Best Canadian Stories: 04, Douglas Glover ed.

, Oberon Press, 2004 (Page 126)

The Barking Dog Kenneth J. Harvey
The Barking Dog by Kenneth Harvey is a strange, Kafkaesque parable of the demonic. The
incessant barking of the neighbours dog drives a woman to buy poison which she intends for the
dog, but somehow it doesnt end up where she intended.


On his way to work each day, Andrew must pass through a lane with trees and cottages erected
back from the road. The streets he generally walks along are city avenues, yet in the midst of the
sprawling urban landscape there remains this single stretch of country land that, for whatever
reasons, be they romantic or economic, has eluded the developer's mark.
Each weekday morning on his way to work, Andrew passes beneath the broad branches of the
maple, mountain ash, birch and elm trees. The urban sounds recede behind him, as if smothered
by the overhead blanket of leaves. Yet in the centre of the lane, as his tread becomes evident in his
own ears, brushing and dislodging pebbles from the dirt road, there comes a sharp barking from
somewhere off in the trees. Each day the barking catches him by surprise. It begins as he nears the
front of a particular cottage and ends as he passes twenty feet beyond. Although while passing
Andrew has often strained to see down into the trees, he cannot catch sight of the dog that is set
on making such a commotion. He would never think of pausing nor venturing down onto a
stranger's land. He merely wonders about the dog, why it must be chained up all the time, why it
is kept in the woods? There never seems to be any sign of life in the cottage.
At work, Andrew performs with efficiency but without exception. He is assigned tasks that
might tax a lesser man yet would offer no flush of imagination to one more exceptional in the field.
Andrew does not aspire to anything above and beyond this.
When Andrew is 33, he meets, in the elevator at work, a woman who is shy and gifted with
plain good looks. The woman has dropped a folder and its contents have slid across the elevator
floor. Andrew bends to help her and she reacts with forthright gratitude. At once, while hooking a
length of brown curls behind her ear, she tells him her name. It is Beatrice.
The courtship of Andrew and Beatrice continues for several years, but always within the
muting walls of the building where they workin the foyer, corridors or elevators. No whisper of
commitment is introduced from one or the other, for each one of them fears that signs of commit-
ment might be met with hesitation and perhaps revulsion.
After two years of hellos, chit-chat about the weather, and the occasional colossal leap into
current events, Andrew and Beatrice meet for the first time, by chance, outside the walls of the
office building. In fact, it is not by chance; Beatrice has chosen to follow Andrew home on her 22
nd birthday, keeping a distance so as not to be detected. On this day, she does not approach him,
but returns the following morning to trail him down the country lane.
Beatrice keeps a comfortable distance behind, watching Andrew's step lighten and slow as he
approaches a place where a dog has commenced barking ferociously. Near the end of the lane, as
Best Canadian Stories: 04, Douglas Glover ed., Oberon Press, 2004 (Page 127)


Andrew is about to step out into the urban sprawl once more, Beatrice catches up and boldly
steps in by his side.
"Hello," says Andrew, smiling at the sight of her.
"Hello," Beatrice replies, smiling at Andrew's evident pleasure.
The wedding is planned for eighteen months later. Andrew agrees to every suggestion and is
glibly amused by the complexity of arrangements. The ceremony is well- attended and the vows
are exchanged without incident. The newlyweds honeymoon in an exotic location that petrifies
both of them. They leave the hotel-room only to buy a newspaper and share brief walks that
electrify their senses to such a degree that the hairs on both their bodies practically stand on end
and their flesh prickles with fright. The food is an explosion of spices perilously unknown to them.
There is talk of crime at every turn of conversation. 'Tourists are nothing more than pasty-faced
targets," the newspaper quotes a high-ranking, indigenous cynic.
Back home, Andrew and Beatrice must decide on new lodgings. Andrew pictures a cottage in
the country lane, but no dwelling is for sale nor does he believe they could afford a piece of
property in such a location should one present itself as available. They settle on an apartment
three blocks south of the country lane. Each day, Andrew passes through the trees, despite the
fact that he is growing more and more alarmed by the furor of the barking dog and the fact that
no-one appears to ever be present in the cottage. Who is feeding the dog? What might be its core
nourishment? Is it ever let loose?
At work, Andrew seems renewed. His associates pay him a little more attention now that he is
married. They ask to be shown photographs of his wife. Once images of Beatrice are flipped
through, they uniformly approve. They ask when he will have children. Resolutely, they tell him
that there is no point to life unless you have children. Why live at all? Who will look after you in
your old age? When you die, what will you leave behind? When you are dead and utterly gone.
Nothing. What would have been the point of living, if you disappear without a trace?
Andrew begins to rise up in the company. The boss, Mr. Koon, appreciates the fact that Andrew
has found himself a wife. Andrew is normal after all, thinks Mr. Koon. He might go places. What
are your plans for children? Mr.
Koon inquires.
"We have plans for children," Andrew promptly assures Mr. Koon.
"Well, good for you."
Sixteen months later, Beatrice gives birth to a baby girl. The experience disassembles Andrew's
ego and reassembles it with an enormous arrow aimed directly at the new daughter. Despite
Andrew's joyful tears and laughter, there seems to be the insinuation of disappointment in the
manner and actions of those hearing the news at work. It seems everyone thought it would have
been more appropriate for Andrew to have fathered a boy.
Sixteen months later, Beatrice gives birth to a boy and Andrew receives a generous raise from
Mr. Koon. "That's the way to do it," says Mr. Koon with a wholehearted slap on the back. "Now,
you're speaking my language."
Best Canadian Stories: 04, Douglas Glover ed., Oberon Press, 2004 (Page 128)


Beatrice no longer works. She must stay at home to care for the children. The apartment grows
smaller, crowded by her bulging disquietude.
"This is all I ever do," she tells Andrew one day. "Why don't you help more?"
Andrew helps more. He works and helps more and falls into bed exhausted with the powdery
softness of his son and daughter sleeping to either side of him. Into this space he fits perfectly. In
time, only his children are capable of making him smile.
While Andrew is at work, Beatrice pushes the double stroller under the sweet shadows of the
country lane. It is so peaceful; the assorted scents of trees and flowers are intoxicating in a way
that summons purely precious recollections of youth. The country lane becomes Beatrice's place
of rapture.
The light is varied down the lane, the sound subdued, the pace merciful. Even the babies quiet
in the lush grip of leafy branches. This is perfectly enough for Beatrice, all that she desires; she
even allows her eyes to shut as her body drifts through the placidity, until she steps into the place
where the dog catches sound of her and commences barking. Her nerves flinch and she jolts in the
direction of the insidious sound. She wishes the dog would die. In her mind, she imagines herself
slipping into the woods, finding the beast huge, rigid with menace, and scarlet-eyed, foam pulsing
from its jagged teeth, while she lays a bowl of poisoned food just within reach. This would fix the
world for her; the death of that dog. Something must be punished to make her well. She plans on
it.
"Will this kill a dog," she asks the poison salesperson. The salesperson, assuming Beatrice fears
that her dog might inadvertently lap up some of the poison, assures her that the dog would need
to eat quite a bit to cause any harm.
Beatrice uses the poison. She believes she is poisoning the dog. Yet, weary and fatigued beyond
any manner of sense, she becomes conscious of the fact that she has actually poisoned Andrew at
the dinner table. He locks himself in the bathroom for a stretch of hours, sitting on the toilet while
Beatrice frets at the door, scratching the wood lightly with her fingernails and whimpering,
seeming more concerned than she should be. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the dose is not strong
enough to inflict permanent damage.
Andrew and Beatrice's children grow through the customary stages of development,
disappointing and excelling at various turns. When the suitable time arrives, they go away.
Raising them has been a joy and a labour. The children call home infrequently, to pass on
greetings on special occasions or to ask for money, for there is never enough of it.
At this junction in his life, Andrew is made vice-presi- dent of special projects. He is proud of
the title, yet the special projects division seems to be made up of the standard projects they were
always involved with. The only difference he can see is that most things are now called by new
names that he has trouble remembering. People are given titles with too many words in them.
The work that he does has slowly transformed into a new language that he can barely speak.
Failing everything else, he pretends, and gets along fine.
He no longer walks to work but drives. And although he has bought a condominium directly
across the street from the country lane, where from his front doorway he can stare straight down
the tunnel of trees, he avoids the lane, for it has become a place of consternation for him. He no
longer admires it, but resents it. He has made several offers on cottages on the lane but they have
Best Canadian Stories: 04, Douglas Glover ed., Oberon Press, 2004 (Page 129)


been refused. They will not allow him in. They are determined to keep him out. What good is
there to life, to slaving all of his years, if he cannot buy a house in the country lane?
At the age of 57, Beatrice comes down with an illness that the doctors believe was brought on
by her preoccupation with unjustifiable incidents in the past. She passes away three days before
Andrew's sixtieth birthday. The children return for the burial. They hug their father and wipe the
tears from his eyes. They quietly reminisce, yet, ultimately, are distracted. Then they go away,
again.
After the funeral, Andrew returns to his condominium. He stands at the window and, with his
arms behind his back, watches the green affluence of the trees that grow over the country lane.
They are the single and only cluster of trees in the city. It has been years since he has ventured in
there, has experienced a stroll beneath that comforting blanket of leaves. Now alone, it is a
journey he wishes to make again; suddenly, with the fresh absence in his life, he knows there is
more to discover. When he turns from the window, he is struck by the emptiness of the
condominium, and listens to its abhorrent silence. It is like a noise that not even sound will
diminish.
Out on the sidewalk, he crosses the street and paces toward the entranceway to the country
lane. He wonders if the barking dog is still chained to its place in the bac k yard. Surely it must
have perished by now. A part of him hopes the dog has passed into silence, while another part
yearns for the familiarity of that astonishing outburst.
Pleasure overcomes him as he enters the lane. It is so quiet, so sweet-smelling, so green with
contentment. He slows his step, preparing himself as he approaches the place where the barking
dog should commence barking. When his foot steps upon the spot, he hears the rough bark like a
muffled cough coming awake. Roused, the bark increases in coarseness and rage until it hones its
way to sharpness.
Andrew pauses and stares down into the woods, straining to make out an impression of the
dog. There is no flicker of movement that he can discern. He hears no rustlings nor snaps of
branches underfoot. With a push of resolve, he treads up the gravel driveway and heads toward
the cottage door that wavers with shadows from overhead leaves. He knocks and, although he
waits for several minutes and knocks again, no-one stirs within to answer.
Andrew returns to the driveway and presses on, his footsteps cautious, until he can see deeper
into the trees. There is no clear path to the dog. Andrew must brush aside the growth to make any
sort of headway. The land is level and shadowed by sunlight sifting down through the crowd of
branches.
The barking, once again, turns from a harsh-coughing to a spiky ferocity. Regardless, Andrew
ventures on, finally catching sight of movement, hearing the shuffling of brisk action over forest
ground. He makes out the dog and his heart becomes hectic with dread.
The dog is as big as Andrew had suspected.
Andrew hesitates, not knowing how close might be safe. The dog's face and body are a blur of
movement as it spins in circles and barks crazily, chain links rattling where they hang from its
collar.
Best Canadian Stories: 04, Douglas Glover ed., Oberon Press, 2004 (Page 130)


Andrew cannot make out the details of the face, yet he is halted and perhaps softened by the
general impression. His dread dissipates. A single thought occurs to him, one string of words that
draws the breath out of him as those words escape his lips: "It's not a dog."
And as those words are spoken the spinning aggravated hostile body slows it revolutions but
does not quiet its blurred face nor smudged slashing jaw. The barking merely intensifies as its
body stills. Yet as the body stills, Andrew sees that, beneath the brown he thought might be fur yet
now appears to be mud and filth, there is a pinkness, however scabbed and blistered. It is not a
dog. The face stills to a waver and the jaw barks with less urgency until the dog is quiet. It is not a
dog that now whines in wanting, as its features become evident and its eyes watch him steadily.
What Andrew thought might be a dog is not a dog at all. Who are you? he asks himself. But there
can be no reply, for the man, now face to face with remorse and finality, has lost his voice.


Kenneth Joseph Thomas Harvey (born 22 January 1962) is a Canadian writer, who was born in St.
John's, Newfoundland and Labrador. Harvey's editorials have been published in most major Canadian
newspapers, and he has held the prestigious posts of Writer-in-Residence at both the University of
New Brunswick and Memorial University of Newfoundland. He is the founder of the ReLit Awards for
poetry, short fiction and novels.
Harvey lives in an outport on the Island of Newfoundland.
One of his latest books, The Town That Forgot How to Breathe (2003), takes place in Bareneed,
Newfoundland and Labrador, where the residents have suddenly lost their ability to breathe
automatically. Ladyhawke Ventures acquired the rights to produce a film based on the book.
Harvey sits on the Board of Directors of the Ottawa International Writers Festival.
Harvey also keeps a personal blog as well as a Wal-Mart criticism blog where he posts emailed
testimonies by Wal-Mart employees of unethical treatment and conduct at their workplace.