Guide to Animal Behaviour by Douglas Glover Read Free Book Online Page A

foresight when I stopped Dad from killing himself.
    I am not surprised that Hugo suspects me of hiding a portion of the KCN for future use. He is used to sifting possibilities in a rational (some would say irrational) manner, used to making lists of might-have-beens. What might we have become if four things had gone right: if I hadn’t prevented Dad from killing himself, if I hadn’t misunderstood Hugo’s doubt, if I hadn’t slept with Chuck, if I hadn’t told Hugo’s mother? And he thinks I am devious (right from the start — sneaking off with Chuck — though we didn’t sneak, it was a date).
    The worst thing is that I am wondering if I am doing this all myself, manipulating Hugo into a position that is an analogue of my own ten years earlier. Or, have I simply become my father in order to punish myself? I seem to be drifting into a phantasmagoria of analogies or substitutions (or myth or psychology) where only the verbs remain constant and the nouns and modifiers are interchangeable. For Hugo, I am clearly often his mother, or previous girlfriends; we fall in love, I think sometimes, in order to get even.
    My sense of guilt increases as I recall how much I love Hugo, when I remember the gentle, loving man he wishes to be, when I think of his multiple talents and his struggle to be a musician (the scientist/musician thing induces a kind of schizophrenia in Hugo, a doubleness with its own hierarchy of substitutions). There are times when, in confusion, he lets you see this. Then you want to rush up and hold him and let your pity wash over him. When we are at our best, Hugo and I, we share this sense of dismemberment or dis(re)memberment, a sense that the beauty and magic are gone. (This is my explanation of Original Sin. Men have invented whole religions to divert themselves from this germ of self-doubt. They are an amazingly industrious sex.)
    Just then Hugo makes one of those intuitive connections he is so good at but which he distrusts in me. He’s been eyeing the cassette that has just popped out of the player, thinking. Suddenly he looks at me, surprised that he knows what he knows. Then he begins rifling through the cassette boxes till he finds one that doesn’t rattle when he shakes it.
    â€œNo,” I shout, but it is too late.
    The cyanide (KCN — stands for twelve-gauge shotgun) scatters in the air like snowflakes. It is as if we are inside one of those glass globe shake-ups, a winter scene, couple with dogs, but the snow smells like almonds.
    This is funny and scary at the same time. The cyanide rattles against the seatcovers like tiny balls of sleet or spilled salt. I hold my breath, shout “Get out!” and scream at the dogs as they lift their noses to test the air. Hugo, startled, watches the falling KCN with his mouth wide open, a somewhat suicidal expression, I think to myself.
    Suddenly we are both fumbling for door handles, heaving ourselves into the open air. I am a split-second ahead of Hugo because I know what is going on. I race to the hatchback to release the dogs, screaming at them to jump out. This dramatic and violent behaviour on my part intimidates Bismarck who refuses to leave the car until I grab his collar and drag him out, whimpering and choking.
    Hugo stands at the open driver’s door, staring into the Pinto with disbelief. Snow sifts through the open doors and mixes with the white crystals, starting to melt almost as soon as it touches the vinyl. Perhaps he is thinking of possible headlines (AREA COUPLE KILLS DOGS IN BIZARRE DEATH PACT) or of his own near brush with extinction.
    The Wendy’s parking lot is silent. Though light blazes from the interior and there is a constant shushing sound of cars along the street, these seem not to impinge upon our little world. The dogs sit and shiver nervously, plainly confused and frightened.
    â€œAre you all right?” asks Hugo. “Do you feel okay?”
    He looks straight at me,