Fiction & Poetry - Fiction

By Joe Jackson

“Come back here!” cried Christ to His dog, but the dog wouldn’t listen. Why should he? He had what he wanted, the small loaf and two fishes clamped between his yellow teeth and black-spotted gums. The dog wove a quick thread through the twelve clumsy robes and up the hot slope to the summit, then stood looking back under the bright lemon sun.

The people watched farther down the hill, eyes red, bellies empty. Christ had a vision: Suffering humanity below, Him in the middle, dog wagging his tail up above.

“The people are hungry, ” snapped Judas, his voice bringing Christ back to earth. “All we have now is water.”

It was just like Judas to charge in at weakness, nip at Your heels. Still, his rude bark gave Christ an idea. “I’ll make wine, then,” He said. “It’s better than nothing.”
    
“A party!” cried Peter. “Lord love a dog.    

Christ knew there was a parable in this, but He was too busy right now with catering duties. He looked to the near horizon. The dog, a black spot, hesitated on the crest, red ocher dust rising behind him as from a thousand conquering armies. Then he took his plunder and disappeared.
*
“Lord, why do You keep that dog? He spoils Your image.”
It was a good question, echoing His Own thoughts even if they were Peter’s words. The dog was an increasing complication. He’d been bad in the past, but never to the point of sabotage. Still, today’s miracle had been successful, even without the seafood. Christ always rose to a challenge, and He wowed the multitude with wine.
    
As so often happened after a performance, the village elder invited Him to stay overnight in his house. Instead, as usual, Christ begged off and stayed with yet another dispossessed widow at the outskirts of town. Now they sat around the woman’s simple table, the fire hissing nearby. A disciple yawned, the day’s labor and night’s wine taking effect. It was the closest they could ever come to contentment, Christ thought, until a scratch came at the door and the dog howled outside.
    
“See what I mean?” Peter growled. “He’ll get us kicked from the village, for sure.”
    
Judas laughed. “I think Christ feels a kinship. What did He say? ‘Blessed are the reviled and destitute. Blessed are the hungry.’ The dog fits all three.”
    
Christ sighed and rose, hiding some dates in the fold of His sleeve. He plucked a stick from the woodpile and walked outside. The dog’s eyes glittered in recognition but he stayed back, acquainted with the stick from past masters. “Bad dog,” Christ chided. “Tribulation is your middle name.”
    
The dog wagged his tail and took one step forward, unafraid. He must smell the dates, Christ thought, dropping the stick. He sighed again and sat on the stoop. This dog is a better reader of signs than I am, Christ thought as the dog trotted up and nuzzled at His sleeve.
    
Christ held up the sweets, watching the dog beg. Smart boy, He thought, scratching the soft fur behind his ear. A flea hopped on Christ’s hand and bit Him. There must be a parable in this, He thought, but right now He was too tired.
    
The truth was, Christ wanted to like His dog, difficult as that prospect could sometimes be. The dog was His first follower, and would always be the most independent. As Judas said, Christ identified with His dog. Like the dog, He was an outsider, dependent on the kindness of strangers. Like the dog, Christ came to each village as a beggar, yet His back lacked the requisite crouch, eyes the cringe, voice the whine. Christ sensed the villagers distrusted Him: Like the dog in the proverbs, Christ rarely allowed rest to the herd.
    
The dog first appeared to Christ during His sojourn in the desert. He was just Jesus then, before He thought of Himself in upper case. The desert heat would change all that. He’d already been dipped in the Jordan by John the Baptist, had seen a dove descend from the clouds. Now, after forty days in the wilderness, He expected something just as dramatic. A Leviathan, perhaps. A dragon with armored scales.
    
Instead, He got the dog.
    
It first appeared in the distance as a wavering yellow smudge. Just a mirage, thought Christ, but the smudge took form until its lines sharpened and a mongrel stepped from the haze. It trotted up the rocky knoll where Christ sat hatless. Except for scorpions and a pair of persistent buzzards, it was the first living thing He’d seen in days.
    
“Go away, dog,” Christ said. The dog sat across from Him, head tilted, ears up and alert. “There’s nothing to eat. I’m hungry myself. What I wouldn’t give for some fresh-baked bread.”
    
“If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be turned to bread.”
    
Christ did a double-take. Who said that? Had He lost His mind? His earthly father had warned Him of the sun. “Your brain will cook unless you wear a hat,” Joseph said. “Even the Son of God can get heat stroke.”
    
Now Christ wondered if Joseph wasn’t right. He’d been staring straight at the dog when He heard the voice, but the dog never stopped panting, its red tongue lolling toward the sand. He checked around: no one for miles. He looked back. “Say that again.”
    
“If thou be the Son of God, turn these stones to bread. A bowl of  water would be nice, too.”
    
This time Christ noticed that the voice was not one but many, each small and strange. Stranger still, they came from the dog. Not of the dog so much as from somewhere on him. Christ stretched out His hand and the dog licked His palm. He noticed a dark patch in the fur between the dog’s shoulders. The patch was made of hundreds of dancing specks. Fleas.
    
“Who are you?” Christ asked.
    
“I am Legion, for we are many,” the dog-patch said.
    
The dog sat up and scratched with his hind leg. “Run! Run!!” hundreds of tiny Legion-voices screamed. Once the paw drew back, Legion pulled himself together and tried again.
    
Christ overcame the Evil One’s temptations, though to tell the truth He’d expected something more challenging. Or at least bigger. How could He tell His friends back in Nazareth that He’d conquered an army of fleas? What would His mother say? He tried not to think of that and instead washed the suffering dog in the river, watching Legion disperse to harmless dots and float downstream.
    
They emerged from the wilderness, both leaner than before. By now, King Herod had charged John with treason and tossed him in prison, so Christ and His dog went to visit. They stood in the alley outside John’s cell. “Like my dog?” Christ asked. “I found him in the desert. Or, more accurately, he found Me.”
    
“Fine animal,” John said, reaching through the bars to pet the cur. The dog snarled and John quickly withdrew his hand.
    
Christ was highly embarrassed. “He’s never done that before.”
    
“Be careful, my young friend,” John said. “There’s a parable in this. What goes around, comes around.”
    
Christ felt He had somehow disappointed the Baptist. “Bad dog,” He snarled as they left.  The dog hung its head.
*
    
That night, as the dog lay curled outside and the fire guttered in the widow’s hearth, Christ dreamed of the dogs of His childhood. There hadn’t been many. Mother never approved.
    
“Why can’t I have a dog?” He pleaded. “Hosea the plowman’s son has one. So does Jeremiah the shepherd’s boy. Jeremiah named his dog Barney. He fetches sticks and chases away wolves. He’s a good dog.”
    
“Those dogs are working dogs,” Mother calmly replied. “They earn their keep. They have a place and a purpose. What would a dog do in your father’s shop? Tote wood? Lick up sawdust? Leave a mess, more likely. I’m not cleaning it up, and neither is your dad.”
    
“I’ll clean it up, I promise. I’ll feed him too.”
    
“Oh, just like you always remember to feed the goats? I’m sorry. Dogs stink, they shed, they carry fleas. My mind is made up.”
    
“But dogs are approved by Scripture. ‘Remember the dogs of the field, how they grow.’”
    
“That’s ‘lilies of the field.’ You think you’re the only one who reads those old scrolls?” It infuriated her whenever He quoted the prophets like that. He’d assume such a haughty tone.
    
“Did you know that dog spelled backwards is God?” Christ continued. “That’s got to mean something. Did you ever think of that, Mother?”
    
Why me, Lord? she sighed, rolling her eyes. The Son of God could be insufferable sometimes. “Listen, my son, you bring a dog in this house and you’ll visit your Heavenly Father faster than anyone predicted. Get my drift?”
    
Christ nodded quickly. Even the angels backed off when Mother took that tone.

*
    
But now He was an adult and could have all the dogs He wanted. Black-and-white sheepdogs that religiously watched their flocks. Baggy-faced hounds that traveled nose-to-ground. Glad-eyed Bichon Frise. His dog would be perfect. A devoted companion. He’d once scribbled the traits in the sand. Trustworthy and smart. Helpful, friendly and loyal. A dog that would never betray Him. Wherever He went, He’d always have a friend.
    
So look what He got instead.
    
As soon as He stepped outside that morning, Christ knew something had changed. The dog came up to be petted, but had to be called repeatedly. There was a defiance in the brown eyes that He’d never seen before. The dog didn’t wag his tail.
    
It was as Christ had feared. He’d failed to punish the dog for yesterday’s thievery, and now the animal was surly. Spare the rod and spoil the dog.
    
In the next few days, the dog seemed determined to interfere with His miracles. Not ruin them so much as turn them into jokes. He tripped up the lame man who’d just started to walk. Chased a rabbit through the house during an exorcism. Put his muzzle in the blind man’s face so that the first thing he saw on gaining sight was a black, wet nose.
    
But the worst, by far, was Lazarus. Everything had to be perfect, the performance that would serve as ultimate proof of His power and, unfortunately, mark Him in the eyes of the Law. But He was ready. The stone was rolled back; there was the dark gaping hole in the mountain, and no sound inside. Christ stretched forth His hand, a maestro enthralled by his skill. “Lazarus, come forth,” He cried to His old friend. The dust motes swirled in the veil between darkness and light. There was a pause. The disciples glanced at each other, eyes arched, suspecting He’d finally blown it. They shuffled their feet, embarrassed for themselves as well as Him.
    
Then the bone-thin figure wrapped in grave-clothes shambled into view. Christ smiled, relieved. “Loose him and let him go,” He said.
    
The dog darted in, grabbed Lazarus by the ankle, tugged him off-balance. Lazarus toppled backward to the dust, his arms futile windmills. His sisters rushed to save him, shooing the dog away. As Judas doubled up in laughter, the older sister screamed, “Who let that mutt in here?”  
    
“The dog only wants a bone,” Judas said. “Let a dog be a dog.”
    
It was too much, even for the Son of God. Christ grabbed a rock, chucked it at the dog and missed. I’ll kill him, He thought. He grabbed a second, round and river-polished, lethal as that loosed by Daniel against his foe. As He cocked His arm, Judas grabbed Him from behind and whispered, “Pride goeth before the fall, remember?” Judas let Him go, but added, “Let those without sin cast the first stone.”
    
What’s the use?, Christ asked Himself. It was enough to make One weep. Christ dropped the stone, shrugged His shoulders and walked away.

*

    
Now the dog took center-stage. He trotted ahead on the palm leaves during their entry into Jerusalem. He went from disciple to disciple during the Last Supper, begging for scraps. He licked the hands of the high priests’ henchmen as they burst into Gethsemane’s garden, then pranced ahead as they led Him off in chains.
    
 “This your dog?” the commander asked.
    
“I have no dog,” answered Christ, disgusted.
    
“You sure? Our sources said look for a bearded man with a dog.”
    
“I like cats. Parrots. Even turtles. But I truly hate dogs.”
    
“Then you won’t mind if I take him with me, seeing how he’s hungry.”
    
“Feed him till he pops, much as I care. That dog means nothing to Me.” The commander reached for Christ’s dog, but it ran away.  
    
Christ was thrown in the same jail, same cell, as His late friend John. So this is how it ends, He brooded: betrayed by friends and disciples, even by His dog. They were all dispersed or on the run. Judas had reached the end of his rope, Peter denied their friendship, all the rest were hiding. Even the dog failed to visit. Christ touched His metal shackles and ordered them asunder. Not even a crack. The Man had abandoned Him, too. Nobody loves You when You’re down and out. The old psalm was true.
    
Soon it was the day of trial. The Roman governor seemed confused. “This man has done nothing,” he said, but the crowd howled for blood. As Christ climbed the road from the city to the skull-littered hill, they fought like dogs for a better view. Was this all it had been for?, Christ wondered. A world of jackals, smelling blood? The place of execution came into sight: a field of bones, bodies drooping on crosses, the spectators who inevitably mobbed Death’s stage.
    
The dog was already there, sitting patiently at the crest. A black sky swirled behind him, thick and greasy as smoke from ruins. His eyes glittered with intensity, an unspoken world of want, a plea Christ had tried to interpret so many times yet failed. Nails were hammered through His palms and insteps; the cross was raised and set into its hole. He felt His muscles strain to hold Him up and knew they would fail. His bones took the weight until the earth finally won out, then His joints began to tear.
    
The pain brought Him back to focus and He saw that two others were suspended nearby. When did they arrive? The one on the left was large and craggy, an unfinished piece of sculpture, with a knife crease across his cheek and the middle finger missing on his left hand. The man on the right was old and tired, a dried-up wineskin ready to blow away. The craggy one cried, “Free yourself if you’re so damn strong,” but the old one told him to shut up, then turned and asked Christ’s blessing. What could it hurt, Christ wondered. He muttered some words that seemed to comfort the old man.
    
The dog sniffed the bad thief’s pole, lifted his leg and marked it. “To Hell with you, you miserable mutt!” the bad thief roared.
    
“Even the lowliest dog has a place in heaven,” the good thief answered. “I had a dog once, but he ran off.”
    
“Probably because you failed to feed him.” The two began to argue whether dogs had souls.
    
Dog heaven, thought Christ. They’re debating dog heaven at a time like this! He watched as the soldiers below Him played dice on His robe. The dog ran forward and snatched the hem, spoiling their game. The soldiers lunged for him but missed, then chased him over the top of the hill.
    
Soon they returned, grumbling, empty-handed. The dog followed, the garment hanging from his jaws. He stared at Christ and dropped it. He nosed it in the dust, then picked it up again.
    
He wants Me to chase him, Christ realized.
    
Christ started laughing. The two thieves raised their heads. “He’s gone crazy,” a guard observed. “They all do,” another replied.
    
It hurt so much to laugh, as if the laughter would pull His body apart, but Christ couldn’t stop. That was all the dog had ever wanted, He thought: nothing but a simple game of fetch. A little attention. The illusion of importance, for the briefest moment to be the center of worship in a very small world. Was that a sin?
    
“Good boy,” Christ said faintly. “Not your fault.” His vision blurred and faded: the dog doubled, tripled, grew ghostly around the edges, until in all the barren world only Christ and His dog existed, thousands of identical dogs, millions, staring in canine want, facing Him across the silence.
    
There must be a parable in this, Christ thought. But right now, He was too tired.
    
The dog chased its tail.

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