Rubye, Rubye
By Patricia Eakins

I am who I was, that’s who I am. Oh jump girls, I was a go bitch, it, it, it, always hot. Even when I wasn’t, I was hot—it’s who I was, it’s who I am, like I said and say and always say. And as always, the two-legs knew nothing, I slept all day, wagged my tail to unscrew my ass when they put out the wretched mush they called food. “Good Rubye,” they said. “Good girl.” Was I good? They put me out in the yard “for the night,” HA! HA! I’m docile in my hut, wagging my tail. “She slept all day, now she’ll sleep all night,” says He Two-Foot. “Eats and sleeps, eats and sleeps.“”She no longer even chews her bone,” says She Two-Foot. “Poor girl! Poor thing!” Ah, but delirious I lay in the hut with my nose on my paw dreaming who I’d smell first, lay in a daze of now, please, now, smelling street between my toes, dreaming his tail, no, his tail, no, his. His and his and his. The minute the two-feet turned out the lights, I was gone, under the chain link fence through the hole behind the golden-star bush, vomited the mush they’d fed me, then a dare and a race past the flame-eyed chrome-mouth monsters the two-feet sent to guard the block, hit you even kill you as you crossed. Go scratch, you chrome-mouth BRUTES! BRUTES! BRUTES! Then under the iron fence around the village of dead two-feet asleep in the ground.beneath their stones, sleep all day, sleep all night, don’t even eat, poor things! Poor things! At last! I roll in the grass, I pee where I rolled and roll where I peed, till I can hardly bear how good I smell. I strut along the rows of stones, high on how I smell, how they smell who have marked the stones, marked the trees, marked the pots of plastic flowers. HIM! HIM! HIM! Oh, him! Ears cocked, tail aquiver, I trot and sniff, trot and sniff. All trot and sniff I am who was! Oh great hot moon in the sky all bright, oh, WOW! WOW! WOW? We all went to the dead village, all of us from all around. WOW! WOW! WOW! The ring dance, round and round each other’s tails, round, round, round. He and he and he would put his paws on my back, I’d jump out from under, WAIT! I’d say, WAIT! WAIT! ‘till I’m ready any night, any night, keep coming, keep sniffing, keep jumping, I won’t turn you off when it’s time. And when it was time, WAS! WAS! WAS! Don’t think I was dumb, rolling before the two feet, screaming for it, ass in air, while the two-feet frowned and shook their heads. Around them I was quiet, secret, demure, “What’s with her?” they’d say. “She’s off her feed, her nose is hot. If this keeps up, we’ll take her to the vet.” FOOLS! FOOLS! FOOLS! Twice I had it, hot you’re hot for when you’re not, HOT! Not! HOT! Not! HOT! HOT! HOT! Oh great hot moon, I was IT, I was IT, I was IT, every dog whose mark I’d nuzzled, every dog who’d checked me, belly and tail, belly and tail, they knew me, great hot moon, they knew me, jumping, bumping, filling me where an emptiness roared inside me, NOW! NOW! NOW! Twice I had it, twice, my life emptied out to be filled, I was, oh I was, I was I was who I am. And young ones grew inside me what I had been, young ones I expelled, OUT! OUT! OUT! They pulled on my teats and pulled and pulled, and I lay there giving, giving, giving, milk of life, of course! It’s who I was, what I was that I am. WHAT! WHAT! WHAT! You think my teats and belly flop and spread from puppies, helpless, flopping, blind? Are you dumb? Two litters, only two, “How does she do it? She never even went into heat!” Were they dumb? Are you? DUMB! DUMB! DUMB! “We’ll have to take her to the vet.” Was I dumb? . . .Was I dumb? . . . I thought they thought I was sick, but no, they didn’t even feel my nose, I should have known, but no! NO! NO! NO! Who could have dreamed a cruelty greater than a cruising chrome-mouth’s, but silent, inscrutable, other. He—that two-foot—the white-coat pricked me with a great long claw he carried in his hand, where no claw grew, and I fell into sleep so dark I didn’t dream a smell, not one . . . not one. And when I awoke, something was gone, I was cold inside, no heat, no it, no go. No go . . . no go. . .no go. . . no go. And I hungered for the swill I had disdained, rutted now in the mush they fed me, GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE. Wagged my tail and begged for more, whining and cringing. MORE! MORE! MORE! My belly spread and my tits flopped, and I sat where I sit, pooling in sadness, no longer me in the now, only me in the past. “Good dog!” they say. “Good girl!” They look at me squinty. Like they think I’m dumb? I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW. If they took my now, they could take my then; my was gone, I’d no longer be--be, that is, was. Was! Was! Was! So hear me, hear me, jump girls, go girls, it girls, hot girls, trotting and sniffing in the village of the dead beyond the mouths of chrome! I’m warning you with all the was I am. WAS! WAS! WAS! But ask me not what I’m warning you of. . . OF! OF! OF! The two-feet? The two-feet? I’ve heard that four-feet live without them-- where, I don’t know. Every four-foot I ever knew crawled back through the holes beneath the fences, slunk into the hut in the yard before the sun chased the moon from the sky. It’s who they are, who they were, who they will be, for all I know, I am that I was, I wag my tail when they fill my dish, wag my tail to unscrew my ass. “Good girl!” say the two-feet. “Good Rubye! Poor doggie-woggie! Poor thing!” they say, squinting their eyes at the was that I am. They hand me bones to chew for the joy of working my jaws, “so you don’t sit all day.” I no longer take them. I have no idea whose bones these were. Were. Were. And even in the past, I want to live. To live. Even in the past, I want to live.

Fred Gutzeit first showed his dog paintings at the André Zarre gallery, New York City. He has also had solo exhibitions at the Philadelphia University of the Arts, The Contemporary Arts Gallery (NYU,) the Herbert F. Johnson Museum (Cornell University) and the Cleveland Institute of Art. He was the recipient of a Pollock-Krasner Foundation grant in 1999. His work may be seen online at <http://www.gutzeitfred.com/> and <http://www.frigatezine.com/essay/fictiondiction/efi02wom.html>.

André Zarre said of the dog paintings when he exhibited them at his gallery: "They are not instances of deadpan reporting. They are expressive in the artist's attitudes to the subject matter and background scenes. Each image, apart from the dog or cat as the focal point, is visually rich and congregates other important requisites such as sneakers, wall grafiti, or a stack of pumpkins. The pet is not a prop but a definition and a secure way for the artist to get his subject with judicious manner, portraying in each animal, shagginess or softness that we could almost reach out and touch. The creatures in the portraits are reassurement that they are our friends and companions and this friendship and attachment often may last longer than with humans."

Speaking Their Minds is currently available for publication as an art book containing thirty of Fred Gutzeit's dog watercolors accompanied by texts of thirty writers including Emily Benz, Patricia Eakins, and Vernita Nemec. Interested publishers should contact Fred Gutzeit, 264 Bowery, New York, NY 10012