Echoes in Eternity

What We Do in Life …

Hail, Caesar!

by

Reagan Kavanagh

This work of adult fiction, loosely based on characters portrayed by Russell Crowe, includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned.  No copyright infringement on original works is intended.  © Reagan Kavanagh, 2007.

Author's Note:  Thanks to Diana for suggesting the section on Brutus and what he meant to Maximus in that first life.  RK

REAGAN

The smile on his face and in his eyes was beautiful.

“How old is he?”

“Three months yesterday.”

“Is he sound?”

“I wouldn’t have taken him if he weren’t.  His hips and shoulders – and those of both his parents – are OFA certified.  There’s no indication of dysplasia in his hips, no osteochondrosis in his shoulders, and no history of either in his ‘family’.  There’s no history of any genetic disorders of the eye in his bloodline.  He’s as healthy as any purebred can be; keeping his environment free of things that could precipitate other problems is our responsibility.” 

His smile grew; I loved the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.  He was sitting beside the pen, and the little guy was looking up at him with wide and unblinking eyes.

“Have you a name for him?”

“I rather think you should be the one to name him.  He does have his AKC registry name – I did that for you – but it’s a bit pretentious.  Even show dogs have house or kennel names.”

“What is his registry name?”

“Antonine Aurelius Caesar.  As I said, it’s a bit pretentious.”  He laughed as he picked up the puppy and held it to his chest.

“Hail, Caesar!”

I guess that takes care of the house name.

MAXIMUS

He is a most handsome animal.  He is sturdily built as befits his breed, his eyes are bright, and his ears are carried well forward.  His feet were quite large; his tail thumped happily when I lifted him from the pen.  Cassandra had purchased a child’s play pen such as we would soon have for our babe, saying it would be a safe place for him until our three other dogs became accustomed to his presence.

I settled him in my lap and looked at her over his head.

“Is he likely to urinate on me?”  She laughed.

“Very likely.  He doesn’t have a great deal of sphincter control at this point, but that will come within a month.  If he gets wriggly, just take him out into the yard and put him down.  He’ll sort it out, and he’ll have the other three to help us train him.”

The little fellow began to wriggle; I did not get him outdoors quickly enough and was treated to a rather large, wet spot on the front of my shirt and jeans.  Cassandra laughed until I feared she would do herself an injury.  I must admit I, too, found it amusing.  My wife observed that this incident was good practice for my impending fatherhood.

I carried him to the yard and placed him on the ground as Cassandra watched.  Bear, Pandora, and Bailey stood watching the pup until he took it upon himself to approach them.  His first action was to grab Bear’s tail in his teeth and give it a shake.  I feared the worst and started toward them; Cassandra’s hand on my arm stilled me.

“Wait.  They’ll be fine.”

Bear had turned his head to look at the puppy and appeared to be wearing a canine smile.  He nudged the little fellow with his nose, and the puppy released his hold, rolling onto his back as he looked up at the huge animal looming over him.

“That’s submissive posture.  He’s telling Bear – and Pandora and Bailey – that he knows he’s low man on the totem pole, but he’s a baby and he still wants to play.” 

I watched as Bear nudged him again then bowed low on his front legs, head at an angle and tongue lolling out of his mouth, as his hindquarters remained high in the air.  I smiled at Cassandra’s observation.

“That’s a play-bow …we’re home free.”

TERRY

“Cute little bugger.  What’s his name?”  Max grinned, and Reags laughed, as he answered.

“Caesar.”

“Caesar?  As in Hail, Caesar?” 

“Cassandra chose his registry name – Antonine Aurelius Caesar – but we shall call him Caesar.  I think it fitting.”

Given the way the little bugger has the other three dogs dancing attendance on his every whim, I had to agree.  Diana was shaking her head as she laughed.

“When are you going to get him a female companion …and name her Lucilla?”  That got her a bit of a frown from Max.

“Though we may eventually find him a mate, she will not bear that name.”  Reags picked that moment to open her mouth.

“We may eventually get a female German Shepherd, but there won’t be any breeding males or females in this household other than Max and me.  Caesar’s going in Monday to be neutered.”  I almost laughed at the way Max’s mouth fell open in shock.  Clearly, she’d not mentioned it to him.  His voice was pained when he finally found it.

“Cassandra, must that be done at all, and if so, why so soon?  He is still a babe.”

“He’ll be old enough to breed within two months, and I’m not running the risk of him impregnating the neighbours’ bitch the next time she comes on heat.  Besides, my agreement with the breeders was that we’d have him neutered; his colouration isn’t up to breed standard, and they don’t want to pass on the flaw.”  He wasn’t giving over that easily.

“I will speak with the breeders.  Surely they will agree to our not having him …altered …if we agree not to register his offspring.”  Poor bastard …he couldn’t even say the word.  Reags shook her head, and her heels were dug in firmly.

“No go, Max.  The Certificate of Sale includes a clause requiring he be neutered.  It’s a contract, and it’s legally binding.  We’d have to take the breeders to court to have it voided, and that isn’t going to happen.  Having him neutered will remove a great deal of his inbred tendency toward aggressive behaviour and make him safer to have round the baby.”

Max gave her a look and walked out of the house.  I followed him.  Hopefully, this wouldn’t deteriorate into another battle for supremacy.  Personally, I hated to see the little bloke loose his goolies, but as long as no one’s coming after mine, I can live with it.

“Max, hold up a tic.”  He stopped walking and let me catch up with him.

“Mate, most pets are neutered or spayed.  About the only ones that aren’t are those belonging to breeders or people too irresponsible to care that there are already too many homeless dogs running about.”  That comment got me the same look he’d given Reags.

“She’s also right about his tendency toward aggression.  You want him as calm as possible when the little nipper arrives.”  He sighed and turned back to me.

“It pains me physically to think of having him castrated, Terry.”

“You’ve castrated horses in the past, haven’t you?”  He shook his head at me.

“Never.  If a stallion was of such disposition to require castration, he was of no use to anyone, and he was destroyed.  This dog is of good disposition, and I am confident I can train him well enough that he would never harm a child.”  I stood there just looking at him for a tic.

“Mate, you aren’t going to win this round with Reags.  She lets you have your way most of the time, doesn’t she?”  He cut his eyes round at me; that pretty much told me I was right.  “I thought so.  Let her have hers this time.  I don’t know this for a fact, but I have the feeling she asks very little of you.

“She’s about to be a mother for the first time, and all her maternal instincts are on full alert.  She’s not willing to take any chance that Caesar would harm your child …your child, Max, as well as hers.”  He turned to face me.

“If Caesar were your dog, would you have this done to him?”

“I would, Max.  My own goolies would likely ache for a week in empathy, but yes, I’d do it.  Stop and think on it for a minute, Mate.  You know that Buck was gelded long before Diana gave him to me.  He doesn’t seem to miss what he never used, and he’s a damned fine animal.  You’ve ridden him.”  He nodded. 

“Buck is a big, brave horse.  I don’t think anyone would call him less male because he’s missing his testicles.”  He nodded again.  “Caesar will be a damned fine dog, even minus his goolies.”  He mulled that over for a time and finally spoke.

“Very well.  If you truly think it best, I will let her have her way in this.”

“You won’t be sorry, Mate.  Think of it this way …he’s not used his goolies yet, and he won’t miss what he’s never had.  He’ll still be humping Pandora as soon as he’s tall enough to reach her, but he’ll be shooting blanks.”  He shook his head as we walked back to the house.

“I am not so sure of that as you.”

*

Before Diana and I left their house that night Max said he’d be late coming in on Monday.  He wanted to go to the vet with Reags to take Caesar in for his ‘procedure.’  I told him to take the day off, and we’d see him Tuesday.  He called me about two Monday afternoon.

“It is done.”  He sounded like the pronouncement at some Passion plays I’d attended.

“How’s he doing?”

“He seems unaware that anything has been done to him.  He has sniffed himself several times but seems undismayed.”  I tried not to laugh.

“Mate, he doesn’t have the psychological attachment to his privates that human males do.  He’ll never miss them.”

“So Cassandra assures me, but I find it difficult to believe.  I discovered my own genitalia as a very young lad and was inordinately taken with them.”  That time I didn’t even try to stifle the laughter.

“As did I, and I think we’re both still rather ‘taken’ with them, aren’t we?”  That finally got me a chuckle.

“Yes, I suppose we are.  I would venture the observation that Diana and Cassandra are as well.”

“Christ, I hope so!”

REAGAN

The morning we took Caesar in to be neutered Max acted as though I was having him castrated.  What is it with men and their angst about neutering their male dogs and cats?  They could care less if we have a female dog or cat spayed, but mention cutting off a male animal’s testicles, and they behave as if the world is about to end.

I knew I had Terry to thank for stopping Max from bucking me on this, and I’d sent him an e-card bright and early Monday morning to let him know how appreciative I was.  My comment – and concerns – about Caesar’s impregnating the neighbour’s bitch had been absolutely true.

They have a beautiful, blonde Afghan hound, and they breed her.  She’s thrown two lovely litters – the second after we moved here, and I’ve seen photos of the first – and I can’t imagine they’d welcome a mixed breed litter.  In truth, I didn’t want Caesar breeding with her because she’s the stupidest animal I’ve ever seen.  She walks into walls, then falls on her arse, and looks at the structure as if to ask, “When did that get there?”  Persephone gives an entirely new meaning to the term ‘dumb blonde.’

Persephone …the Romans called her Proserpine.  It doesn’t matter what you called her, her name still means ‘she who destroys the light.’  I found that completely apropos, as with that dog the lights might be on, but no one was home; she managed to bring whatever light she had down to a dim glow.  The phrase dumber-than-a-box-of-rocks comes to mind each time I see her loping across the fields toward our house.  She loves playing with Bear, Pandora, and Bailey – and now Caesar – but I knew she was due to come on heat soon, and that motivated me to get Caesar neutered quickly. 

Joe and Sally Marks were our neighbours to the west, and they’re a very nice couple.  We've had dinner back and forth several times, and I think all of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.  They're good conversationalists as long as you don't get 'too deep' ...that was Sally's comment to me after asking me what I did and my telling her.  They have two children – eight-year-old Joshua and five-year-old Anna – but no one living under their roof is what I’d call outstanding in the intellectual department.  Joe is a teller at the bank in town, and Sally is a stay-at-home mom.  The only reason they can afford to live on a farm, albeit it a very small one, is that Sally inherited it free and clear when her parents died a few years ago.  Joe had told us long since that he couldn’t have afforded the payments on the place; it was all he could manage to keep up with the taxes. 

Please understand that I’m not disparaging bank tellers because I’m not, and Joe is good at what he does.  Frankly, I admire anyone with the fortitude to handle other's money; that's something I would never attempt.  The problem is that Joe seems to have no desire to improve his position; the position of vice-president was open shortly after we moved here, and he didn't apply for it.  He's so well liked and responsible, he'd likely have been a shoe-in for the position.  it’s my own shortcoming that I find fault with his not having applied for the position; I’m just one of those individuals who believes we should all strive for excellence.  I’m not a child of privilege, but pulled myself up by my bootstraps, and I don’t understand those with no apparent ambition.  Similarly, I’ve nothing against stay-at-home moms; if Max and I have a second child, I’m very likely going to join their ranks in another couple of years.  The problem with Sally is that, for her, a difficult day is when something happens that she wasn’t expecting on one of her soap operas.  The day she asked me what I ‘did for a living’ was memorable.  I’d told her I was a psychologist and a professor at SMU.  Her response was to tell me that she wasn’t sure she could spell psychologist …and she wasn’t joking.  That's when she made the 'too deep' comment.

Back to Max and his reaction to Caesar’s procedure as he now termed it.  We actually waited at the vet’s during the surgery, and as soon as Caesar had regained consciousness and the vet said we could take him home, we did.  Max carried the little guy in his arms and spoke softly to him all the way home about ‘this monstrous thing that has been done to you.’  I wisely kept my mouth shut. 

Once home, Caesar slept away most of the afternoon and was ready for his dinner at the usual time.  We’d been told to cut his food ration in half tonight and limit his intake of water lest he throw up as a result of the anaesthesia.  Max sat on the floor and hand fed him.  After the dogs finished their dinner and Max got off the floor and out of my way, I started our dinner.  Max carried Caesar outside to go to the bathroom, waited for him, then carried him back inside and into the kitchen with me.  The puppy was wriggling to get down, and Max finally let him put his paws on the floor again. The first thing Caesar did was to run to me and plop down on his hindquarters, eliciting a shout of pain from my husband.

“Caesar!  Have a care lest you injure yourself!”  I was laughing as I looked at my alarmed husband.

“Max, there’s nothing there for him to hurt, and he only has three sutures.”

“He must be in pain.”

“He isn’t.  If he was, he wouldn’t have plopped down like that.”

“He is too young and too traumatised to realise the extent of his disability.”

I laughed so hard I spit cranberry juice all over the kitchen counter.  Max picked up his ‘child’ and headed for the lounge and the evening news.  When I peeked in a few minutes later, Caesar was sound asleep in Max’s lap.  My empathetic spouse put the little guy into his play pen when I told him our dinner was ready.  When we went to bed, Max carried the playpen – I had Caesar in my arms – into our bedroom and placed it on his side of the bed.  I only hope he’ll prove as concerned about our child as he is about this dog.  I don’t think I need be worried about that.

MAXIMUS

Caesar recovered quickly from his procedure; he seemed to have no knowledge of the fact that he had been robbed of his manhood.  Perhaps Terry and Cassandra’s observation that lesser animals have no psychological attachment to their reproductive parts is correct.  I shall observe Caesar’s behaviour as he grows to maturity; perhaps the truth of the matter will reveal itself over time. 

Caesar grew quickly, faster than I had recalled the growth of the wolf-dog I had so many years past.  Brutus was likely larger in maturity than will be Caesar, but as wolves are larger than dogs, that is not surprising.  Brutus.  I smiled in memory as I thought back on the half-wolf, half-dog beast I had loved so long ago. 

*

In that time we attempted not to become attached to animals; we viewed them either as food sources, work animals such as Scarto and Argento, or beasts of burden.  I had failed miserably in my efforts to regard Brutus as a work animal.  I had found him quite by accident whilst on a hunting trip with several of my men.  We heard the furious barking and growling of a dog, accompanied by the unmistakeable roar of a bear. 

I would normally not have approached a ravening bear but could not stop myself on that day.  The winter had been hard and game scarce.  A bear would feed all at the officers’ table for more than a day. That thought and the reality that the three men with me were expert archers emboldened me, and we approached with care.  We found the bitch already dead, and the bear had killed all save one of her litter.  My archers’ arrows found their mark, and he dropped before killing the last pup.

One of my men drew his gladius for the killing blow that would prevent the pup from slow starvation, but I stayed his hand and knelt amidst the carnage, holding out my hand to see what the pup would do.  He shrank away for a moment before curiosity bested him.  He cautiously sniffed my outstretched hand and then licked it; I was undone.

I picked him up and carried him with me to Scarto before handing him to Cassius.  “Hold him whilst I mount.”  The startled man did so, and once in the saddle, I reached down and took the pup, tucking him under my cloak as my men looked at me in surprise.  Cassius shook his head as he looked at the wriggling bulge.

“General, if you keep him, he will be a burden for both you and Cicero.”

“He will not.  I can train him to guard my tent; he will feed himself, or he will starve.”  That began my first experience with an animal, in this day and time, one could only deem a pet.  I named him Brutus, and he grew rapidly.  At six months he was gangly, seeming all legs, tail and head, with his ribs showing.  At one year, he had fleshed out and become a sturdy animal.  He rarely left my side whilst I was in camp and slept at the foot of my bed each night.  He followed me into battle and saved my life on more than one occasion, the last on the day of my final battle for Marcus Aurelius.  Brutus was my constant companion and more than a pet; he was a fellow soldier and all that term implied.

For the period of Brutus’ life in my company, he had full run of the camp and was beloved by my men.  He was a most agreeable animal, being born of a bitch that was a wild dog.  I never saw his stud, but Brutus’ size and ferocity pointed unerringly to a wolf.  He was entirely self-sufficient and often sought to feed me as well as himself.  He would leave camp to forage, returning hours later with his belly bulging and not uncommonly with a hare that he would drop at my feet before sitting and looking up at me.  He was quite proficient at supplementing the diet of Cicero and myself.

On the night I was taken prisoner and following my fear for my family, only Cicero and Brutus' fate concerned me.  When Cicero found me in Rome, I asked what had become of Brutus.  His words did not surprise me.

“I chained him to prevent his following you when the Praetorians took you out for execution.  When I released him three days later, he licked my hand before turning and running toward the woods.  He stopped at the tree line and looked back at me before howling once, then disappeared into the forest.  I did not see him again.”

I had been relieved to know he had not been killed by the Praetorians.  He was a good and faithful companion, second only to Cicero.  During the long nights of my slavery, I found comfort in knowing that Brutus had returned to his roots and had the freedom of his wolf father. 

*

The veterinarian told us Caesar would weigh close to 20 kilograms by the time he reached his fourth month; his weight at full growth would be approximately 35 kilograms.

Caesar’s growth was proportional, and he no longer resembled a ball of fur on legs.  His feet were still disproportionate to his size.  When I observed that to Cassandra, she had smiled.

“Don’t worry …the rest of his body will catch up with them.”  I gave her a sideways glance.

“That is what I fear.”

A week later Cassandra and I were reading the newspapers on a Saturday morning when we heard a yelp from the yard.  I walked to the door with my wife behind me, and we looked out.

Persephone.  She had come for a visit and leapt the five-foot fence as easily as I might step over a puddle.  Caesar had her firmly in his grasp, front legs over her ribs just behind her withers and was attempting to mount her.  He was having difficulty, as she was of greater height, but his attempt was valiant.  He is a most determined animal.  Cassandra snorted.

“That’s why I wanted him neutered.”

It would appear Caesar had no knowledge of his inability to produce offspring.  Indeed, I laughed at the look of rapture on his face.  His mouth was open and his tongue lolled out the side of this mouth.  I wondered how similar my own face might look to his when I was in the throes of passion.  It was unnecessary to ask the question.

“You know, Max, he doesn’t look that different when he’s in the short rows than you.”

We were laughing as we returned to our coffee and newspapers.

NOTES

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