I’m a newly wed and not a very good one either. I know the problem is me but I cannot quite figure out what it may be. We’ve talked of couples counselling but I’m loathe to commit to having someone poke around inside our marriage for an hour every week. Instead I do what every other sensible man in my situation does: I head to the pub.
I like my local. It doesn’t have the atmosphere of an old Georgian country pub, nor does it have the cultural charm of an up and coming city bar. It’s just a plain old 20th century pub, on the outskirts of our suburb, with the same bar tender and the same clientele. You can drink to relax or you can drink to forget, even for just a few hours. They’re a second family of sorts. Just a family that speaks in the mindless small talk you need pay no heed to.
Today there’s a new face there. A face subtly scarred and with one misty eye of the blind and another misty eye of one who tries to forget. He’s not talkative and I don’t press to hard. He’s ok to listen though. I tell him of my marital trouble and my vision of domestic bliss and my fear that I’m failing and I don’t know what to do. He listens and he nods. I go on, bemoaning my life and our problems conceiving. I want a child more than anything in the world but it simply won’t happen. God what I would do for a daughter.
Harry turns to me and says “Bliss is a word with nothing inside it. Let me tell you a story of my friend and a day in his domestic bliss”. I take a sip of my pint as he begins:
“He enters the key and turns the lock. Before he steps inside the warmth and smells of home hits him. The stress of the day begins to abate, and he steps inside. He takes off his shoes and hangs up his coat. He calls out to his wife “That smells delicious! Beef casserole?” and receives the thunderous applause of tiny little feet hurrying towards him in reply.
“Daddy!” his daughter calls out from the top of the steps. She hurries down, waddling as fast as she can into his embrace. He gives her a kiss and asks her what she’s been up to. She excitedly tells him of her day looking for insects in the back garden and the specimens she has collected in jam jars. She wants to show him “right now!”. She has a centipede. By this time his wife has appeared, she has a tired look in her eyes, but her mouth has formed a crescent of contentment. She follows him as they are led upstairs into the explorer’s den and as he peers into the leafy verdure of jam jar number one, trying to pick out a supposed slug, he feels her arms around his shoulders, and she kisses him on top of the head.
He was right; it was beef casserole, and it does smell delicious. His dog, Cupcake, is pacing back and forth wagging her tail excited about the hubbub of dinner time and the imminent meal of wet dogfood. She circles round his legs as he tries to get a grip of the can’s ring pull and he can’t help but let out a chuckle at her immeasurable impatience. He scrapes the undesirable contents into a bowl and smiles at the frenzy of Cupcake’s assault on the unidentifiable slop.
“Come on Harry, it’s getting cold!”. His wife and daughter are also getting impatient for their dinner. He brings over the carafe of water, kisses his wife on the cheek and thanks her for making such a delicious meal. The food not only smells delicious, but it also tastes like bliss too.
He has just finished stacking the dishwasher and clearing up. The sound of the television blares from the living room. Today’s choice of art-house picture is the appropriately chosen ‘A Bug’s life’, perfect for the young explorer. He finds her snuggled up with Cupcake under a blanket and takes a seat next to his wife, handing her a glass of red. He lets his mind wander.
*BANG!* He jolts out of the evening’s torpor, alert. His wife looks startled: “Was that a…” *BANG* The gunshots are coming from down the street. Cupcake barks forcefully. Unsettled by the loud noise, a wild look has entered her eyes. He and his wife jump to their feet and rush to the window. His heart is racing, thoughts are whirling around his head in rapid succession. None quite taking hold. “This is a safe neighbourhood… life insurance… police?”. His wife sees him before you do: “Is that Richard?” she asks, her voice lilting with adrenaline. His retired neighbour is wearing a pair of greasy overalls and is wielding what looks like screwdriver.
Richard is standing at the edge of your property line and is waving towards your frightened faces pressed up against the window, looking apologetic. He yells at his daughter to stay put and to try and calm Cupcake’s agitation before he and his wife slip their shoes on and hurry outside. Several other neighbours are also emerging from their front doors, worriedly looking towards Richard in his overalls. He arrives first and hurriedly demands: “What’s going on Richard, what were those noises? They sounded like gunshots?”. His wife, the slightly calmer of you both, adds “are you okay Richard?”. By now more neighbours have arrived looking for an explanation, and a small gaggle has formed on the otherwise empty suburban street.
Sounding rather sheepish Richard reveals that “Yes… yes. I’m completely fine, I just came out to apologise for making those noises. I’m working on the MG, my hobby car. You know, the one I’ve been telling you about. I started the engine for the first time today, exciting stuff as I’m well over a year into the project! However, I fear I was a bit liberal with the accelerator. I may have backfired the engine once or twice…” Relief washes over the crowd and a few begin to laugh. His heart rate drops, and he exhales. Richard says “Sorry” once more to gathering and some begin to make their way back to their homes. He stays and talk to Richard for a minute or so. Small talk about the car. “How many cylinders?” and all that. His increasingly bored looking wife tugs at his sleeve, interrupting the festivities, and thanks Richard for clearing up the situation.
He heads back to the house and pushes open the door for the second time this evening. Something feels wrong though. It’s something about the air. He can hear the chatter from ‘A Bug’s life’ still playing in the living room. The noise feels denser for some reason. He and his wife take off their shoes. She heads into the kitchen for another glass of wine. He starts for the living room to reassure your daughter about the noises.
The door is still open. He peers into the room and his face goes white. He’s paralysed by the sight in front of him. He can’t open his mouth. He cannot move. His daughter lies crumpled on the floor, wheezing and spluttering as she struggles for breath. Her clothes are torn and bloodied. The ends of her blonde hair are dyed red by the burgeoning puddle of blood oozing from her neck. She rolls over, and he sees her eyes wide with fear. Her throat has been torn at. She can’t scream or cry out. Then he sees her arms scratched and bitten and he feels the fear too. Fear that his whole life will be taken from him in an instant.
He screams out to his wife “CALL AN AMULANCE!”. He hears glass smash in the kitchen and the rush of feet. Then he becomes aware of his surroundings. Behind him, he hears a deep rhythmic panting. He turns half dazed and gazes down upon the Pitbull. Cupcake is standing still on all fours, her body is wired and tense, her tail is wagging quickly in excitement. A deep grin spread across her face and her tongue hags out as she pants. He can see a mixture of his daughter’s blood and Cupcake’s saliva dripping from her jowls, staining the cream carpet a pale pink.
He looks into the eyes of the dog, wet and blinking, the pupils dilated to an extremity, and this time he feels a new fear. Not only the fear of responsibility – that he was harbouring a time bomb, that the dog he brought home for his daughter’s third birthday and that he has nurtured and loved as a family member, has utterly snapped, but also the primordial sensation of prey, standing before the yawning maw of the predator, counting its last moments.
He and the dog are fixed rigid, the hallowed coupling of the most ancient biological relationship drowns all other instincts. Neither of them reacts or responds to the half human bellowing of his wife as she cradles the limp, struggling body of his daughter in her arms. All he can think about are those eyes. They are the eyes of an animal.”
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