Tranquilizers

by oskar gambony-steding

I think it is a great idea, and I don’t want her to think my enthusiasm is waning, but the fact remains there is a Fox sleeping on our dining room table and we are almost out of tranquilizers. We should have bought a kennel, or at least some ropes. It will be angry when it wakes. There are tiny bald spots where its skin was burned when we first applied the bleach to its hair. It turns out fox hair and skin is extremely sensitive. “Shit, shit, shit,” she’d said during this first attempt. I was peeking out of the blinds to our tiny porch when the smell of bleach became burning skin and the Fox gave an unconscious whimper. She’d collapsed onto the floor in front of our stove. Her hands rubbed her knees and her bottom lip trembled. “Hey,” I’d said squatting down to hold her. “Don’t worry, baby, we can find another way.” Really I wasn’t sure how outraged she could be. She is not a vegan. She supports this type of suffering breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I am a vegan. She should be comforting me. Still, it is difficult to experience cruelty first hand, and I am sorry for her. “We should have got the organic brand,” she’d begun crying lightly, “it was only two dollars more.” The organic brand was two thirty-nine more and money is tight. “You said it yourself that stuff washes out after two weeks.” I kissed her on the forehead. “What kind of circus would that be?” When I’d leaned my head into hers my cheek brushed against the rough stubble where her hair had been. She gasped and pointed to the table. The Fox stirred and stretched his groggy head. I did a quick somersault across the floor and withdrew my blowgun from its clip-on holster. The holster was originally twelve dollars but the guy brought it down to seven because he liked me. I took a deep breath while steadying my scope to align with the Fox’s delicate neck and blew. There was a tiny whistle as the dart flew from the chamber and the Fox collapsed. Bulls-eye. This was fifteen minutes ago and that was our second-tolast dart. Now I am pacing between the doorway of the dining room and the kitchen and am wondering what the hell we are going to do with only one more dart. There is nowhere to keep it, there is nothing to feed it, and our apartment complex is a twenty-minute drive from any suitable habitat. It would be cruel to let it back into the wild after everything we have put it through. We are doing this to give it a better life, to give all of us a better life. 79

She is mixing the blue dye on the kitchen counter. We are going ahead with the plan without the bleach. “After all,” she’d said when we were figuring out what to do, “wouldn’t a turquoise fox still be the most exquisite thing you have ever seen?” I wasn’t sure if that’s how hair dye worked, the same as mixing paints, but I couldn’t disagree. I pause to see how it is coming and she turns her head to smile at me. Her eyes are still a little red. I am still adjusting to her baldness. We decided our plan would be transparent if the ringleader of our circus’ hair was the same color as our Fox’s. We also thought a bald woman would hold an aura of mystique and respect that would set us apart from our competitors. She pulls it off well. She has a very pretty face, which her hair typically distracts from. She reminds me of the pretty lesbians who would march in protests downtown, though sometimes they scared me and she does not scare me. She says the dye is of a desired consistency and it is time to begin. She moves the bowl of thick blue to the table beside the Fox and begins applying it to the top of his head. I load my blowgun with the last dart and train the scope to its neck. It will be waking any minute. The little tufts of fur expand with each of its steady breaths. It is a beautiful animal. Ever since we first caught it I have imagined our life together once we are rich. We will build the Fox a house of its own with rooms of plush and of forest. “It’s working,” she says. I look up and see a streak of light green on the Fox’s head and sigh relief. She is beaming and I think I might kiss her when suddenly the Fox bites her hand hovering an inch from it’s face. There is only a fragment of surprise on her face before her lip curls. “You little shit,” she says and slaps it, her skin vibrating in contempt. Its head is knocked down against the kitchen table and before I know what I am doing my scope is trained on her neck. I blow and there is the whistle and a slight twap and she looks at me the most angry I have ever seen her and I realize I am scared of her as she collapses to our tiled kitchen floor.