And so, after all, his acquaintance with the languages of dogs, frogs, and birds was of as much use to him as if he had been a man of great learning.
—Grimm's Fairy Tales
Pooch does not want to sink into licentiousness. Perhaps if she comports herself with the utmost decorum.... But already the aphrodisiac is beginning to take effect and Pooch's mind turns, of its own accord, to the pale, thin young man with tan eyes and tan hair who must have been the one singing the part of Escamillo. She feels sure that, were he here, he would be as kind to her as her beloved master used to be. Hadn't she seen that in his eyes? Hadn't she smelled it? Why, even the faint whiff of sexual interest? Perhaps he lives nearby and might rescue her any minute now. She would say yes to him. Yes, yes, yes, and yes, she thinks (remembering Joyce's Ulysses).... But Pooch knows this is only a silly wish that cannot be.
Several little yelps of passion now escape her in spite of herself. Quite uncouth, really, and then she, along with the other two, falls across the king-sized bed in a semiswoon, her master, the pale young man, the dark, evil (or perhaps only misguided) doctor, and even the psychologist, all swirling together into a single sexy being.
Meanwhile, at the little opera house on Third Avenue, they have found the rolled-up blue smock with what looks like blood on it and have turned it over to the police, whom the pale-eyed young man has just reluctantly told of the young thing at the stage door dressed in what he now realizes were bits and pieces from the cast-off costumes of Cavaleria Rusticana; and the doctor, with bandage on neck and shoulder and looking quite out of character in sneakers and sweatshirt, is skulking about in an entirely different part of town ordering every creature he sees, from Pekinese to canary, to take him to their leader and to be quick about it. At the New York City Opera they have just lost another top soprano, who has run off with a trumpeter swan; and in government offices as well as in institutions of higher learning, secret meetings are in session this very morning on the topic of motherhood. What, for instance, are the alternatives to it should worse come to worst? A decision has already been made to outlaw from the human race all creatures except primates (and of those, only the ones who have passed a certain level of expertise) in order to preserve, as well as possible, future generations from contamination with inferior and outlandish genes. It's a question of priorities, and for once motherhood and related topics seem to be at the top of the list, though it's true they are hoping to find ways of eliminating it altogether. Already research is being done not only in in vitro fertilization but also in the coupling of the germ cells from the male only. The present problem would be solved, then, by simply going around it. In the future one would not need to create any humans (so-called humans, that is, for a great deal of doubt has been cast on the status of women as human beings all through the ages of course, but now in particular) ... at any rate, one would no longer need to create beings with two x chromosomes at all.
And at this moment the president is preparing a talk for television to be aired that very night on the need for control—control in all its myriad forms. Control of self first, of course, for if men cannot control themselves then who can? Second, control of mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, and assorted pets. If all men become responsible for their unruly kin, the basic problem will be solved. Rebellious and grotesque relatives must be caged one way or another, fenced off in wilderness areas or confined to attics, kept out of sight at the very least. Last, and most important of all, of course, is control of the world in general. Masters must be masterful. Governments must remain adamant. And the president will make it perfectly clear that the first priority is not, after all, the question of motherhood, for that question is being solved this very moment by the best research teams in laboratories all across this great land of ours as well as all across other lesser lands; no, the first priority is the question of control. We need have, he will say, no fear that the researchers will fail, and so we dare risk everything.
All this while Pooch, though she could be said to be completely out of control, has managed to get through to early afternoon with her virginity intact, partly with the help of Chloe (a masterful and graceful contortionist) and partly because they are all three exhausted long before any such climax is called for. Pooch does learn a lot, though, that she has not even suspected before. Knowledge that may stand her in good stead later on, though she hopes she will be able to use it with someone for whom she has some real feelings. She had not been aware until now, for instance, of the exquisite sensitivity of the breasts, and especially had not been aware that the nipples of the male are, or so it seems, as sensitive as those of the female; nor had she realized the potential for pleasure of the backs of the knees, not to mention the toes and the bottoms of the feet. She also had not realized the many ways that music, ribbons, belts, pepper, and guacamole could be used.
At last, around one in the afternoon, they all three fall asleep, strewn every which way across the bed, Chloe with her arm around Pooch, the fat man's fat leg across both of them, his head on Chloe's back between her shoulder blades. He is now wearing nothing but a black leather posing cup with a large zipper up the center (zipped, as of now) and several heavy bracelets and, of course, the key around his neck. Chloe is wearing a great deal of jewelry. Pooch is wearing the same fringed scarf and the beads and earrings she came in with, though nothing else. There are bruiselike kiss marks on the bodies of both young females.
Of course they are no sooner sound asleep than the baby begins to cry. Pooch drags herself out from under the other two to go see to it, but the baby, usually so easy to calm or to distract, will not stop crying. Pooch wonders if perhaps the sleeping potion disagreed with it. The fat man groans with rage. Chloe lets out a couple of howls of the sort that only a Siamese can make, which set the baby off all the louder. There is no place to go but the kitchen, but now the baby is yelling so loudly that, even with the door shut, it's too much for the other two. The fat man pulls off his key, hands it to Chloe, and pushes her off the bed with his feet. “Get that bitch and that brat out of here,” he tells her.
Chloe is, at once, wide awake, her eyes calculating slits, a slight grin at the corners of her mouth. She gets Pooch and the baby out of the kitchen (also grabbing a half pint of cream, a stick of butter, and a small container of smoked oysters). They dress quickly. Chloe, hiding her jewels under a high-necked white dress, looks as though she has stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. All the while the baby (stiff with rage or stomachache, hard to tell which) is screaming and the fat man has a pillow over his head. Chloe unlocks the front door and then locks it carefully behind them and puts the gold chain with golden key around her neck, dropping it under her dress with the rest of her jewelry.
"Are you interested in universal questions such as the ultimate fate of creatures like ourselves?"
Pooch nods vigorously yes, but then motions to the crying baby.
"Come on, then, or we'll be late. I saw a flier about it. Perhaps if I give the baby some butter when we get there. Anyway, one of us will be able to go and maybe we can take turns."
The motion of their walking, the sights along the street, and the fresh air all seem to calm the baby, but only a little. It still cries vigorously, and yet looks out at everything.
Back at the opera house on Third Avenue a meeting is about to take place. Representative females from many parts of the city as well as from New Jersey, Westchester, Long Island, and even a contingent from Baltimore, are gathering. Pooch and Chloe find that there is a place to drop off children, and the baby no sooner sees the other children than it stops crying and begins to shout enthusiastically, “Bop, bop, bop!” Pooch is rather upset to see that, when faced with a choice of snacks including sunflower seeds, sardines, and dog biscuits, the baby chooses the dog biscuits. She is wondering if she is a bad influence on it.
After seeing that the baby is settled and happy and gnawing its biscuit, Chloe and Pooch, not sure that they really should be there, hurry into the theater and sit in the back row at the side.
The stage is quite different from what it was when Pooch crept in and watched from the wings the day before. Now there is a large green banner across the top with spcac on it. Just as the pound is now in the hands of the men, the spca has been taken over by the females and is now known as the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to All Creatures. (Pooch guesses instantly that that is what it stands for.) Bide-A-Wee, a sister organization, operates a Long Island retreat and rest home for those who have exhausted themselves in the service of their cause, though there is some risk of picking up distemper there if one hasn't had one's shots. Also their animal cemetery is one of the few places where females can be buried without question because these days the regular cemeteries won't allow females unless it can be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that there were no animal qualities creeping out in them.
"Does the female have a soul?” is discussed from many a pulpit these days. Sermons are preached to an almost-all-male congregation, for the females seem to have lost interest in everything but the quality of the earth under their feet and their own fascinating bodies, or so the men say. Also, according to the men, the females sometimes even look up at the stars with equanimity as though the universe were the most natural thing in the world and as if the stars belonged to them. But this is a dreadful denigration. The females have, if anything, the opposite point of view. They believe that the stars, if they belong to anyone, certainly belong to the men, or to other higher beings.
Chloe and Pooch hunch low in their seats and try to look inconspicuous, but of course many notice them and wonder who the two beautiful young things are, so unlike each other both in dress and manner, one so feline and so Vogue, the other so canine and so gypsy, yet here they lean their heads together, dozing in spite of the uncomfortable seats.
Suddenly everyone stands up and begins to clap in all their various ways. If they can't clap, they stamp and they all shout out. Pooch, half asleep, wonders why they seem to be calling out, “Rosemary, Rosemary!” Can they really be saying Rosemary, or is this part of her dream? Pooch stands up with the others, still groggy, and is shocked into complete wakefulness. There, coming out on stage, are not one but several Rosemarys, eight of them to be exact ... eight doctor's wives, one of them more hunched over than the others, and, even so, much larger. This one comes forward to center stage and breathes into the microphone in asthmatic groans audible even above the racket. Slowly she straightens to her full six feet six. Her gray clothes split apart down the middle, and as they fall to her feet she pulls up under her chin and lifts off the Rosemary mask. She is still, somehow, Rosemary. One can tell it's basically the same person. Whoever the others are, one knows that this is the one to whom the original Rosemary face belonged and upon which the others are modeled; but what a Rosemary! This is Rosemary the abominable. The abominable snowman ... or, rather, snowwoman. Savage, silvery white, and abominable, but abominable in all the best ways: abominable to contemplate, abominable to meet in the mountains as well as on the streets of the city, wonderfully abominable and on their side! Now she is naked (that is, she is wearing nothing but her heavy fur) except for a green, tan, and brown camouflage vest full of pockets. All the pockets are, obviously, stuffed. She raises her arms above her head for quiet.
Pooch is barking joyously, for the first time not ashamed of her animal sounds, for in this place, and next to Chloe's caterwaulings, hers seems as appropriate a sound as any other. Besides, they are all sisters. They are in this together and here it clearly doesn't matter what sort of beast you are, or came from, or will one day be. How wonderful, Pooch thinks, to be whatever one really is, even if half dog and even if something of the savage wolf, as has proven to be the case with her.
They quickly quiet down, however, under Rosemary's fierce yet calm gaze, until the only sound is that in-and-out of her growling breath at the microphone. Then from behind her the other seven Rosemarys step forward and remove their masks and Pooch is again shocked. She cannot help giving a little yelp. The main Rosemary notices her and acknowledges her with a little wink and an ambiguous smile that looks quite like the old Rosemary she knew from the beginning when everyone at the doctor's was wondering if she was really on their side or not. Pooch can see that she has been forgiven her outburst just now and that Rosemary knows why she did it.
For there, on the stage, one of the smaller creatures taking off a Rosemary mask has turned out to be none other than Basenji! Alive! And dressed, under her Rosemary grays, à la Zouave. Basenji looks strong and fierce and African. She is grinning a wicked grin and seems quite unlike her old shy self. Pooch is overjoyed and thinks that she can now rewrite her poem into an ode to the return of a dear, dear friend—not dead after all, but more alive, it seems, than ever and part of a special Rosemary movement. Or perhaps she should write an entirely new haiku (later on, of course, when she feels calmer and more rested) in which Basenji's sleeve brushes something as she goes by, a chrysanthemum probably, and by that subtle gesture the reader will know that she is alive after all. Not the sleeve perhaps, but the voluminous Zouave trousers and, of course, not chrysanthemum, but daisy or wild iris. Yes, wild iris. But, oh, Pooch thinks, if only I too could wear a Rosemary mask like Basenji does. Could be worthy of the honor of it.
But now Rosemary is speaking and her voice is not at all the soft, somewhat wheezy whispering of the Rosemary in the doctor's basement. Clearly that was her way of disguising what her voice had become. Now it rasps out, half roar, half asthmatic attack and as if she must speak slowly in order to get the consonants out clearly. Before she quite gets started there are isolated cries of “a, c! a, c!” scattered throughout the hall and one or two of “All creatures!” Paws, hooves, wings, and fingers raised, pointing toward the ceiling, though actually, in meaning, pointing to the sky, as in “the sky's the limit."
"'Wake and listen,'” Rosemary is saying, “Nietzsche said it. ‘From the future come winds and secret wing beats; and good tidings are proclaimed to delicate ears. You shall one day be the people.’ Yes, let the masks be put aside. May we all soon go about as our real selves and take joy in it, saying, yes, yes, to whatever we are."
Everyone calls out, “Yes to me.” Pooch, as loud as any of the others, makes what sound she can that comes closest to yes. I will never again be ashamed of what I am, she thinks, and not only not ashamed of myself but not of any other creature no matter how small or wretched or ignorant, and no matter if I can only speak in grunts. I will even honor my voice though it is now a bark and a far cry from what it once was. Tears are flowing across her downy cheeks and onto her lips and she licks them up. Isn't this one of the things the psychologist had been telling her all along? And yet she was not ready to hear it. Hadn't he said something about, if you are not you, who will be you? Who, indeed, she wonders, will be Pooch, if not she?
Rosemary is continuing. “They say we are suffering from a dangerous, virulent form of cancer. Is this cancer?” She holds her great glistening arms out on each side and turns around, doing a little dance step, surprisingly graceful for one so large and heavy. She shimmies, making fun of herself, and colors ripple on her iridescent shadow sides.
"Are these cancers?” Rosemary points to the others on the stage and now Basenji and all of them turn around, each doing her own little dance step. Basenji does a dance that looks rather Egyptian. Pooch recognizes it as such from her knowledge of Aïda.
"And now you!” Rosemary roars it out, and they all get up and dance around in their various ways, changing places and kissing and hugging each other. Pooch holds, in turn, the coarse haired, the soft haired, dry scales, stiff back feathers, downy front ones, warm bare skin.... It feels good.
"Must one call this a disease? And if so isn't it rather some sort of disease of waking up? So I say go ahead, make a noise and let the breasts flop. We'll be there no matter where they look, however far off into the distance it may be. No promontory without one of us, no heath or tundra or oasis.
"And I want to tell you where else they will be seeing us, for, as of yesterday, the circus belongs to us! It's no longer Barnum and Bailey's, but Virginia, Jane, and Corinne's. Though I must say that the circus has always been good to us as well as to the very small and the very large."
Of course everyone shouts “Hooray” at the good news. Pooch feels encouraged because, if worse should come to worst and her voice never returns to her, perhaps she could get some sort of job there, however humble it might be. She would certainly be happy, though of course not as happy as if she were an opera star, but happy enough even if useful only to bring the elephant lady her buckets of tea.
And now Rosemary has squatted down on her haunches, her big arms hanging in front of her and her voice softer, and everyone settles back again and is quiet.
"What of motherhood? you are asking. Many of you have read of that in the papers. But having the baby, that's the easy part. It's what happens after that that they have to solve. Up all night many a night and all day, too. One poor parent is hardly enough. So let not, now or ever, one creature stand in the place of two or two kinds.
"What of the fear of success in all of us females? you are asking, but I say it is not a question of success at all. To stand on the mountain top with flags is not our way, nor should it be. Ask yourselves, can the sea do without the shore, or the fire neglect its fuel? Can seeds fly to their sprouting places without the wind? Does smoke rise without air? None exist without partners. It is high time. Yes, high time! And times to come, as high or higher...."
But there are sounds of scuffling and shouts from the lobby. Quickly the seven other “Rosemarys” on stage help the huge white Rosemary back into her gray dress and mask so that when the dozen or so policemen burst through the doors, guns drawn, there is only this frightened, hunched-over little old lady at the front of the stage.
"Quiet! Don't anybody move!"
But no one is moving and there's no need to call for quiet.
"Give us the one called Isabel and we'll leave you to your Ladies Auxiliary.” The tallest one is saying it, but he is not as tall, by any means, as Rosemary when she stands up straight. “Which one is she?” He's not asking that question of all of them, but of a pale young man, tan sweater, tan pants, tan hair, tan eyes, standing beside him. It is the pale young man of the day before. Pooch sees that he is staring straight at her. She flinches, shudders, but keeps looking back at him, not hangdog. For once not that, for her sisters here, and Rosemary's words, and Basenji, alive, have changed her. And yes, some electricity is passing between them in that look.
Now all the policemen are looking at her.
"Which is she? She's dangerous."
But the young man looks away and they all look away, too.
That utterly static ... that stopped, magic moment! As though they were alone. What had she seen in his eyes? What he in hers? A recognition? A kind of joy? She feels so glad to see him. Surely he won't.... He can't....
"Gold fringed scarf. Some of the fringe detached.” The big policeman is reading from a list. “Fake jade earrings. Plastic beads, torn skirt with broken zipper.... “It doesn't sound as nicely dressed as Pooch had, all this time, felt herself to be. But there's no time to dwell on that, she is already on the floor crawling and the others are rustling and moving, forming a sort of undulating audience in order to hide her as she makes her way not to the nearest exit, but toward the room where, a short time ago, she left the baby. And although Pooch doesn't know it, Chloe, also on the floor, her white dress already irreparably smudged, is heading in the opposite direction, and one or two others are crawling around in a similar fashion just to create confusion.
The policemen fire two shots into the ceiling and yell again for silence, which only causes more confusion. Some creatures deliberately become hysterical, though they have no idea how the police will react to them. But the men pay no attention, and separate at a command, a few to each exit. But by then Pooch is in the room with the children. While the men are rushing out and down the streets and alleyways, she rather tearfully (for she still likes them no matter how they were described) trades her scarves, beads, and earrings for paint rags and an old shirt the children had been using as a smock. Also (wonder of wonders), handed to her by the gentle nanny-goat-like creature in charge of the children, a Rosemary mask.
"Don't leave yet,” the creature says. “Might as well begin a painting."
Pooch finds that, distracted and frightened as she is, and though not good with colors, she has a bit of artistic talent besides being musical. She paints a portrait, quite a good likeness of her beloved master, though the eyes are definitely the eyes of her psychologist.