A.
MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS
A Photocopy of My Soul
The Experiment
I go in.
Question Mark stays outside for a minute or two. He sniffs around the
rhododendron bush, as if some new, significant information had materialized
there since last night. He might be simply revisiting a familiar delicacy. Why
assume a smell must be new to trigger his interest?
After a while, Question Mark notices my disappearance. He trots towards the
house. He tries to trot, but his legs have become affected. It takes him a while
to get here. Poor Question Mark! He has lived in this house since he was a
puppy. It must feel strange to him that the same destinations he was able to
reach with such ease (a powerful leap, brown lightning through the air) now pose
such a challenge.
He makes it to the door and walks in, hesitant and unsteady.
“Good doggie,” I say. He wags his tail. But he doesn’t look happy. He’s not good
at pretending.
“Come on, let’s go treat your lesions,” I say.
He follows me to the bathroom and patiently sits down on the red rug. He is used
to this routine. I think the ointment makes him feel better. I hope it does.
It’s time to get back to work. We don't have so much time to finish our
experiment. The lab is dark and sad, just as it always is when not in use. I
turn the lights on. The deltascope is waiting to be activated, its powers of
healing hindered by the missing electricity. I flip the switch.
A few weeks pass. Question Mark is not doing very well. He has not eaten in the
last day or two. He has difficulty following me around the house. It pains me to
watch him stagger behind me, a puzzled expression on his face, as if the type of
dysfunction that has befallen him is of a particularly perplexing quality.
And it is.
How does he know?
I’m reminded of his early years. The early years that constitute most of his
life until about a year ago, when we began the experiment. He had a good doggie
life, even if it was shorter than average. I feel a pang of fear as I realize
that I am thinking of him in the past tense. Guilt overwhelms me. I kneel down
beside him, making no effort to hold back my tears. As I pet him and talk to
him, I am reminded of the value of the work we are doing.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him, somehow expecting that he understands exactly what I
mean. I think he does. He licks my hand. His eyes are half-open. I know how
tired he must be.
I go to the lab. He follows.
This is the last time he follows me.
Another day goes by. He remains in one spot, his favorite rug next to the cactus
in the living room. His sad eyes are looking at me, apologizing for his failure
to assist me in my daily motions. I spend some time with him. I know we don't
have much time left. But I must continue my work. For the first time since the
start of this experiment, I am alone in my lab. Fortunately, in this realm
everything is coming together. The results are consistent. The work is nearly
finished. I get involved in it, so much so that when I check the time, it is
four hours later. I’m hungry. I turn my equipment off.
Question Mark is lying on his side, breathing hard (a wheezing sound like sand
paper on my ears). I remember him as a little puppy, a fury ball of brown
chasing squirrels in the back yard. He was never able to catch one.
He whines. His eyes look into mine with an endless depth of patience and
forgiveness. I know what he is asking for. Don't I?
I get out the syringe. I have everything ready. Is there an elegant way to say
good bye under these circumstances? Is there an elegant way to say good bye?
After the injection, I hold his head on my lap. He licks my hand. His eyes
become heavy. They close. His breath slows down, slows down, slows down … Can it
possibly be so slow?
When it is over, we remain like that, Question Mark’s head on my lap. I continue
petting him, as if it still made any difference. I don't know how long we spend
in this way. Motionless and empty, his body is still the same body I have seen
around me all these years, moving or still, going through the rituals of doggie
life. How can this same body be so empty, so cold?
I bury him in the back yard, under the fir tree. He liked to lie here in the
summertime. From here, he could watch over all of his territory and be certain
that no trespasser invaded our domain. When one did try, his stay on our
property did not last. Question Mark spent days and days chewing his trophy –
the invader’s shoe he was able to grab while the poor fellow escaped the same
way he had arrived, over the fence. Question Mark looked so happy and proud of
himself. Those were the days!
But I must get back to work. I head for the lab. Now it’s just me and my
equipment. Fortunately, we are good friends. More than good friends. I’m working
on a summary for my article. I need to write the summary first, just in case.
A few hours pass. The work is going well, but my forehead begins to itch. What
is that all about? I’m tempted to scratch it. No, I should better take a look. I
go to the bathroom and examine it in the mirror. Nothing much: just a lesion. I
get the ointment. I don't mind using the same jar. This experiment is almost
complete.