Doglegs
A Tale of Human Imperfection and Dogged Intervention
by
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For any one of us, reality can have multiple layers. As December rolled around, I added on a top layer designed to keep me snug and secure. This was the reality that told me everything just might work out OK. I had a baby on the way, a job that I loved, a wonderful guy who loved me. My protective outer layer allowed me to go about business as usual and live my everyday life. I wasn’t about to screw any of that up.
But when I went to bed at night, the top layer came off. And the fabric underneath wasn’t very attractive. It didn’t go with anything — just a clashing hodgepodge of what-might-have-beens and never-could-have-beens.
Maybe that’s why I kind of looked forward to the sex with Doug at night. It provided a momentary respite from the discomfort of being alone with my thoughts. But as soon as Doug rolled away, everything came flooding back. And increasingly my internal monologue was spilling over onto my tongue — and into Doug’s ears.
“I never thought I’d be that woman.”
Doug’s response was perfunctory, automatic. He sounded like he was anticipating the answer to his question before he even asked it. “What kind of woman is that?”
“The woman who dumps her boyfriend for his best friend.”
“Well, your situation wasn’t exactly typical.”
“Oh, please. Every girl thinks her situation is atypical. There doesn’t have to be a death involved, or a trial.”
“Hey, I’m not talking about all that. That’s not what makes your situation special.” He grabbed me and pulled me close. “This is.” He kissed me as if he believed that, but it was too soon for a reprise of what we’d just finished. His spirit was willing, but not his body.
I rolled away from him. “We still haven’t settled things with …”
“… with Matt. Not that again, I beg you. We did settle things. Matt settled things. He settled his fist into my nose, which, by the way, is just beginning to stop hurting.”
“Wouldn’t you like your child to know him?” Wrong thing to say. Now I’d succeeded in getting him good and angry.
“Not particularly. It’s not my goal for Matt and I to become the Bruce Willis and Ashton Kutcher of Priorwood, Demi. And I don’t think all this is about me and Matt getting chummy again … I think it’s about you getting Matt back in your life. Maybe he never left.” Doug turned away and took most of the covers with him.
“I’m sorry. I won’t say any more about it.”
“I’m sorry too. I was under the misguided impression that, after having sex, women liked to bask in the afterglow, not wallow in the past. I’ll just give you the benefit of the doubt and say it’s your pregnancy hormones acting up.”
“I’ve finished wallowing. Go to sleep, honey.”
He went right to sleep. I went back to wallowing. I wallowed past 11 p.m., past midnight, past one in the morning. And when I grew tired of lying in bed wallowing, I got up and did the walking wallow. Pacing back and forth, I thought about how much I hated the woman I had become. I hated the things I said. If I were Doug, I wouldn’t have moved to the other side of the bed but to the other side of the world.
Curled up on the floor, Shela and Mo had their eyes wide open, watching my every move. As I patted them, I was thinking that this living-with-two-realities business was easier said than done. Dogs got it right. They have only one reality. Their outer and inner lives blend together seamlessly. No wonder so many canine psychiatrists are starving.
Apparently, my restlessness had gotten to Mobile. He plodded over to the door and started scratching. He wanted to join some of his friends at Doglegs. At any hour, day or night, at least half a dozen dogs were sure to be there. I opened the door, and he scooted off without a backward glance.
Shela got up, stretched, walked over to the computer in the corner of the room and settled down on the floor next to it. Without conscious motive, I followed her over there. The computer was in the ‘Sleep’ mode. If only sleep were that easy for me. I absentmindedly plunked down on a key, and the sudden brightness of the screen startled me.
Seeing the Google search box in front of me, I took a seat and typed ‘Matt Copeland’ almost without thinking. If somebody had seen me as the search items came up, they’d have instantly understood how Google got its name. I was googly-eyed. Above the familiar links to newspaper articles dealing with Iris’ death and the trial, I found listings from the Morrissey Morning News, links to Matt’s new life. After gobbling up every last word, I knew sleep was hopeless. So I hopped into a pair of jeans and loafers, threw on Doug’s old jacket, and leashed Shela. Like Patsy Cline, I suddenly felt the urge to “go out walking after midnight.”
Doug was a sound sleeper, but my hustle-and-bustle woke him just as I was headed out the door. “Emily? What are you doing? It’s almost two in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep. And Mo’s down at Doglegs. I’m going to take Shela to the edge of the park and see if I can call him.”
“Oh, Mo’s always down at Doglegs. He’ll be fine. And we’ve got work in the morning. And you’ve got our child in your womb.”
“Well, if I take Shela out now, we can sleep a little later this morning.”
Doug groaned, and I masked the sound with my door slam.
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About the Book
Doglegs is not simply a dog story but also an emotional adult triangle, with all the requisite plot twists: crime, punishment, redemption. The narrative intertwines tragedy with comedy and whimsy. And in the process of unfolding the human story, Doglegs also unfolds a treatise on the relative merits of humans and canines. Thematically, the novel demonstrates that—in terms of intuition, devotion, and purity of spirit—dogs are the masters, while humans, all too often, behave like animals.
Most of the pivotal action takes place in a wooded area called Doglegs. The woods become symbolic of the obstructed human perspective. The title also refers to the “doglegs”—gradual shifts—in the thinking of the three main human characters. Doglegs reflects all of these changes through a shifting narrative as each character takes their “turn.”
Take a stroll with Matt and Emily through Doglegs Park, where a colorful cast of characters runs off in all directions, howling, clawing, drooling—and these are the humans! When you come out on the other side, you may never again look at dogs—or people—in quite the same way.
About the Author
Art Novak resided in the Twin Cities for twenty-seven years. The past five years Art has been a professor at the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). He and his wife, Margie, have two grown children and live with two adopted children (a dog and a cat) in Savannah, Georgia.