A. MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS

A Photocopy of My Soul
The Experiment

I get 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.  To be more specific, he tries to trot.  His legs have become affected.  It’s a strange effect, like arthritis, although the physiological causes are different.  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,” He wags his tail.  But he doesn’t look happy.  He’s not good at pretending.  Absent-mindedly, he bites at one of the red infected spots on his right front leg.  “Come on, let’s go treat your lesions.” 

            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 must help with the itch. 

            It’s time to get back to work.  We don't have much time to finish this experiment.  The lab is dark and sad, just like it always is when not in use.  I turn the lights on.  The unit is waiting to be activated, its healing capac ity hindered by the missing electricity.  I flip the switch. 

            The recent weeks have been a whirlwind of activity.  But Question Mark is not doing very well.  He has not eaten in two days.  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 we began the experiment.  It took us too long to fine-tune the unit – too long for Question Mark to take advantage of its promise, enough for him to suffer the effects of its unperfected power.  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, 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 head to the lab.  He follows. 

            This is the last time he follows me. 

Another day goes by.  Question Mark remains in one spot, his favorite rug next to the cactus in the living room.  His sad eyes are focused on me, apologizing for his failure to assist me in my daily motions.  I spend some time with him.  I try to engage him with an offer that ordinarily he wouldn't be able to refuse.  His favorite squeaky penguin toy, its nylon fur an utter mess from years of saliva and dust, one side cracked and ready to split.  My advances elicit no interest.  He just wags his tail slightly as if saying sorry.  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’m alone in my lab.  Fortunately, in this realm everything is coming together.  The results are consistent.  The lab mice, which used to die by the dozen, are happy and eerily energetic.  The work is nearly finished.  I get absorbed in it, so much so that when I check the time, four hours have passed.  I’m hungry.  I turn the unit 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 furry ball of brown chasing squirrels in the back yard.  He has never been 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? 

            It’s all set up.  I call the vet.  They are ready for us.  I have the sedative they gave me during our last visit.  A small plastic pouch with two yellow tablets.  I find it in the refrigerator.  It’s on the palm of my hand, and I stare at it, frozen, weighing my options.  Finally, I decide against it.  Question Mark is already quite subdued.  He will be OK without the tranquilizer. 

            I help him into the car.  I remember the times when his excitement at the prospect of a car trip knew no end, and he would leap onto the back seat the second the door was opened.  Not now.  I feel awkward as I shove him in.  We have not practiced this.  He looks embarrassed. 

            The drive is short, and Question Mark is able to disembark on his own.  I wish we had forgotten something at home so we could go back. 

            The receptionist knows us.  She doesn't make eye contact.  Her manner is brusque, businesslike, disapproval apparent in every gesture.  Or am I just reading this into her busy behavior? 

            “It’s time,” I say, just to say something. 

            “I’ll let the doctor know.”

            A minute or two, and the doctor comes out to meet us.  His attitude is not as merciless, as if he can see the point of my research.  We discussed it last time I was here. 

Is there a point?

We are taken to one of the reception rooms.  We have been here before. 

            “Do you need a couple of minutes?”

            I nod, and the doctor walks out. 

            “So, here we are, buddy.  Here we are.” Tears are welling up in my eyes, and I am unable to control myself.  “I’m so sorry.”  Question Mark looks at me with so much devotion.  I could swear he knows what’s going on.  “Will you forgive me?”

            I know he already has.  And I realize: somehow, I wish he hadn't.  It would have been more fair.  I wrap my arms around his neck, his head under my chin.  We just remain like that.  He licks my neck.  Is there an elegant way to say good bye under these circumstances?  Is there an elegant way to say good bye?

The doctor returns too soon.  

            “Can you please lift him up?”

I place Question Mark on the metal table.  He looks at me inquisitively, but doesn't fight it.  The table is low, and as I sit down on the couch next to it, the dog shifts just a little, until his head is in my lap.  Electric clippers show up in the doctor’s hand, and with a menacing buzz, Question Mark’s right front leg is shaved, the beige of his skin strangely naked in an area free of lesions.  I hold his head while this is being done, and he licks my hand. 

            When everything is ready, I find myself trying to think of another step, something else that must be accomplished before we get to the final chapter.  But there is nothing left to do, no further excuses, no conceivable delays.  I have practiced this scene, imagined it for weeks, but now that I am actually in the middle of it, I feel utterly unprepared. 

            The doctor gets out a syringe.  A cheerfully pink solution inside it – how inappropriate.  A skillful movement, the needle easily sliding into the vein. 

            I hadn't expected such a rapid effect.  A few twitches, the electricity of death.  A gurgle in his belly, a final gasp, bladder discharge, and then – stillness, as the yellow liquid spreads on the table next to his body.  It’s happening too fast, yet in slow motion.  The doctor mops up the urine with a paper towel.  He carefully listens to his stethoscope, his stare focused on the emptiness over my head.  He nods.  Questions Mark’s eyes are still open, and I am struck with a strange dilemma: should I close them like they do when people die? 

I close them. 

            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.  I don't notice the doctor’s moves.  Motionless and empty, this dog’s body is still the same one 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 vacant?  

            Next, I find myself carrying Question Mark to the car.  My mind does not register the intermediate scenes.  Tears are streaming down my face.  I have already decided what to do with the body.  Even if it’s not proper procedure. 

            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. 

            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.  I’m tempted to scratch it.  I limp to the bathroom and examine it in the mirror.  Nothing much: just another lesion.  I get the ointment.  I don't mind using the same jar.  This experiment is almost complete. 

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