Pavlov's Dog postscript

Pavlov's Dog is a piece I wrote for my high school writing class. The challenge was to take the line, 'A man shot his neighbour's dog.' and turn it into a story. It was a group brainstorming lesson, with the only requirement being a short pitch to the class. Of course we did great, Corinne, Jay, Jason and I. Unfortunately, I do not recall who had what suggestions for the story.

I had every intention of writing that story, but sadly, school was not my place. I dropped out shortly after this.

The reason I would like to share this is because this whole story taught me many things. It was one of my first artistic successes, following a great fall. Later, it both stroked, and tempered my ego. It also showed me a path forward.

Dropping out of high school was a major turning point for me. I wasn't really into the way things were taught there so I was better off on my own. I did my thing. Smoked some pot, worked, read, slacked like no one's business. Freedom was good to me. But I had to go back. I knew it. I wouldn't be happy with myself if I didn't graduate high school.

I fought my way to a writing class with Kay Levings. I apologize if that is spelled incorrectly. She loved creative writing of all kinds. She was one of those teachers, proud of her 'if you can't do it, teach it' mantras. Remembering her, that joy she had, her bubbly passion for everything words. Our final assignment was a short story.

I struggled with this. I wanted to present something unique and original. If any of you write, you'll know, forcing it just doesn't work. I had this opening line for a story, but nothing more. I still remember it.

Deimos, servant of Mars, ever tumbling.

I still kind of like it. Needs something good to follow it though. At the time though, that's all I had. No story, no conflict, no structure, nothing. I had to scrap it.

I knew Pavlov's Dog was there, but I was reluctant to use it. I feel like I cheated sometimes, borrowing from my classmates like I did, but in the end, they could have easily taken the idea and ran with it. Honestly I wonder if they even remember the assignment. That being said, I took this premise from memory. There are no notes of that lesson as far as I know.

In my memory, once I landed on revisiting that outline, the story almost wrote itself. I'm proud to say it is a huge part of one of the only A's I ever got in school. I know now that it isn't much. But at the time is was a major victory for me. Things like this don't come easy for me. Following through with great ideas has always been a struggle. It showed me what perseverance looks like. It is probably responsible for getting me into art school in a roundabout way. The way it taught me to push hard to follow through, to really think a story through so all the parts come together in the end. To keep on towards a goal.

Funny thing this art school thing. One of my classmates at Cap College (now university) was taking a creative writing class as his English requirement. One day he came up to me and asked my last name. "Pete," he said, "your last name is Speers, right?"

"Yeah," I say, not knowing what he's getting at.

"My English teacher is teaching a story you wrote."

Turns out Crawford Kilian had got hold of my story and was doing something with it. Still not sure what, but having my name mentioned by a published writer and college professor was huge. Of course, I had no idea what to do with that other than to wear it as a badge in my heart. I've told a few people here and there, but I generally keep it as a little private spot of inspiration. In hindsight, I should have gone to talk to him. I suppose it could have lead somewhere. But then, I was never into networking.

My process was built on this story. Now a day, it start with some kind of vision, a moment, a few words and builds outwards from there. Sometimes it is a song I'll try to write, or a drawing that just needs more. A poem that just doesn't work. They all end up as stories. I'll share more like this as time goes on, so please, stay here with me.

Short Story - Pavlov's Dog

Pavlov's Dog

By Peter Speers, 1995

    

    A dog was barking.

    Young Boris walked down the stairs from his room to see about all the commotion. A man was shouting and someone was banging on the front door. Boris knew something terrible was coming; he could hear his mother praying for mercy in Hebrew. He peered around the corner and saw his father with his shoulder against the door. The door was beginning to break, and Boris' mother began to cry.

    A dog was barking.

    Boris awoke, startled by a dream. He walked to his bathroom and shook the ringing feel of the dream out of his ears. It was as if he was hearing something forgotten long ago. As usual, he turned his shower on. He ran the water a little warm to cope with the chill Vancouver morning emphasized by the cold sweat of a nightmare. Other than a warm shower, his routine was unchanged. He shaved, ate a bowl of oatmeal, put on his uniform and went to work.

    The snow was hard and old in early February. It was still cold enough for snow to fall, but it was a dry season. Boris watched his breath hit the icy air when he walked to the bus stop. Of course, he arrived right on time to meet his colleague driving the late shift.

    "Morning, Boris," said Mick. "The stars are up, so you'll probably be safe from fresh snow, eh?" The driver smiled and Boris returned the gesture before he seated himself near the front of the bus.

    He rode only as far as the depot, where he signed in and received the keys to the bus he had been driving for the day. He found the bus and sat down in the driver's seat. Driving a bus was a career Boris enjoyed. People were polite and had no desire to ask questions Boris would rather avoid answering. His past and his Jewish heritage troubled him. The reason he left Germany was to escape the memories and the horror. Vancouver was a place where he could blend in. His passengers smiled, paid their fares, and quietly sat down. He always read his morning paper cover to cover, only avoiding the sports section and any article that mentioned world war two.

    He was born in 1936, in Berlin. His guardians told him he lost his parents to a fate he somehow survived. They died, unknown, in a concentration camp. Boris never remembered them, and was raised by others who had survived the atrocities.

    That cold day in February was no different from any other in Boris' long career. He delivered his passengers on time and made no mistakes. He shared a few words with some of the other drivers on breaks at the loop. At the end of the day, Boris rode the bus home where he quietly ate alone. He never married. He felt he had nothing to share in his life, and he was content with his solitude.

    A dog was barking.

    Young Boris was peering around the corner at his father. His father was sweating and howling with fear. Some one was pounding on the door and shouting in a language Boris didn't under stand. The heavy wooden door splintered open and Boris' father fell to the ground. Something terrible was coming.

    A dog was barking, and Boris' mother was crying.

    The next morning Boris awoke with the familiar but somehow forgotten ring in his ears. After his shower, he managed to shake the chilling remnant of a sound, but he began to worry about the contents of the disturbing dream. His oatmeal was his usual hot breakfast. He absently stirred it as he ate, wondering in his quiet way, "what is that sound?" The sound itself was long forgotten, hardly disturbing by itself, but that it was part of his dream gave him a chill.

    His day was uneventful as usual. People came and went and he drove his bus carefully. He was silent at the loop that day, thinking about that strange sound and what it could mean. No one on coffee break saw anything odd about Boris' lack of conversation as he was consistently a quiet man. No incident interrupted his solitude for the rest of the day.

    A dog was barking, and his mother was crying.

    Boris coldly watched his father collapse under the broken front door. Two men wearing brown shirts stormed into the apartment waving rifles. Boris' mother screamed. Boris closed his eyes as the terror filled his mother's voice.

    A dog was barking.

    Boris awoke terrified. He opened his eyes expecting to see an old house from the inside. He saw his own bedroom, with its bare walls. He shuddered at the cold morning, fear sinking his heart in icy blood. Boris rose and crossed the carpet to his bathroom. He ran the water hot to rinse the chill away. He shivered, and dried himself before he shaved. His ears were still ringing with the horrible, forgotten sound. He ate, barely tasting his oatmeal.

    It was still dark when he walked out the door, but he didn't notice. In the winter, he was expecting the dark morning. The sun had only recently begun to rise before Boris was on his way to work. It was a clear morning, and Boris' boots crunched over the frosty snow on his way to the bus stop. Mick arrived driving the bus after Boris waited for a few moments, but he was lost in thought and didn't notice the time passing. Mick was almost shocked to see Boris mounting the steps on to the bus. Boris sort of half smiled to Mick and sat in his usual spot near the front of the bus. Mick just shrugged it off and resumed his route.

    Boris went home at the normal hour, just after sunset, and spotted his neighbour walking his dog down the street. They met at the walk into their common yard. "Good afternoon, Boris," said his newest neighbor.
  
    “Hello,” Boris began, "Jeremy, is it?”
  
    “Right you are, Boris," Jeremy cheerfully replied.

    They walked up to the house and waved goodbye. Boris climbed his stairs and settled in to his quiet evening.

    A dog was barking.
  
    After the sound of young Boris' mother retreated into the distance, the barking of a dog was all he could hear. His eyes were shut tight and tears were leaking through. He sat against the wall wishing for the dog's mocking laughter to end.

    A dog was barking.

    Boris was crying when he woke. It was a strange sensation. His throat was tight and sore, and his
cheeks were wet. In all the forty-odd years he could remember, crying was something new to him. He sat on the side of his bed, terrified. The ringing was horrible and he clutched his head between his hands. He couldn't make a sound.

    Boris was feeling bad that morning. For the first time in his long career, he called in to the depot. He said he couldn't make it in that day. He sat alone, brooding over his tormenting nightmare. The ring was clear in his ears, and pulsed with the beat of his heart. He cried when he closed his eyes and the ring became a strong stab in his head. The day was long and he didn't eat or shower or shave.

    A dog was barking.
  
    Young Boris prayed to his god, as his parents had taught him to do when he was afraid. The terror didn't ebb. He couldn't make a sound for fear the men would return for him. He opened his eyes and saw the wreckage of the front door to his home. Somewhere outside a dog was barking. He softly walked to the window and peered out into the street. Between the dogs boisterous barks he could hear other women scream. There was a truck in the street and his neighbours were being herded into the carrier.

    Somewhere, a dog was barking.

    Boris awoke with a sandy taste in his mouth. He was ravenous, a painful hunger that drowned out the ring in his ears. He hurried into his kitchen where he could make his oatmeal. He impatiently watched the water boil. His stomach twisted in anticipation of his morning meal. Boiled oats cooked slowly. Boris ate as if he hadn't eaten a real meal in years. He finished his meal quickly, looked at his clock and saw he was short some time. He showered in haste and neglected to shave. He threw on his uniform and hurried to the stop where Mick was already waiting.

    "Boris," Mick said, "what's going on? One day you're early, the next you don't even show? What's wrong, mate?"

    "Rather not talk about it, Mick," Boris tersely answered. His eyes shifted worriedly and he sat almost where he stood.

    A dog was barking.

    Boris walked down the stairs from his room. He was in a different house, where it seemed to him he had been before. There was a silent rushing in his ears, waves crashing rhythmically, growing louder. He peered around the corner and saw a woman, her lips moving, silently forming a prayer to a merciful god. A man struggled with the front door. The door was pounding with the ringing, quiet shout in Boris' head. He stumbled around the corner, as the sound became unbearable. The door shattered without a sound. it was all so odd; half-remembered visions and men in dark shirts were rushing in. His breath was noiseless, or just lost behind the numb roar filling his mind. Something outside was calling to him. He walked past the men carrying the man and the woman, down some stairs somehow familiar. In the yard, a dog was calling. A german shepherd was throwing its soundless voice at the people rushing and struggling.

    A sleeping Boris rose from his bed. His eyes were open, glassy, and unaware. His long, slow stride led him to a closet. Sleeping hands turned the knob and knowingly reached for an old case. His fingers went directly to the case he'd only once before opened. If he had been awake, this would have been the second time his eyes had seen this case, and what lay inside. His thumbs lifted a pair of latches, and raised the black leather lid. A rifle, shining and preserved rested in red velvet. The bolt-action firing pin of the World War Two relic was cocked, ready to fire the bullet in the chamber. Boris raised the rifle and walked to his balcony over looking the backyard. He took subconscious aim at the source of his pain. And Boris shot his neighbour's dog.