The Cactus Nocturne

Kalisk awoke one day.

He awoke one day when the grass was green and the sky was cerulean and the sun hung bright and shining in the sky like a god.

He awoke to soft emerald carpets beneath his paws that embraced him as he rolled about in it, and his friend inside the big house at the end of the grass would looked up from their newspapers and coffee and doughnuts, and they all looked up as he came through the little flap door they’d made just for him.

Kalisk awoke one day when his friend smiled when his claws clicked on the pallid linoleum with that odd, flat face his Friend had and ruffled his floppy ears as his tongue lolled and flapped in the air conditioned breeze and scratched under his chin in the special way that they did that always made his left leg thump.

Then his Friend smiled and said to him, “Good morning Kalisk. You‘re a very good dog.”
A rich bounty dripping with sweet sustenance was then placed before him in a shining bowl that bore his name in glistening letters that told him that his long legged keeper appreciated him. And when he was finished, his friend tossed something in the air that somersaulted as it flew so that it almost seemed to glow in the florescent light as it hurled toward it’s destination.
The boon alighted onto Kalisk’s tongue and soon his entire universe was filled with the sweet rapture of bacon and chicken with just a hint of hickory, and wagged his tail as the wonderful flavor was tousled between gates of sharp ivory and slid down his throat.

He barked his thanks and followed his Friend to the long black metallic thing that swallowed his up every morning and spit him out every night, growling the entire time it did so. Kalisk assumed this was because the creature never received scratches behind its ears or rubs beneath the chin, or boons of bacon and chicken indulgence, without any of those things, it was perfectly understandable how one could get grouchy.
He wagged his tail as his friend tousled his ears once more and said farewell to him just like he did every day, and went back to The Terrace.

Kalisk awoke one day to a perfect morning that gave him grass, good food, and a friend.

He awoke to this day as he did all the others: bright, happy and content.

But this day, as the scent of throat-choking gas and cologne faded into the yard’s usual cornucopia of smells, Kalisk felt different.
The squealing death cry that rang of the violet plastic hamburger crushed to submission in his jaws no longer gave him joy. To bark at the saucy tabby that constantly paraded along the roadways behind the fence spires did not leave his heart feeling justified. The leftover puddles from the night before had lost their shimmer, and their accomplices, the mud holes, did not call out to him anymore, the squishing of liquid earth between his claws didn’t send his soul flying into a guiltless, erratic stupor.
Kalisk moaned and rolled to his back, staring into the sky. The sun was still peaking over the roof of the tall, white obelisks that surrounded the grass. It would be hours before his Friend came back again.

Not that ever bothered him before, but then, he’d never felt this way before.

He felt uneasiness nipping at his sides and soon felt it swarmed all over him, buzzing and itching and dug under his pelt where there was no hope of scratching at it. This was terrible! A horde of fleas reeking havoc inside his own entrails!
What in the name of Sirius was this feeling? And why did it have to come to him now, on a perfectly sublime day like this and completely ruin it?

Kalisk laid his head upon brindle-gray paws and whined, aching with distress that plagued him. What was this? Why was he feeling this way, after all these perfect mornings, mornings just like this one, that ran just as they were supposed to run did he start feeling this way now? What crime had he committed to have this unholy feeling thrust upon him? Had he been sinful? Acted wrongly? Had he been... dare he say it? A bad dog?

A long, sharp whine escaped his throat, mingling with a bark, producing a twisted, malformed Frankenstein sound. Suddenly everything seemed so... so trite, so dull, and so monotonous. In less than half the time it took Friend to scoop out breakfast, his entire life had become a grayscale photo, and twice as flat. The whining Frankenstein sound came again, high pitched and writhing with frustration.
What was this?

“Ennui,” said a voice.

Kalisk was on his paws instantly, nose twitching and ears forward and alert. Somebody was near the yard. His yard. When his Friend wasn’t around. It was obviously a dog, for there was no trace of feline or rodent accent in the voice, but still it was… different. And the smell of the intruder seemed canine as well, but a little… off, somehow. His lip curled upwards in a little snarl.
Strangers near his yard was never a good thing. Why, he already was working himself to the fur trying to keep away that riffraff two legged that rode the strange, wheeled creature and kept throwing hard, paper cylinders.

He danced lightly about the Terrace, bobbing his head with faltering unease. He really should just run up and chase the renegade off, like any Good Dog naturally would.
But… it was new.
And in the strange grayscale world of monotony he suddenly found himself in, he would have given up his life, his honor, his soul, and his special spot beside the fireplace for something new, something fresh and exciting.

No… Surely I can’t possibly be thinking of giving up my duties, Kalisk thought. I’m a Good Dog. I’m supposed to keep bad ones away, not welcome them in. But then, they may not be a bad one. I’ll... I'll just go to check and if it’s riffraff, I’ll send ’em home tail between the legs. Yes. Yes, that’s it.

With new resolve and vigor springing his step, Kalisk marched towards the fence. White obelisks stretched above his head, blocking his view of the speaker, save for a few flashes of soft cream and tawny.
But the scent had no trouble making contact. It was so novel and unusual from the scent of any of the other dogs. It was tinged with the scent of rich garbage cans and tempting spices from distant lands, and the burning sticks the two-legs sometimes put in their mouth.
A female scent, to be sure, there was no doubt of that. But not at all that of his lady neighbors. Far from it, she smelled of rocks and dirt and fresh summer grass, of wildflowers and sunset air. It reminded him of the breeze splashing his face when Friend took him along riding inside the big black creature, and was reminiscent of the feeling one gets leaping into the air just for the thrill of it. She smelled of other things, too. Things he couldn’t identify at all, but he was positive it was something wonderful. He wondered what it was.
Whoever it was obviously didn’t plan on saying anything soon. Better get the ball fetching.

“Um, excuse me?” he said in the most professional voice he could muster.

“Ennui,” the voice repeated. “That’s what’s been plaguing you, hound.”

Any dog with any sense to speak of would have instantly sent up a chorus of outraged barks at the crime of being spied upon, but after a whole fifteen minutes along with this horrible feeling, this ennui, had robbed Kalisk of all common sense he had previously possessed. And besides all that, he was curious.
“I’m sorry what is this… ennui you speak of, miss?”

The voice lifted with mirth, “Miss he’s callin’ me now! Ha, that’s a day I’d never think t’see. Well, since you be lookin’ like a polite one, I’ll be inclined to tell you. It’s a flat, dull, feelin’, dog. Makes you all- what’s the word Quill uses? World-weary. Weary of the world, an’ th’ feelin’ eats ye up inside so much it can kill th’ soul if it’s able. Caused many a hound t’get tossed out into the rain, it has.”

Kalisk's ears pricked. “Why?”

“Makes ‘em do things. Desire things. Want to know about things they neva even heard of before. Things that never once even crossed their minds.”

“Like what?”

A gritty laugh erupted from the other side of the fence, thick and oily. “Well, like to th’ likes of me, for instance.”

Kalisk’s tail thumped the grass in amusement, “Ha! Can’t argue with that ma’am. What’s your name, stranger? Where do you hail from? And how come your two-leg lets you run around in the middle of the day?”

“Hound’s got the questions, eh?” Between the wooden pillars, a flash of a white smile could be seen.
“I got answers, Fetch-boy. Take a peer o’er yonder fence an’ maybe I’ll be telling’ em to ye. An don’t be takin’ yer sweet time, neither, I got mouths t’get back to.”

A rose tongue slid over Kalisk’s snout nervously.
My, but she was a blunt one. No pleasantries, no offhand compliments, no small talk at all. Didn’t even take the time to polish the proper fence invitation or anything. Of course, Kalisk was never one to complain. As his head poked over the ivory pickets he nearly fell back to the grass in wonder. What stood before him he was now sure couldn’t be any ordinary dog.
She had the tattered, broken toothed look of a common Stray, except no pariah Strays ever carried themselves the way she did, with such confidence and poise.
A slender creature, a few ribs poking out of shining tawny fur with large paws but a sharp, pointed face that obviously took no nonsense. A pair of cunning amber eyes stared straight into his own without any trace of the polite submission associated with introductions. Indeed, instead of the normal play bow stance, or belly-up she stood straight and tall, ears leaned toward him, black tipped tail wagging gently in the morning air. An expression of mild amusement stretched across her face.

“Well, hound, you paid half, now I do the same. I’m a-goin’ by the name of Salinger. Sal, for short. I’m comin’ from the land of sand, needles, an’ jackrabbits ‘bout a few miles that way,” Salinger gestured west, where the strange night sounds wailed into the sky when the moon rose high.
“As for the two-legs, they can all go to Hell in a Hefty bag, for all I care.”

Kalisk blinked in surprise. “You mean to say you’ve no two-legs of your own?”

“Ain’t got none, don’t need none, don’t want one. Neva have, neva will, not this moon caller, and neither will any others, if they got any self-respect. Don’t know how hound boys put up with ‘em."

The truth of Sal’s words began to slowly come to together. “Miss Salinger… you’re not a dog at all. I do beleive that you’re a coyote.”

Golden eyes turned summersaults in their sockets, “No shit, Sherlock.”

He frowned. “No need for vulgarity, miss.”

“Hah, after all these seasons of howlin’ an’ huntin’ an’ hurtlin’ bullets, a few spiced words are the last things I’m concerned with.”

At this point, Kalisk should have taken deep offense at being spoken to with such vile language. But for some reason, it just had him leaning farther over the fence, staring at Sal with an intensity he’d never known before. “Well then miss, if not that, then what?”

“Livin’,” she said casually.

“Then why don’t you move in with a two-leg? They’re very kind, and I’m sure you could easily find one to be your Friend. It would be safer”

Salinger’s tail grew rigid, fur standing up along that perfectly lithe body of hers, sneering at the very prospect.
“An’ live behind a fence all day, all night? No moon callin, no huntin’, no midnight runs? Sit around doin’ nothin’ but miniscule amusements to kill time all day ‘till th’ oh-so-wonderful “Friend” comes home to deliver the highlight of the evenin’: a stale treat an’ a pat on the head?
Constantly hearin’ the twilight serenades from inside a dinky little doghouse every night, while my heart’s breakin’ knowin’ that there’s somethin’ better out there for me? Knowin’ that even though I hear the song ring clear into the night, I can never join in? Sell my soul for a can of Alpo? For a life behind that white barrier you’re lookin’ over now? You can keep it and your safety with it, hound. I’ll keep my starving desert, thanks.”

Kalisk was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable with what this moon caller was saying to him. It made him feel vulnerable, gullible, and more than a little foolish. He knew he should felt some anger, but it wouldn’t come to him. Instead, all he felt was a sadness nestling in the pits of his stomach that not even a mouthful of grass could cure. Maybe he was better off with the ennui after all.

“Tell me, hound. Would your two-leg companion ever let you do this?"
A creamy throat exposed itself as Salinger’s head threw back and long, mournful cry blossomed into cerulean sky. It sang of everything the coyote had seen, known, or felt in a myriad of seasons. Of the elation of the kill, of running under the stars with a pack of fellow rouge canines knocking over trash cans, terrorizing the local cats, and laughing when the two-legs’ bullets missed them by a mile.
It sang the sorrow of cold, desperate winters, of corpses rotting in the sun in the events that a den was discovered and the laments that followed.
It sang of unfairness, of injustice, of malcontent and rage and passion and running through bush fires, snares, traps, poisons, snipers, scarcity and still being able to laugh about it because you know in the end, the song’s still sung and would ring out into the night long after you’re gone.

It made Kalisk’s heart pound against his ribs. It was frightening, it was vulgar, it was nasty, it was cruel, it blatantly shot down and ripped apart everything he stood for, it made his body tremble and ears lay back with shock. But more than anything else, he liked it. It washed Technicolor over the horrible grayscale pallet he had been swamped in and set worlds aglow with colors vivid and alive. And it was then, to his surprise, he realized that he was singing with the moon caller as well.

Not only that, but he was outside the fence. He, Kalisk, a Good Dog was outside his fence ! And he didn’t even care.

When the last of the song finally left his throat, Kalisk looked about. Salinger was nowhere to be found, but her scent trailed off into the street. Off into the unknown, to the desert where nothing but death would be waiting for him if he followed.

What was he thinking? He couldn’t follow. He had responsibilities. A home. Duties. A Friend who loved him, and needed him, and would be wondering why he wasn’t home to wash his face with a slimy tongue when he carried home.

What would he do without a warm hand behind his ears, tummy rubs, and the sweet rapture of bacon and chicken melting in his mouth? He couldn’t follow. It was stupid to follow. He was a Good Dog. He was a Very Good Dog.

A sensable dog would simply turn around and take his usual noonday nap and wait for his friend to come home. A sensable dog would pretend the whole incident had never occurred and remembered the fact that today was beautiful just the way it was, and there was no need for any new thing to come and mess it all up. A sensable dog would forget that the word ennui, that a palate of vibrant, dazzling colors was waiting for him just over that white picket fence, pretend that it never happened.

A rush of wind blew against brindle gray fur as he dashed off into the street, hot on Salinger’s trail.

Kalisk had never really been very sensable anyway.