed to be abandoned. I guess it doesn’t really matter, there wasn’t power anyway, and at sunset we went home leaving those filthy things in the dark, howling and barking at each other all night long…
 
“We were a three person team. So that there was always at least two people on watch at all times, we took staggered lunch breaks. Someone needed to be able to back the other one up if something went wrong, or god forbid, one of them got loose or got a hold of one of us. The guys that worked with me were alright, I guess. It was a low-pay, dangerous, shit job, that no sane person wanted to do, so we were all bottom of the barrel, last kid picked for dodge-ball team type of guys. I was lucky enough that my coworkers weren’t retarded or serial killers, or something like that. At least I don’t think they were. We didn’t hang out with each other off-duty, or go drinking together, or whatever. While on the job it was not as if we had much time to socialize, and the respirators, as well as the noise those damn animals made, meant talking was difficult. Most of what we had to communicate with each other could be accomplished with a gesture, hand signal, or nod. Body language was important, and we had to have a feel for how the others moved throughout the normal parts of the day, as well as in an emergency situation, since a yell was likely to be drowned out by all the other noise. We ended up knowing a lot about each other even though we had few words exchanged between us…
 
“Ben, was the name of the quieter of the other two, he was like a store-brand generic kind of person. Normally one can get a good read on what someone is thinking from just the eyes. Ben’s eyes were no help, they were consistently dead, uninterested, and bored. It made working with him difficult, something dangerous could be happening, and no hint of alarm or surprise would escape Ben. Something terrible has to happen to someone before they shut down that completely. I don’t know what, exactly, had happened to Ben. But, whatever it was, it was awful, and it fucked him up for life. I almost felt sorry for him, even though I had the feeling that he would have had no problem committing atrocities, or war crimes. He was a creepy guy, but we never had any arguments or reasons to hate each other. When someone has no personality at all, and seems uninterested in what is going on in the world, it is hard to come up with things to be angry about. It is hard to understand, let alone bond with, someone like that. But this wasn’t a social club, it was a job…
 
“Tex, was obnoxious and loud and overly expressive and too handsy for my taste. He was always slapping me on the back, punching me in the shoulder, wanting to high-five, or some jackass contact which I objected to. I always knew exactly what his attitude was, even though it changed erratically a hundred times a day. Maniacally morose one minute, pissed off and ready to fight about it the next, and sometimes way too happy, uncomfortably cheerful. It was exhausting just trying to ignore his incessant babble, even though it was nearly incomprehensible in that environment. He was always animated and trying to impress me with his ignorant opinions on one inane point after another. His political leaning you can probably guess. But far and away the worst thing about Tex, was that he seemed to genuinely enjoy the job. Anyone that is happy to work in a place like that should be on a watch-list. It was gruesome and disheartening work, that I, not usually one to be squeamish, find nauseating. But, of course, I think of myself as a normal human being. Tex was something else. I normally don’t care what side of the isle someone calls their own, but if his is the side where relishing this kind of work is acceptable, I know I am going to vote for the opposition, forever, without any question. At least Tex carried a gun, and I could read him like a book, so I was safer on the job when I was partnered with him. I would rather ignore Tex than be alone with the unarmed, mysterious eyed, damaged, nobody, that was Ben, trying to decipher if he was paying attention at all, or just uninterested if disaster happened…
 
“One time, I drove out there, alone, at night, because I had absentmindedly set down my cell phone while eating my solitary lunch. As I was walking up to the barn, the animals were making a horrific noise, howling and yipping and growling. It seemed like you could almost make out intelligible arguments mixed in with the white-noise roar. When I approached the big barn door, my faint shadow stretched out before me in the pale rectangle of light that penetrated into the building. When they saw the intrusion, their crazy noise increased. They must have been excited at the prospect of seeing one of us after dark. I thought, they must associate humans with feeding, or, maybe, torture. When I crossed the threshold, they all quieted simultaneously. It sent chills down my spine, and I froze, like prey. I could see all of their eyes glinting in the little moonlight that crept into the barn. Those eyes all moved, together, as if they were on invisible strings stretched taught to me. Each pair followed my every move as I slowly backed up out of there. As soon as I could tear away my gaze, I turned and ran back to my truck. I didn’t have to worry about anyone running off with my phone, there isn’t a man alive with balls big enough to go into that barn, alone, at night…
 
“Even though we kept them hungry, they ate a lot. Before work, each day, I had to stop by the local butcher, and fill up the bed of my truck with barrels of scrap to feed those mutts. As soon as I arrived they would all start howling, and wouldn’t shut up until I used the fire-hose to spray them all down. They would snap at the stream of water, trying to get a drink while they were being cleaned. I made sure that each, and every, one got at least a couple of mouthfuls of water before I started shoveling the scraps of meat in the general direction of the cages--I am not a cruel person…
 
“The ones on the top tier of kennels were the most fierce. Every bit of food, that they didn’t catch right away, fell down between the wires of the kennel. They could do nothing but watch as the ones below them ate it. It made them mad, barking mad. They would wear themselves out, clawing and biting at the bottom of their kennel, trying to get to the one below that stole their food. It made them wiry and quick and mean…
 
“It seems to me that being on the bottom of the stack, always being shit and pissed on would make those the most angry. But those on the bottom of the stack didn’t seem to mind the excrement so much. For them, it was also about the food. They could ignore the filth, because they got the most scraps, and with a full belly they could just lay down in it and go to sleep. They were the biggest; they were the slowest; they were the most diseased; they had the most parasites…
 
“Of course, we knew how sick they were. Most of the time we wore a kind of Tyvek suit, rubber boots, gloves, safety glasses and a respirator. When it was feeding time, they would be so riled up, that blood, and pus, and excrement was flying everywhere. Along with the diseases, they had fleas and ticks and lice and mites and worms of every variety. The biting flies and mosquitoes were so thick in that barn it was like a cloud. So, we sprayed ourselves with this chemical stuff. And even with that strong disinfectant aerosoled cancer smell, and the respirators, it still reeked, strong enough that you could taste it, like rot and madness and death…
 
“You had to be alert, keep your eyes open, and remember how dangerous they were, all the time. They could look so weak and sad and innocent. But even if they looked at you, pleadingly, with their big wet eyes, you could never pet one. They would turn on you in a second. They could never reach you through the wire walls of the kennel, but they would still lunge, smashing themselves against it, trying to bite and paw at you. I know for sure that each and every one of them, if they ever got a chance, would go straight for my throat and rip it out…
 
“When we got them out of their cages for training, we would use a cattle prod to keep them in the back of the kennel, away from the door. With them pressed back twitching from the shocks, we would carefully unlock the door, ready to slam it shut if they tried to make a break for it, --and then, using this tool that was basically a noose on a sturdy twelve foot long pole, we would catch them around the neck, and pull them out. They would thrash and twist and jump and snarl and try to kill you, but while holding on to that pole you were safe. They were like a Tasmanian Devil on a stick, a blur of movement, dust, teeth, and claws, swirling and swirling around. But, you were in control, and by moving that pole, you could force them to go in whatever direction you wanted, while still keeping them, and their teeth at, if not exactly a comfortable distance, then at least a relatively safe one…
 
“Sometimes we would stage fights. Of course, we placed bets, and had favorites. Sometimes we would take one of the older, weaker, ones, duct tape its jaw shut, hobble it, and let the newest additions, the youngest pups, attack it, to develop a taste for killing while not sustaining too many serious injuries. In that way they could gain experience enough to take on one of their more senior brethren…
 
“We had a system where we would spray paint a red X on the backs of proven killers. That way we could keep track of the ornery ones. Sometimes they would scratch off the paint, but they would still have a red X, made out of bloody self-inflicted wounds. They were animals, so what do you expect?…
 
“Sometimes, we would bring a pig into the fighting arena, and let five or six of them work together like a pack. After all, they are still social animals. It was something that you would never forget seeing, a pack of those things, tearing apart a four-hundred pound boar. Those pigs could fight, their tusks whipping through the air, bucking and kicking. Every once in a while one of those kicks would connect, and there would be a yelp, and one of the pack would either stop moving, or limp right back into the fight, like nothing happened at all. Even when wounded, they would just keep fighting, until they killed, or couldn’t move anymore. Those boars were pretty tenacious as well, when they were fighting for their lives, but they were nothing compared to a pack beast, that is intelligent and determined, that can coordinate and communicate. The pigs never had a chance…
 
“Even though we were always in control, and they were in cages, and we had cattle prods, those foul things in our care scared the shit out of me. I still wake up (sweating, out of breath, in a pure state of panic) from nightmares wherein a bunch of them break out of their kennels and start attacking…
 
“We were aiming at making them berserk, dangerous, disease riddled, fighting animals. That was our job, raising them up so broken that they would tear everything down. So, Friday evening, we would make sure that they could all see us, when we would make a big show of pulling out of its cage any of them that were disabled or wounded, only the weakest and sickest ones, and any of them that had made an attempt to escape or attack the staff. We would make sure they witnessed us torturing it, euthanizing it. We would leave the carcass sitting in the middle of the open space all weekend long. Saturday and Sunday were our days off, so no food or water for those beasts, they just had their dead compatriot to keep them company. It gave them something to brood over, something to occupy their small minds, something to think about and get mad about. Then, first thing Monday morning, we would feed their brethren back to them when they were starving. It was a process that left the survivors, at the top of the food chain, the maddest and most infectious. We were distilling the diseases and the hatred into the strongest and meanest of them, making them super spreaders, super-haters…
 
“When we finally released them, on Doomsday, into a populated area, like a mall, or a school, they would bring the Apocalypse with them everywhere they went. Each one individually, was all four horses; War, Famine, Pestilence, Death, --all rolled into one mean package…
 
“Although they were not even half my size, they were so strong, viscous, and just plain crazy, I don’t think I would stand a chance against one, even with a weapon. There is no way anyone could survive against a pack. Plus, you have to consider the diseases. If you just passed by where one had been scratching itself, then one of their diseased ticks would jump on you, and you would probably die from whatever plague cocktail it carried…
 
“Whoever came up with that idea, using these animals like that, is one mean son of a bitch. I’ve probably met them during the time I worked there and didn’t even know it. Sometimes we would have VIPs come by and gawk at the monsters, they were probably leading one of those groups. Maybe not, but if it were me that had thought it up, I would want to see them with my own eyes. Whoever it was, they probably look like a normal person, without horns, or glowing eyes, or a forked tail. It seems to me that if this world was OK, then a person like that wouldn’t exist --or, if they did, then you should be able to spot them right away, they should have fangs, or bat-like wings. The thing is, the person that came up with that sick plan looks just like you or me…
 
“To me, as I see the world, the very fact that somebody would do this, is, in and of itself, its own justification for it to be done. My reasoning is this; that if someone would hasten the end, purposefully, in this cruel way, well then that means that this world should end. Quicker the better. I say, ‘release the hounds of hell’ just not near me, or mine. And, yes --I know that doesn’t make logical sense, but that doesn’t change the way I feel. Burn it all down, but save me. It is that feeling, present inside all of us, which is the reason we love those end of the world stories, rejoicing in the idea of being one of the few that survive, special, saved, and able to witness the destruction of everyone else. What fun…
 
“Not all of them are born into the program. You can tell that some of them once belonged to a family. The ones that are partially socialized usually don’t make it long. I don’t know why they bother. The ones not born into it are just too soft. If it was up to me, I would euthanize all of them, -but I don’t make the big decisions…
 
“You can tell that the ones from a family still have some of what they once were, before, inside of them. If you talk to them, in a nice, calm, friendly tone of voice, they settle right down. They watch you, and the gleam in their eyes changes its character. Some of them will start crying and howling. Only every once in a while does one of those animals speak to me. I’ll never forget, one Monday, while I was feeding them bits of one that we had put down on Friday, one of them said, in English, clear as day. ‘Mister, why are you doing this to us? What did we do to deserve this. Please let me out. I want my Mommy. Help me. Please.’ Makes you think…
 
“Well, I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t…
 
“I started wearing headphones when I worked. I really hated that job. Dehumanizing --but a man’s gotta make a living. And, I got to take care of my kids. I wouldn’t want them to end up in a place like that. I want to be on the right side of the leash when those things are let loose on the world. Anyway, I am just glad I didn’t have to work at one of the locations in those abandoned big-box stores, without the breeze and fresh air, I just simply couldn't stomach it; or, at one of those collection centers on the border; or at the breeding pens. From what I hear it can be a real challenge working with the adults. And that bit of wisdom came from Tex. He couldn’t handle it and had pulled some strings, and had managed to get a transfer into the juvenile unit, even though it meant a pay reduction. It was too much for him to deal with. It takes a lot to make him recognize cruelty as anything other than fun, or a joke. When Tex spoke of those other facilities, his face was pale as a ghost, and he could barely get the words out without crying. So, you know, I believe him, it is probably pretty bad. I don’t want to, but if the price of food goes up much higher than it is, I will just have to grin and bear it and request a transfer into one of the really bad units that pay a little more. It’s not like I have a choice.”
 
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