The Dogcatcher's Kid

By Ramsey Elias

What happens when a boy is raised like a dog...and then thrust into the modern world? The Dogcatcher's Kid tells the story of Peter, a stoic dogcatcher who adopts the discarded dogs he should be euthanizing. When he takes possession of an abandoned baby, Peter is forced to confront the society he abandoned long ago. As Plato said: Of all animals, boy is the most unmanageable. In two simple narrative threads, The Dogcatcher’s Kid traces civilization from its roots in rural Greece, through small-town manufacturing, and onto skyscraper rooftops, paying homage along the way to each generation’s turning points. The timeless words of Socrates and Plato guide the journey, echoing clearly with their current relevance. Where did the modern world come from? Why did it get so big? And how can a mix of Greek and canine philosophies help a young boy to navigate it? The Dogcatcher’s Kid is a fable both ancient and modern. For lovers of animals or lovers of gadgets. And for anybody who has been a parent, an adult, or a kid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ramsey Elias
• Release date: Jan 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466081253

Book preview

Primer on References

Prometheus was a Titan, meaning that he was one of Greek mythology’s old gods. He preceded Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, and the rest of the Olympian generation. The only gods older than the Titans were Mother Earth and Father Sky themselves.

Prometheus, whose name meant foresight, sided with Zeus and the Olympians when they battled the Titans. He did so because he foresaw that the gods would win. Later, he betrayed the Olympian gods and gave fire to mankind. Prometheus knew that humans were weak and feeble and without fire, they would be totally helpless against the predators, the cold, and the darkness of night. So Prometheus stole a burning branch from Mt. Olympus and brought it down to share with mankind. As punishment, Zeus had Prometheus chained to a mountaintop where an eagle would come everyday and eat his liver. Titans were immortal so the injury would never kill him. Instead Prometheus’ liver would grow back each night so the torture could be repeated the next day.

Prometheus is one of the most referenced figures in mythology because of his internal conflict, his gift to humanity (often interpreted as technology), and his free will in the face of fatalism.

Cadmus was a Phoenician prince. It’s a bit hard to separate fact from fiction when it comes to Cadmus. It has been said that he founded the city of Thebes, also that he invented the alphabet. Different accounts place him in Greece, Lebanon, and Syria as early as 2000 B.C. and as late as 750 B.C.

In the mythical stories, an oracle told Cadmus to follow a certain cow around until it lie down to rest. And on that spot, Cadmus was to build a city named Thebes. One day his companions went to fetch water and were slaughtered by a dragon. Cadmus, in turn, slew the dragon in retribution. Then Athena, the goddess of wisdom, told Cadmus to sow the dragon’s teeth in a field. Once the teeth were sowed, armed soldiers sprung out of the ground. Cadmus threw a single stone into the crowd of soldiers, which caused a misunderstanding. Then, the rather intemperate soldiers fought one another until only five were left. Those five men would go on to help Cadmus build and rule Thebes.

The cover of this book is a painting by Maxwell Parrish, done in 1908, entitled Cadmus Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth.

Socrates is known as the founder of western philosophy. That means that every time you question what is real or what is contrived, every time you wonder what makes you an individual or what defines you as a human being, every time you discuss right and wrong, and every time you realize that the older you get, the less you know – every time you think any of those thoughts, you are walking the path that Socrates first tramped. If you came to Socratic thoughts on your own, without any prodding or prompting from others, then congratulations! You have a good, solid mind. Rest assured of that, even when your philosophical grip feels tenuous.

Socrates said, I cannot teach anybody anything, I can only make them think. His method of teaching, the Socratic Method, was based upon asking the pupil questions rather than dictating instructions. He called himself a midwife of theories and truths, meaning that instead of disseminating lessons, he helped his students deliver what was already inside of them. Hence maieutics (derived from the Greek word for midwife) is based heavily upon the idea that the truth is latent within every human being.

Sadly, Socrates isn’t as well documented as his students, of whom Plato stands out.

Part One: Symmetry

"It all started with a tiny little seed, he told the kid. And it started to grow, up into the sky and down into the ground too. She spread out her limbs and held on with her roots. Then she was able to grow taller and wider, until it is what you see today."

"It used to be small?"

"Oh yes, very small, the dogcatcher said. He gave the boy a minute to consider that. Do you remember last winter? The big snowball we rolled near the forest? How it didn’t melt because the sun couldn’t reach it?"

"It was in the shade."

"That’s right. The shade. But what about today in that same spot?"

The kid looked over. Today it’s sunny there.

The dogcatcher nodded. Well, the tree had to grow this way, he pointed with his pole, so it could see the sun in the summer, and that way so it could see the sun in the winter. And in every other direction for all the days of the year and hours of the day. And also for balance so she wouldn’t fall over.

"Ahh…" the kid marveled, his head craned up at the massive oak.

"Look how those branches spread out. The ones we can reach are as strong as the ones at the top."

With a hint of mischief the kid asked, Which one is the best branch?

"Is this a riddle?"

"No. I just wonder if you have a favorite."

The dogcatcher laughed. "I think each branch is as good as the next. They all got here the same way and they are all part of the same tree. Being a leaf over here or a leaf over there? I don’t think it makes a difference."

Chapter 1

Sister Maria held her baby in one arm and knocked on the door of the dusty little church. The rain pelted her face as she waited and considered, one final time, what she would name her son. It would either be Giovanni (after the boy’s father) or the old, antiquated name the midwife had chosen. Maria was surprised that a venerated woman like the midwife would make such a bizarre suggestion. But what Maria didn’t understand was how much the midwife liked stories.

Especially being a Greek in Greece – at the very bosom of the Earth – where mankind flourished throughout the ages, the midwife couldn’t help but romance about its legends and heroes. To her, it was a disappointment that babies didn’t spring out of the ground like cabbages. A goddess could have sewn rows of them into the dusty hillside, splitting the ground open with swipes of a mystical spear.

The midwife never related her flights of fancy to anyone. She, more than most, knew where babies really came from. She was a very practical woman, despite her active imagination. A veteran nurse and a stalwart of the village. In the Mediterranean, her heavy, scraggly hands were the common mark of hard working septuagenarian widows. Even now that her family took care of her, it was her habit to toil with the harvests and cooking. At seventy, her posture was compromised but her body sound, and she often waved her arms about or bounced spryly on her toes when telling a story.

Every mother in the village knew the midwife, and each had felt those same thick knuckles brushing their cheek, and gently petting their hand. During labor, they had each looked into the her eyes and seen the comfort, strength, and solace that flowed down from the very beginnings of womanhood, going back to the first time a woman watched another overcome fearful pain.

Whether it was her soft words or her stoic face, the midwife didn’t know, but in those hours of delivery she became as sturdy as she was meant to be. She was beyond surprise. Immune to panic. She held up the entire house.

Breathe, sister, she chanted. Breathe. So long as they could keep breathing, they could keep pushing. And so long as they would stay pushing, the midwife would stay chanting.

Once the child was out, however, the old, barren woman usually had very little to say. Keep him swaddled and off his belly, she simply advised. The rest will come naturally. (A visitor to their village could tell, by looking at the discernibly flat spot at the back of everyone’s head, that the midwife’s advice had been followed.)

But Maria’s baby was different, and the midwife had plenty to say. He didn’t respond to the bombardment of light, or that first bite of cold air, or the pain of delivery, or the fear of new sensations. Instead, this child – as soon as he emerged – locked eyes with the old lady and shook his head in the most deliberate of ways.

It wasn’t good.

In his mother’s womb, the baby had been dreaming of his own demise. It was a premonition of terrible, bloody death. Hot breath and bristling fur pawing all over him. Bites, scratches, and agony that would dwindle down into an elusive, reoccurring moment of finality like a man nodding off in a chair. Of course when the baby was born, he had no words to describe this terror. And no way to escape it. He simply felt the most primal of all fears: being prey.

The midwife was taken aback by the baby’s gaze and the afflatus it implied. For the first time in a long time, she panicked. No child deserved to suffer with all that fear, but there was simply nothing to do about it. He had already arrived. He would have to endure whatever the world had in store for him. It was over.

The midwife did her duty and handed the child up to his mother’s breast. A son…Keep him swaddled and off his belly. The rest will come naturally.

Maria held her red, hairy little son. He already had thick dark eyebrows. She said, So far, the things that come naturally have only gotten me in trouble.

The midwife took another look at Maria’s condition – her brutally clipped hair and the scratches marring her neck and shoulder.

Maria had consorted with an Italian soldier. The Italian occupation was long gone, but the Greek villagers – particularly the islanders – had never forgotten. They hated the foreign soldiers spending their leave in the towns of the Dodecanese, but neither side ever instigated violence. At least on each other. Lines had been drawn and an uneasy truce had ensued. When Maria and Giovanni became lovers, the line was crossed. Giovanni simply went back to his ship, but the villagers ganged up and made an example of Maria. They tore her clothes off and sheared her hair. They treated her worse than Giovanni ever would have. They punished her like an animal for doing nothing more than following human instincts.

The midwife patted Maria’s forearm. It was not the first time she had seen this sort of unpleasantness in her work. Throughout the Great War and then World War II she had seen mothers nearly killed by the fury of the invading soldiers. And sometimes, like this, there was even greater fury when the townspeople responded to voluntary coupling.

The midwife was far beyond all that finger-pointing. No matter who the mother was, or what the conditions of her pregnancy, the midwife performed her ancestral, sororal duties with the warmth and patience of a grandmother. In those modest times in Greece she had seen it all, in a manner of speaking. To her, each and every laboring woman was a niece and a daughter. Maria was no different.

Never mind what has come before. Caring for this boy will come first. Let everything else wash away.

How will I? Maria pleaded. I am the shame of shames to my family! I will never find a husband to take care of us. Not even the father…

A soldier?

Maria nodded.

"Good. That means you can forget him. He will be off playing his games forever! Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing, and dancing sooner than of war."

A laugh escaped through Maria’s tears.

Homer said that, the midwife smiled. The ancients had all the wisdom a Greek will ever need, you know. And a woman will always find a way to feed her baby. We don’t need philosophers to tell us that.

Thank you. Maria looked at the midwife’s modest black garb and suddenly a plan hatched. Thank you, sister, she repeated.

The next morning Maria gathered what little she had: a swaddling board and blankets, needles and thread. She snuck in through her family’s gate and into kitchen. She knew her mother would not be there. It was empty. This was the place that fed and protected her throughout her whole life. Now, with her son clung to her chest, the light seemed somehow different. Her footsteps echoed louder. The familiar smells of her mother were fresh, but distant.

Maria moved as quickly as she could. She took two loaves of bread and a round ball of goat cheese drying in a cloth.

On her way out of town, clutching her bound infant in one arm and looking over her shoulder, she looked behind a certain house. It belonged to a woman – one of the many women – who had mobbed her and shorn her scalp. Maria could remember her crooked teeth, the furious spittle just inches from her face. And her coarse black mourning dress. You old witch, she said.

Here, at her clothesline, hung the infamous dark dress. Black shawls accompanied, waving in the breeze. Young Maria wasn’t afraid though. She had grown up since they overcame her. She had changed just in the short walk from her mother’s kitchen. She stole what she wanted off the clothesline and then lingered. You old witch, she said.

Maria took the rocky path out of town and down to the port. She found a skip, fully loaded with its cargo, about to set off. She really didn’t care where. And with Greek hospitality being what it was, the lone sailor boarded the curious young woman – and her baby – without a question.

She knew it was risky to take the boy to sea, but her violent memories pushed her out of the town. Now that she had broken its hold, she felt to get as far away as she could – dashing out like a comet across the sky. As the deck began to lob and buck, Maria remembered the tranquility in the midwife’s eyes. She didn’t flee to it for comfort. But instead she felt the same strength shining out of herself, and filling the empty air above the sea. Suddenly the winds of the ocean weren’t a hindrance, but hands urging her on. Maria planted her feet firmly into the ship and pressed her face into it all.

Back in the village, the old midwife realized that young Maria had absconded. She smiled to herself for a while, then realized that she had an additional duty now. She had to tell the villagers what she had seen: a baby had been born with foresight from another world. He could only have been sent by the old Gods. It was just like the myths of old! She told as many people as she could; the boy would one day bring some great thing – a torch – to mankind, just like his namesake. Everybody stopped to hear her tale.

The midwife had always been revered in the town. She was not taken to speaking fantastically. This was a woman who touched the lives of every villager, sometimes quite literally, catching them with her capable hands on their way into the world. And she had never looked for any attention like this before; most of her days she wore a humility that matched her mourning dress. So when she finally – after all these years – spoke up about this singular phenomenon and asked the villagers to listen to her, they did what any honest, God-fearing people would do.

They turned to each other and said, The old lady has lost her mind. Oh well.

* * *

Within three hours Maria and the baby landed on the northern shore of Samos. Maria was, oddly, a little disappointed. She had expected a bit more difficulty in her escape.

Is this as far as you go? she asked.

For now, yes. I have to drop off this load of tomatoes here and pick up the eggs. Then I sail for the northwest shore, to Karlovassi.

Will you take us there?

Furthering his filoxenia – Greek hospitality – the sailor answered, As you like, miss.

When they landed in Karlovassi, she still felt as though the journey was too short. There had been quite some time when men changed the cargo, but the distance didn’t seem far enough. And it was daylight yet. But the sailor had moored his boat for the evening and walked off into the sweating port convivial. He would spend the night there, drinking liquorice-flavored Ouzo that turned white when mixed with water – lion’s milk, they called it – and visiting one of the local sweethearts. No matter what condition he was in, though, he always made his way – sometimes through the most meandering of paths – to sleep on his boat.

Maria looked into her burlap sack and saw that she still had two more clean kerchiefs for the baby, and about half the bread and cheese. She walked west along the rocky northern shore, pausing to feed or clean the child as he needed it. He was still exhausted by his first days of life, and luckily wasn’t giving her much of a fuss.

She passed through sparse streets until the path grew dark and she reached the edge of the town. The cliffs and mountains rising to her left looked forbidding, but as she considered the lively town below, she knew that she was probably safer in the dark and away from the crowds. Also, with the plan she had in store, she wanted to be seen by as few people as possible.

She unwrapped and swaddled baby again, then laid him on the ground beside her. It was time to sew before the light was completely gone.

Maria followed the midwife’s instructions and placed a clean kerchief in her undergarments twice a day. Sitting on the gravel like she was, Maria was happy for the extra cushion.

The sun was gone now, and its last light faded away. Sewing black cloth with black thread in the dark – it was turning out to be hard work. She had never inspected a nun’s habit before, and now she had to make one by touch. She pricked her fingers more than a few times, but of course the blood wouldn’t show on black. Mercifully, she finally finished. She took the last few scraps of cloth and ticked them into her camisole – which was fitting much tighter now – to soak up the milk leaking from her tender breasts.

When morning struck she finished her bread and her cheese and still wanted more. And she was thirsty. That couldn’t be understated. She hadn’t had water since a fountain on the way out of Karlovassi.

Now Maria changed her baby into a clean kerchief – barely dry after the previous day’s wash in the sea – and rewrapped him. Her arms felt weak, like she had been carrying him all night, through her dreams and back. And the ground had been an unforgiving bed – so foreign without a pillow of some sort.

She was beginning to wish she had stayed in town after all. Needless to say, Maria felt she had gone far enough. The very next town she arrived in would be her final stop. So long as it had a church.

Suddenly, the wind started whipping against the rocks and a storm began. She hastened up the hill and saw dwellings gathered at the top. The modest blue dome of a blanched church house rose in the distance, overlooking the rocky shore. She went straight to its door and pounded to be heard over the sheets of rain.

A young priest answered in a flourish. It was not what Maria expected. She could only hope that a younger man would prove even more gullible. Father, she panted. I found you at last! Is it you? Are you…? Father…?

The woman’s arrival disarmed the priest and made him somehow happy to be himself, even in such a storm. Faced with this unusual, more literal version of a person in need, he dropped his normal severity. Father Nikolas is my name, yes. Come in, my child. Are you alright?

Yes, Father Nikolas. Thank the lord. I am now. If you only knew how far I’ve come to find you!

Catch your breath, Sister.

She sat down on a bench at the back of the church, and wiped the water from her baby’s face. Father Nikolas watched, wondering what the strange connection between the nun, the baby, and himself could be.

Thank you, Father Nikolas. I am Sister Maria. I come from a convent near Athens.

Yes? urged the bewildered priest.

Father, I was walking to my convent three days ago when I found an old man alone dying in the street! What a tragedy! Maria crossed herself.

A man dying in the street! And nobody to help him? Father Nikolas raised his palms to the sky. God save those Athenians!

I went to offer him my aid… and a prayer, of course. He folded back his cloak to reveal this baby! Before he died he told me to bring him to a certain parish here on Samos, to Father Nikolas. He said the child would be safe here under this roof.

Here? To Petalides?

Maria had never heard that name before. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life. Yes father, she said. The man said ‘Petalides,’ I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

But, there must be some mistake. This is not an orphanage. How am I supposed to care for this child?

I can assist with that, Father. Our convent had an orphanage and I know exactly how to care for babies. Do you have the room for us here?

Well, yes. Of course, it is just me. I am alone in the parish. I give the sermons and the Eucharist on Sunday and I teach the children. I could use the assistance of a nun, I’m sure... But tell me… who was this man? And how did he know me?

I cannot say for certain, Father. Perhaps he was one of your flock? A man who left the village and went to Athens?

Jonas? Was it Jonas? A man of about forty-five?

Perhaps, father. Did he have family here?

Yes, he does. The priest sighed. We’ll have to tell them the sad news.

No, then it couldn’t be him, Maria answered frantically. It couldn’t be Jonas. The man I met said that he had no family here.

It is all very mysterious. This is a small town.

Yes, Father, she assured him The Lord works in mysterious ways.

The priest looked at her askance. Indeed… Does this child have a name?

Before Maria had fled her hometown, the midwife had asked one favor in exchange for her roof and services: to name the child for the foresight he had. ‘He knows something, Maria. He is looking ahead,’ the midwife had said. ‘Everyone must know. Do this for me. Please.’ Maria would have done anything for the midwife. But she hated the name the midwife suggested. It sounded ridiculous and old. Maria wanted to name him Giovanni, after his father. Even if it was a xenoi name.

If things went according to plan, neither Maria nor her child would ever return to the village. The midwife would never know what the baby was called, one way or the other. Maria didn’t have to keep her promise. And so she did what any woman in her position would have done with that strange request.

He is named Prometheus, she said.

Father Nikolas darkened. Oh. That won’t do at all, will it?

Chapter 2

Maria was alone now in her new quarters. She unwrapped little Prometheus …Prometheus?...still asleep, and lay him on the bed to rest. As for herself, Maria was too nervous to sit down. Instead, she practiced trying to look like a nun. She started by imitating the way they walk. It was especially difficult because of the soreness leftover from childbirth. And the pads in her undergarments made her feel like she was wearing diapers. She paced up and down her new room – a modest bedroom attached to the church. It contained only a sturdy table and the bed, which was stuffed with hay and horsehair. A small window faced the northern shore and a single door opened to the churchyard. Now that the storm had passed, the last warm drops of rain were rolling off the roof and past her window.

She noticed that her smile and her gait seemed tethered to each other, as if her mouth were the reins and her legs were the donkey. It seemed silly, but without a mirror, she just had to feel her way through it. First, she tried a gliding step, but it felt far too contrived. Her face wasn’t moving – not even to blink. So she tried adding a bounce to her step. Exuberance shone through her smile. That was no better. Finally she settled in to a measured pace. Her eyes tried to form an expression to match. That expression was one of carefree interest. The problem was that Maria was far from carefree. And the only thing she was currently interested in was her own safety and that of her furry son. She tried again, to force the tranquility into her face. Her eyelids twitched under the strain.

There was a knock at the door. She checked herself and opened the door Father Nikolas had brought her a towel and a large jug. It was empty.

I doubt you saw the spring in the village on your way in. To find it, you must simply continue down the same path into town.

Thank you, Father.

Yes, God bless you, Sister Maria. And tell me, our meeting was so rushed, what is the sainted name that you took at your final oath?

Oh yes, she stalled, trying to maintain some semblance of poise. I am known as Sister Maria Sofia. (Maria had luckily heard of the famous temple Hagia Sofia in nearby Istanbul.) After St. Sofia, she added, as if somehow to clarify.

She wondered if she had breached etiquette during their first meeting. She simply wasn’t sure to use one name or two. Do forgive my poor behavior, she said. My convent, being so near the city, was informal. We spent so much time helping the poor that our study suffered.

And which convent was that?

Maria nearly said ‘Sisters of the Bleeding Virgin,’ but the whole point of leaving home was to leave her secret love life behind. The Sisters of the Bleeding Savior, she answered.

I see. He spoke as if he’d heard what she was really thinking. Well, I’m sure you will adjust to the orderly ways of Petalides, Sister Maria Sofia. This is a quiet town where each and every villager will rely upon us for their needs. For their spiritual education. We must maintain the highest dictates of the Greek church and its rules.

Father Nikolas turned to leave, but lingered on an afterthought. I almost forgot, he said. There is a man named Hesiod whose farm is just across from the spring. From time to time he obliges me with some food from his crops. His wife just gave birth. I think she will be able to nurse the child, if you explain the circumstance. Father Nikolas was about to suggest that Maria hand young Prometheus over permanently, but he was afraid of how discourteous it would seem to the nun. He also had to consider how such behavior would affect his reputation, which apparently was so ennobled that it reached all the way to Athens. At least to Athens, he deduced.

Goodness, yes, Maria said. "I am sure little Prometheus is hungry by now. We were lucky to stay the night with a wet nurse in Karlovassi. Lucky again, now that there is a family that can help us. Help him."

Hesiod is a generous and honest man, Father Nikolas admonished, but most inattentive to the word of God.

Maria could do nothing but smile – still trying to find the maddening pose of carefree interest – as the priest exited. She waited for his footsteps to disappear before she let herself exhale.

Jesus! she said. This farce was harder than she expected. She’d never considered of any of these little details. She picked up her infant and the jug and went to fetch water and the milk that her baby didn’t need.

As promised, there was a gate just across from the nearest spring. She