Pen Harrington jerked awake as the red liquid fire of a charleyhorse shot up his leg. The muscles of his lower back and upper thighs joined in a cantata of agony; they had shrunk to conform to his scissored slump over the kitchen table. He tried to stand but he was wedged in. He had been fighting his demons of despair for the past six hours and forty-two minutes, head in his hands, moving only ever so slightly to refill his cup. He had passed out in a chair and now he was trapped, stuck in this ridiculous position, his circulation gone, his limbs no longer his to command. He would never move, never walk, again.

Elegantly, exquisitely, the pain flowed up his legs to his back. His knees levitated, hitting the kitchen table and setting a half-full bottle of cut-rate bourbon to doing uncertain circles on its base.

"Dumb table." The bottle settled down, but a small pool spread out from his coffee cup, soaking into the bare wood. He put his hand in the spill and wiped it on his shirt. He would spend the remainder of his days at the center of an ever-contracting puddle of agony as his whole body joined in the spasm.

"Damn dumb table." He interpreted the spilled bourbon as a betrayal. That his own kitchen table would let him down thrust his agony into the background. Half rising, Pen grasped the table’s edges and began fine-tuning it, trying to reconcile its wobbly legs with the irregularities of the floor.

"Damned floor." Getting the thing level became a study in concentration, lining up the tumblers in an unfamiliar combination lock. The whole place was off plumb and out of true, but there was a magic spot where everything was steady and reliable, where the table sat steady. He had found it before; he could find it again. Shoulders wide and arms spread, like a bus driver taking a wide turn, Pen manhandled the table. As its four legs found their usual depressions in the linoleum the table corrected itself and the charleyhorse relaxed. The pain subsided.

"Good work, team." A celebratory draining of the coffee cup and he passed out again. From a far corner of the kitchen Pen's yellow Labrador retriever looked up curiously, scratched, stretched and rolled over hoping to have his belly rubbed. No luck, Pen had nodded off—nothing out of the ordinary, but a dog could hope. Prince scrabbled back into his favorite spot, wedged between the refrigerator and a steam radiator.

Once Pen Harrington had been young and eager and had prospered.  Once Pen Harrington owned a house. He still owned the house and thought of it from time to time. The winter winds, summer gales, the wet salt air, freezing fogs and Fundy southeasters had prized up the nails from its clapboards and rotted its sills, but the house still stood. Empty and without him, it teetered on the Moose City ledge, high above the tides, secure enough. He had bought it at a tax auction but he did not live there. Today, however, Pen was drunk and suffused with the warm, rosy feeling he might eventually get something done.

He visited the house in flights of sporadic fancy, toting a toolbox, with a baseball cap set back on his head, radiating steely determination and with a line of credit at the lumberyard. His good intentions accumulated non-negotiable credit in the Methodist afterlife his mother and aunts had promised him when he finished his vegetables and went quietly up to bed. His mother and aunts had then played cards. Pen Harrington grew up and drank. Not all the time, but the house went to hell anyway.

The last time he visited it the house had been standing empty for two years. The weather had come in through a broken window and heaved the floor but the joists and sills were serviceable though shaky and would hold, Pen estimated, till he got around to jacking up the house and sliding a new set in. This was all before Pen worked at the radio station. How long ago had that been now? Ten, eleven years. That it still stood he was sure, for the tax bills came regularly and on clear days he could make out its cranky roofline, differentiating it from its neighbors as they huddled on the ledge across Willipaq Bay. It was a thirty-mile drive. 

As a lad, Pen Harrington reveled in pastures watered by tourist dollars. A young goat, supple of knee and quick of breath, he had been content to nibble the flowers of the season. He had a job. He was a full-time counterman, selling auto parts; the closest he had come to show business were the weekend nights when he held forth with snappy yarns and a sympathetic ear as a part-time bartender at The Moose Island Casino―no gambling, only a pretentious restaurant with a cocktail lounge and an attached marina. There was no local trade, the Casino was priced way above affordability for the town; loose change was spent at the laundromat or the liquor store. The auto parts store saved Pen Harrington from becoming one of the shirtless dropouts who haunted the breakwater in summer, draped over the benches placed by a Rotary bake sale. They compared muscles and tattoos, got nice tans, drank beer and hustled tourist girls. Each fall they disappeared, drifting away to find work or death, never again to be thought of but by their immediate families. Generations of private schemes and public neglect had drained the area, left it bottomed out. The shriveling touch of government programs was still felt, albeit infrequently. This economic bleakness was the source of no small local pride. The downeasters figured things were so bad now, tomorrow was a shoo-in. Moose City felt itself recession-proof. The Casino was open from Memorial Day through Labor Day and was a popular landfall for the yachting crowd, a pleasant detour on the Long Island, Bar Harbor, Nova Scotia loop.

Pen Harrington believed in smart money—credit made people stupid. He was raised with the ideals of almanac wisdom and had seen nothing in his then twenty-one years to make him feel differently. There was a texture of money about the boats and Pen liked that. He had practiced the limited conventicles of human lust and emotional attachments in all available positions and modalities and decided they were sad and few for all the folklore surrounding them. He entered into no long-term attachments. As his laughing, carefree customers across the bar saw themselves reflected in Pen’s eyes, so he saw himself reflected in theirs. He was witty, he was fun; they were witty, they were fun. That was not the way things were supposed to go between the servers and the served. Pen lost his day job at the auto parts store, and when the sun set on labor Day 1977, the Casino went bankrupt. He had no prospects, no companions and he was drunk, thirty miles and thirty years away from where he now sat, passed out in a puddle of spilled bourbon.

Prince had settled between Pen's feet where he twitched with the private anomie of a dog dream. And his ear itched. That exquisite itch that could never totally satisfied—his favorite kind. Still asleep, Prince flopped over onto his hindquarters and scratched at his ear. From his collar a jingling of interlocking links rang a percussive counterpoint.

"No superpowers today? I would have thought one such as you would not be troubled by an everyday affliction of the flesh." Prince looked up. Interesting dream—he was somewhere underground and the walls were speaking to him. The walls were striped green and white with mineral accretions. The head of a large animal, a cow, looked down and nodded wisely. It had a secret. "I know who you are," said the Cow.

"So do I," said Prince. "May I have a sniff?" He ranged about seeking the Cow's hindquarters but they were embedded in the stone of the wall. Prince raised a leg.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the stone head.  "I am a sphinx. Cleopatra loved me."

Prince put down the leg. "Silly, you are a cow. Champion Guernsey milker by the look of you," said the great yellow Lab. Prince had seen cows on the cartons of milk Pen Harrington struggled home with. "Cleopatra is a name for a cat. You are not a cat, you are a cow." He was surprised that he had made words but this seemed nothing out of the ordinary, so he let it pass.

"I am an allegorical figure to confound all who come my way," said the Cow. "I am the guardian of the castle of the Dancing lords."

"You are a silly cow and you are deep underground."

"As are you, silly dog. I was once high atop the postern gate. Fierce I was. But the parts you refer to—those that would produce milk and tell me if I were a common cow or, indeed, like the ancient guardians of the Hittites and Sumerians, a great, giant horrific charging bull, full with the blood of kings are alas embedded in the stones. You will have to take me on trust."

"Believe, me, you are a cow. Milk smells bad." The cows and their cartons were torn open to take the bite out of too-strong coffee, then forgotten and left to spoil.

"And you are a silly dog and no olfactory beauty yourself. If I am a sphinx and confidante of Cleopatra, then I am reputed to have information. All the stories say this. There are no stories about silly dogs."

"I have heard stories." Prince had heard stories of trouble and women, basketball and the weather, smelled the heady thick perfume of beer, basketball and crispy cheese snacks. Pen and Harry Pease told stories for hours as he curled close to the wood stove under the crackling glare of Harry's television.

"You have heard but you have not listened. Any reliable tale would have reported that you are an uneducated dog. You have listened but not heard, the wind blowing through a hollow tree. You sleep on the floor and drink of the natterings of foolish old men. Your head is empty if you do not crave knowledge and wisdom that it brings. This is about to change."

"I, I..." The ideas—wisdom and knowledge—were strong and bigger than he was. Prince had no words to reply.

In his mind, a dream within a dream,  A chestnut horse lay at rest in the meadow, knees tucked in under its glistening body. A child, a young girl with a length of red hair tumbling over her shoulders, lay at full length atop the horse, stroking its long nose, whispering reassurances—an exchange of confidences. The child was naked. The horse kept his head turned away, pretending indifference as he nibbled watercress, but his eyes rolled backwards in their sockets, riveted on Prince. Clutching at the horse's mane with her hand, the child leaned over to caress his head. "Speak, dog," said the Wise Child.

Prince's lips parted. He licked the tip of his nose for reassurance, and spoke. "Wisdom is conferred. And a riddle is what you are said to have for me before I may pass this point." He spoke the words even as he realized he did not understand what they meant. Words, he had words.

"Had you wanted to pass this point?" asked the Cow, getting along with things.

"Not really," said Prince. "I am happy just where I am, in the kitchen on the linoleum. Here there are smells and kibble."

"Here," said the Cow. Well, since you are somewhere, you obviously know part of the answer to my riddle already. There are three ways to get anywhere—the way you know, the way someone has told you and the way that is intuited for you."

"I am already here, so that leaves two."

The Wise Child swung down from her horse's back and threw her arms around his neck. "Very clever, Holy Dog, but you were ever in the way of outsmarting yourself. Careful, lad. Don’t set your self up with a lifetime of misery just to show off. And show off to whom? A Cow stuck in a wall? Oh, really, silly hound." The Cow pretended to chew its cud.

"Gotta have a smoke." Pen's eyelids fluttered as false dawn was gloaming, its long rays competing with the fluorescent ring in the kitchen ceiling. His hand made exploring circles and found nothing. Pen Harrington was desperately hung-over and trying to regain control of his body. One flailing leg struck his dog in the ribs. Prince's dream―the Cow, the Wise Child, the great chestnut horse―was gone, blown off like early morning sea-smoke. Pen slapped his chest pocket for a pack of smokes and, finding none, levered his hams high enough off the chair to give his pants pockets a squeeze. Definitely out of butts. Prince stationed himself in front of the door, wagging his tail. Time for a walk. Pen stood shakily, the action setting off a flurry of thumps as the great dog's tail hammered against the door.

Pen Harrington, the provider. Man the hunter. Prince loved Pen and Pen loved Prince. They sometimes shared macaroni and cheese dinners when there was no kibble left in the bag. Prince remembered where the kibble came from—C&E Feeds on North Street. Twice a month his food came down the alley with Pen stooping under the weight of the fifty-pound bag balanced on his shoulder, Prince trotting importantly at his side. Trips were special. Even though the dog and the man went almost everywhere together, the anticipation that, yes, we might be doing it again, made Prince’s blood race. There would be a rustling of preparatory activity, lacing sneakers, unpegging a windbreaker from the coat tree in the hall.

 "I am totally, miserably hung-over. And out of cigarettes." His options were two: quit smoking cold turkey or stand up and get moving. Pen braced himself for action. Pen rolled his head around on his shoulders, massaging his sleep-swollen jaw; time to face the elements. Look at that―five o’clock in the morning and still dark. It seemed it was always dark here at the leading edge of North America, a hazard of infelicitous positioning.

"Feet do yo’ stuff." Cigarettes meant a trip, ready or not; there were aspirins in the bathroom.

Testing his equilibrium, Pen caught hold of the ironing board left up from the last time he had used it. Three weeks―four? The ironing board collapsed, its scissored legs splayed in a position suggesting bicycles in love. "Uhn, sorry about that," he apologized. Testing his equilibrium, he decided he was in no shape to drive. He would walk over the bridge to Canada where there was a 24-hour convenience store. From past experience he knew Customs Canada would stick a tail on him if they smelled liquor driving through. License hassles from the Mounties Pen did not need. He reached his jacket down from its peg. The thumping became a rapid-fire staccato as Prince’s tail threatened to splinter the panels of the door. Pen apologetically clipped a leash to the dog’s collar. "Just for show, fella. We’re going over the river." Pen dropped the leash and returned to the table where he examined the level in the bottle. Half full, enough to maintain his deepening depression at an acceptable emotional plateau till the stores opened up. Booze he could get cheaper in the States. Prince picked up the leash's loose end and followed expectantly.

Pen Harrington had disappeared from the lives of normal, everyday people into the cellars of WEST’s night. Cap’n Dan wasn’t choosy and was happy enough to find a grownup who could read and write. The high school kids―once the backbone of small-market radio―were making 25 cents an hour more at McDonald’s than he was paying and didn’t listen to the station anyway. To those up top in the sunshine who still thought about him the consensus was that the best thing about Pen Harrington was Prince―big, loving, gentle and not too bright. Where Pen went, Prince went, and preferably by car. Prince sat in the passenger’s seat giant and yellow. The ebullient, effusive Pen of the days of summer girls, summer boats and summer money had gone away. When he thought about his house on the ledge at all, it was as a haven with an address where he would receive the government entitlement checks that would start in twelve years if he lived, a roosting place to await the inevitable while inflation nibbled at his monthly stipend.

"Twelve fucking years." Years of companionship at the diner, crony talk at the hardware store, winter afternoons watching basketball videos with Harry Pease.

Testy and reclusive, Pen bathed not often but had occasional moments of brilliance on the air. The job didn’t pay a lot, but then Pen’s personal hygiene wasn’t a big plus either. The night shift kept him isolated. Pen was usually on time, left the control room neat for the next announcer. He could speak and hear, that was all Cap’n Dan required. Pen was a lover of women past their bloom, the night waitresses and night-duty nurses about town: lonely women he met through their calls to the radio station while he was at work.

In the old days, when Pen was freshly broke, newly arrived and with a residual spring of youth in his knees, he and his new puppy had done a lot of walking. That was before the car and before the women. They had just moved into two rooms and a bath and there was no spare change for transportation extras. A technological level higher than foot power would have to wait. They were a pair to watch, the dog and the man. At the supermarket Pen would wave to Prince, waiting uncomplaining and eager in the street, as he rounded each aisle. They had gone to the store together several times a week. Walking home there were two full big brown bags, usually cans. Lots of canned goods and macaroni and cheese dinners, canned tomatoes, canned spaghetti, peppers and onions in polypropylene bags from the produce section, coffee and always some loose packs of cigarettes. Even though cigarettes cost dearly by the pack, Pen bought these daily, relishing the human contact. His strong arms full, he and Prince continued their progression to the bar where Prince snuggled into the sawdust while Pen got drunk and forgot about the groceries. The bags were safe at the bar and eventually―after some hours, sometimes a whole day―he would notice they were missing and man and dog would pick up the twine of their original errand and spool home again with their groceries to the security of the kitchen.

With his blue warm-up jacket half on, one sleeve dangling, Pen Harrington executed a quick and perfunctory circuit of Things To Be Looked Into Before A Trip To The Store. That was the giveaway. Prince plomped all of his 102 golden pounds immediately in front of the door and, thumping his tail on the kitchen linoleum, blocked all exit.

The pantry doors were warped from decades of winter overheating and the penetrating damp of all other seasons. Pen inspected their larder.

Squeak.

"Hmmm."

Slam-chunk.

"Needs toilet paper and macaroni and cheese dinners." Prince thumped harder, the metronome of his tail picking up speed as Pen turned to the refrigerator. A putrid presence forced him back. "Phew!... something in there doesn’t like us, eh, fella?" He hadn’t been this deep in since he cleaned out the beer last weekend. "Maybe we do some defrosting today."

Prince wagged faster and changed his tail’s direction. Its angle of moment now struck the crossbucking of the door’s bottom panel, making the screen door on the other side bounce at each hit, its rusted spring giving little squeaks.

"Well, that’s just what we’ll do." Pen bent to unplug the refrigerator and, leaving it open, fished the trash barrel from under the sink. "Today we begin anew, facing unafraid the challenges of a fresh start, the promises of a new dawn." He tied up the barrel’s contents and skidded the leaking bag across the linoleum toward Prince at the door. Prince scrabbled out of the way to take refuge under the sink with his food dish. Pen installed a new plastic liner, scooped in everything he could pry loose from the congealed ice of the freezer compartment, took a deep breath, held it, and knelt before the vegetable keeper. He pondered over how shapes and colors changed over months in storage as he dumped liquefying greenstuffs from the hydrator drawers into the barrel. He liked to have salad stuff ready at home, just in case―a concession to healthy living.

Pen felt himself turning blue from lack of air. He slammed the lid on the plastic barrel and boosted the empty drawers to the sink where he turned the hot water on full force. The smell got worse. He turned his back on the open refrigerator, consigning the problem to the healing powers of time and nature.

"Let the damn thing drip. We’ll put these things out in the sun and hose ‘em off later, huh?" Prince agreed. His stomach was not now empty and rumbling with reminders that some kibble would be nice, so Prince forgot what he was doing under the sink at his dish. He took a lap at the water bowl, then shouldered his way through the door to the yard. Pen had preceded him. When Prince pushed open the door Pen rose from the steps where he was lighting up a cigarette to clear his sinuses and chocked the door with a bag of garbage. "Air the place out, huh?"

Prince marched past him and on to the next new attraction―outside. The smells! No less pungent here, but different, always different. This was sometimes puzzling. Pen Harrington did not change. Pen was Prince’s pole star. Everything was right because that’s the way things were: Pen was here and all was well. Prince padded off to decorate the tires on the line of parked cars. Often they would not be where he had left them the night before. He marked them all with a badge of reference, and now some were gone, some had moved. This implied a malleable, mutable existence as changelings. This was puzzling and disturbing. Time was when lifting a leg had been the happiest exercise of his heritage; Prince felt never more fulfilled than when he was letting fly from his bottomless bladder. Recently that had started to change. A nagging doubt that troubled the canine mind returned: a tenuous, spidery suggestion that there could be more to life than kibble and bits and curling up on the linoleum.

It was the girl-child woman-person he saw in his sleep, he was sure. It was a recurring dream but he had never before remembered it in the daytime. Prince paused, leg in air, against a ‘72 Valiant. He had been in a lush pasture where a young girl leaned against a great chestnut horse. There was a Cow stuck in a wall. Strange.

"Hello there, old fella, I am the Fata Morgana. Remember me," was all the girl had said as the dream faded. "Be seeing you, old pup, when I come through. But first I will send a woman to be my priestess. To wrest my rites from this usurper―this Harry Pease." Prince snuffled puppy-happy at her feet.

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