The Art of Racing in the Rain

Denny stopped. He wouldn’t hit her. No matter what. Just as he wouldn’t hit me. He hadn’t hit me, I know, even though I could feel the pain of the blow. He had hit the demon, the evil zebra, the dark creature that came into the house and possessed the stuffed animal. Denny believed the evil demon was in me, but it wasn’t. I saw it. The demon had possessed the zebra and left me at the bloody scene with no voice to defend myself—I had been framed.

“We’ll get new animals, baby,” Eve said to Zoë. “We’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

As gently as I could, I slunk toward Zoë, the sad little girl on the floor, surrounded by the rubble of her fantasy world, her chin tucked into her chest, tears on her cheeks. I felt her pain because I knew her fantasy world intimately, as she allowed me to see the truth of it, and often included me in it. Through our role-playing—silly games with significant telltales—I saw what she thought about who she really was, her place in life. How she worshipped her father and always hoped to please her mother. How she trusted me but was afraid when I made faces at her that were too expressive and defied what she’d learned from the adult-driven World Order that denies animals the process of thought. I crawled to her on my elbows and placed my nose next to her thigh, tanned from the summer sun. And I raised my eyebrows slightly as if to ask if she could ever forgive me for not protecting her animals.

She waited a long time to give me her answer, but she finally gave it. She placed her hand on my head and let it rest there. She didn’t scratch me. It would be a while before she allowed herself to do that. But she did touch me, which meant she forgave me for what had happened, though the wound was still too raw and the pain was still too great for her to forget.

Later, after everyone had eaten and Zoë was put to bed in her room that had been cleaned of the carnage, I found Denny sitting on the porch steps with a drink of hard liquor, which I thought was strange because he hardly ever drank hard liquor. I approached cautiously, and he noticed.

“It’s okay, boy,” he said. He patted the step next to him and I went to him. I sniffed his wrist and took a tentative lick. He smiled and rubbed my neck.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I lost my mind.”

The patch of lawn behind our house was not big, but it was nice in the evening. It was rimmed by a dirt strip covered with sweet-smelling cedar chips where they planted flowers in the spring, and they had a bush in the corner that made flowers that attracted the bees and made me nervous whenever Zoë played near it, but she never got stung.

Denny finished his drink with a long swallow and shivered involuntarily. He produced a bottle from nowhere—I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it—and poured himself another. He stood up and took a couple of steps and stretched to the sky.

“We got first place, Enzo. Not ‘in class.’ We took first place overall. You know what that means?”

My heart jumped. I knew what it meant. It meant that he was the champion. It meant he was the best!

“It means a seat in a touring car next season, that’s what it means,” Denny said to me. “I got an offer from a real, live racing team. Do you know what an offer is?”

I loved it when he talked to me like that. Dragging out the drama. Ratcheting up the anticipation. I’ve always found great pleasure in the narrative tease. But then, I’m a dramatist. For me, a good story is all about setting up expectations and delivering on them in an exciting and surprising way.

“Getting an offer means I can drive if I come up with my share of sponsorship money for the season—which is reasonable and almost attainable—and if I’m willing to spend the better part of six months away from Eve and Zoë and you. Am I willing to do that?”

I didn’t say anything because I was torn. I knew I was Denny’s biggest fan and most steadfast supporter in his racing. But I also felt something like what Eve and Zoë must have felt whenever he went away: a hollow pit in my stomach at the idea of his absence. He must have been able to read my mind, because he gulped at his glass and said, “I don’t think so, either.” Which was what I was thinking.

“I can’t believe she left you like that,” he said. “I know she had a virus, but still.”

Did he really believe that, or was he lying to himself? Or maybe he just believed it because Eve wanted him to believe it. No matter. Had I been a person, I could have told him the truth about Eve’s condition.

“It was a bad virus,” he said more to himself than to me. “And she couldn’t think.”

And suddenly I was unsure: had I been a person, had I been able to tell him the truth, I’m not sure he would have wanted to hear it.

He groaned and sat back down and filled his glass again.

“I’m taking those stuffed animals out of your allowance,” he said with a chuckle. He looked at me then, took my chin with his hand.

“I love you, boy,” he said. “And I promise I’ll never do that again. No matter what. I’m really sorry.”

He was blathering, he was drunk. But it made me feel so much love for him, too.

“You’re tough,” he said. “You can do three days like that because you’re one tough dog.”

I felt proud.

“I know you’d never do anything deliberately to hurt Zoë,” he said.

I laid my head on his leg and looked up at him.

“Sometimes I think you actually understand me,” he said. “It’s like there’s a person inside there. Like you know everything.”

I do, I said to myself. I do.

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Eve’s condition was elusive and unpredictable. One day she would suffer a headache of crushing magnitude. Another day, debilitating nausea. A third would open with dizziness and end with a dark and angry mood. And these days were never linked together consecutively. Between them would be days or even weeks of relief, life as usual. And then Denny would get a call at work, and he would run to Eve’s assistance, drive her home from her job, impose on a friend to follow in her car, and spend the rest of the day watching helplessly.

The intense and arbitrary nature of Eve’s affliction was far beyond Denny’s grasp. The wailings, the dramatic screaming fits, the falling on the floor in fits of anguish. These are things that only dogs and women understand because we tap into the pain directly, we connect to pain directly from its source, and so it is at once brilliant and brutal and clear, like white-hot metal spraying out of a fire hose, we can appreciate the aesthetic while taking the worst of it straight in the face. Men, on the other hand, are all filters and deflectors and timed release. For men, it’s like athlete’s foot: spray the special spray on it, they say, and it goes away. They have no idea that the manifestation of their affliction—the fungus between their hairy toes—is merely a symptom, an indication of a systemic problem. A candida bloom in their bowels, for instance, or some other upset to their system. Suppressing the symptom does nothing but force the true problem to express itself on a deeper level at some other time. Go see a doctor, he said to her. Get some medication. And she howled to the moon in reply. He never understood, as I did, what she meant when she said that medication would only mask the pain, not make it go away, and what’s the point of that. He never understood when she said that if she went to a doctor, the doctor would only invent a disease that would explain why he couldn’t help her. And there was so much time between episodes. There was so much hope.

Denny was frustrated by his impotence, and in that regard, I could understand his point of view. It’s frustrating for me to be unable to speak. To feel that I have so much to say, so many ways I can help, but I’m locked in a soundproof box, a game show isolation booth from which I can see out and I can hear what’s going on, but they never turn on my microphone and they never let me out. It might drive a person mad. It certainly has driven many a dog mad. The good dog that would never hurt a soul but is found one day having eaten the face of his master as she slept deeply under the influence of sleeping pills? There was nothing wrong with that dog except that his mind finally snapped. As awful as it sounds, it happens; it’s on the TV news regularly.

Myself, I have found ways around the madness. I work at my human gait, for instance. I practice chewing my food slowly like people do. I study the television for clues on behavior and to learn how to react in certain situations. In my next life, when I am born again as a person, I will practically be an adult the moment I am plucked from the womb, with all the preparation I have done. It will be all I can do to wait for my new human body to mature to adulthood so I may excel at all the athletic and intellectual pursuits I hope to enjoy.

Denny avoided the madness of his personal sound-booth hell by driving through it. There was nothing he could do to make Eve’s distress go away, and once he realized that, he made a commitment to do everything else better.

Often things happen to race cars in the heat of the race. A square-toothed gear in a transmission may break, suddenly leaving the driver without all of his gears. Or perhaps a clutch fails. Brakes go soft from overheating. Suspensions break. When faced with one of these problems, the poor driver crashes. The average driver gives up. The great drivers drive through the problem. They figure out a way to continue racing. Like in the Luxembourg Grand Prix in 1989, when the Irish racer Kevin Finnerty York finished the race victoriously and later revealed that he had driven the final twenty laps of the race with only two gears! To be able to possess a machine in such a way is the ultimate show of determination and awareness. It makes one realize that the physicality of our world is a boundary to us only if our will is weak; a true champion can accomplish things that a normal person would think impossible.

Denny cut back his hours at work so he could take Zoë to her preschool. In the evenings after dinner, he read to her and helped her learn her numbers and letters. He took over all the grocery shopping and cooking. He took over the cleaning of the house. And he did it all excellently and without complaint. He wanted to relieve Eve of any burden, any job that could cause stress. What he couldn’t do, though, with all of the extra he was doing, was continue to engage her in the same playful and physically affectionate way I had grown used to seeing. It was impossible for him to do everything; clearly, he had decided that the care of her organism would receive the topmost priority. Which I believe was the correct thing for him to do under the circumstances. Because he had me.

I see green as gray. I see red as black. Does that make me a bad potential person? If you taught me to read and provided for me the same computer system as someone has provided for Stephen Hawking, I, too, would write great books. And yet you don’t teach me to read, and you don’t give me a computer stick I can push around with my nose to point at the next letter I wish typed. So whose fault is it that I am what I am?

Denny did not stop loving Eve, he merely delegated his love-giving to me. I became the provider of love and comfort by proxy. When she ailed and he took charge of Zoë and whisked her out of the house to see one of the many wonderful animated films they make for children so that she might not hear the cries of agony from her mother, I stayed behind. He trusted me. He would tell me, as he and Zoë packed their bottles of water and their special sandwich cookies without hydrogenated oils that he bought for her at the good market, he would say, “Go take care of her for me, Enzo, please.”

And I did. I took care of her by curling up at her bedside, or, if she had collapsed on the floor, by curling up next to her there. Often, she would hold me close to her, hold me tight to her body, and when she did, she would tell me things about the pain.

I cannot lie still. I cannot be alone with this. I need toscream and thrash, because it stays away when I scream.When I’m silent, it finds me, it tracks me down and piercesme and says, “Now I’ve got you! Now you belong to me!”

Demon. Gremlin. Poltergeist. Ghost. Phantom. Spirit. Shadow. Ghoul. Devil. People are afraid of them so they relegate their existence to stories, volumes of books that can be closed and put on the shelf or left behind at a bed and breakfast; they clench their eyes shut so they will see no evil. But trust me when I tell you that the zebra is real. Somewhere, the zebra is dancing.

The spring finally ground around to us through an exceptionally wet winter, full of gray days and rain and an edgy cold I rarely found rejuvenating. Over the winter, Eve ate poorly and became drawn and pale. When her pain came, she often went for days without eating a bite of food. She never exercised, so her thinness had no tone, slack skin over brittle bones; she was wasting away. Denny was concerned, but Eve never heeded his pleas for her to consult a doctor. A mild case of depression, she would say. They’ll try to give her pills and she doesn’t want pills. And one evening after dinner, which was a special one, though I don’t remember if it was a birthday or an anniversary, Denny suddenly appeared naked in the bedroom and Eve was naked on the bed.

It seemed so odd to me because they hadn’t mounted or even played with each other in such a long time. But there they were. He positioned himself over her and she said to him, “The field is fertile.”

“You aren’t really, are you?” he asked.

“Just say it,” she replied after a moment, her eyes having dimmed, having been sucked deep into their sockets and swallowed by the puffy skin, suggesting anything but fertility.

“I embrace the fertility,” he said. But their exchange seemed weak and unenthusiastic. She made noise, but she was pretending, I could tell, because in the middle of it she looked at me and shook her head and waved me off. Respectfully, I withdrew to another room and drifted into a light sleep. And, if I recall correctly, I dreamed of the crows.

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They sit in the trees and on the electric wires and on the roofs and they watch everything, the sinister little bastards. They cackle with a dark edge, like they’re mocking you, cawing constantly, they know where you are when you’re in the house, they know where you are when you’re outside; they’re always waiting. The smaller cousin of the raven, they are resentful and angry, bitter at being genetically dwarfed by their brothers. The raven, it is said, is the next step up the evolutionary ladder from man. The raven created man, after all, according to the legends of the Northwest Coast natives. (It’s interesting to note here that the deity that corresponds with the raven in Plains Indian folklore is the coyote, which is a dog. So it seems to me we are all smashed together at the top of the spiritual food chain.) So if the raven created man, and the crow is the raven’s cousin, where does the crow fit in?

The crow fits in the garbage. Very smart, very sly, they are best when they apply their evil little genius to uncapping a garbage can or pecking through some kind of enclosure to get at scrap food. They are scum, creatures of cluster, they call them a murder when they are in a group. A good word, because when they are together, you want to kill them.