Fiction from The Literary Review



Petting

Shelley Jackson


     A man petted his dog in such a way that the dog screamed in pain. So the man explained to his dog that this was his own particular style of petting, that he knew no other way of showing affection, though he conceded that there might be better ways open to others, if not, unfortunately, to him, and that since the dog knew from other signs, such as the brim-full bowl of kibble the man put down every morning without fail, that the man loved the dog, the dog should accept the man’s unusual style of petting, and even learn to enjoy it.
     The dog understood.
     The man petted the dog again.
     The dog screamed.
     The man said, “What did I tell you?” He petted the dog again.
     The dog screamed.
     “Let’s try this again,” said the man, petting the dog.
     The dog bit the man.
     The man understood that this was the dog’s way of showing affection, and was moved.



W-O-R-M


     I overcame many adversities to receive secong place in the 1965 Philomina Pimms Women's Badminton Competition. My practise space was a small box in my room. The box taught me discipline. Also, it is handy in bad weather, and the "birds" do not get lost.
     For the last fifteen years I have used my box for teaching. Children enter my box in turns and take a specified number of shots. Each miss represents a letter, and after the loser spells “w-o-r-m” she takes her place on the bench with the other worms. Children enjoy this kind of game. I tell them there are many other words they will spell in my box. “L-o-w-e-r-e-d e-x-p-e-c-t-a-t-i-o-n-s” is one, I tell them. Pat van Praat says that is not one word, but two. She will stay in my box until she has spelled it.
     In the “Handicap Round Robin” I give the weaker player seven points and the serve for an eight-point game. Worms become winners. This allays the pain they will suffer the rest of their lives, when the opposite situation will obtain.
     A little bird tells me that someone said that by training inside a box, I had made myself unfit for the wider prospectus of a 44’ by 20’ (singles) or 44 by 22’6” (doubles) court. Well, remember, someone, badminton is a game of finesse. A flick of the wrist, a well-timed shift of weight does more than all the hustle in the world. I am no longer as nimble as I used to be, in fact I can scarcely move at all, but my wrist action is superb. You would not like to meet my “kill shot” these days.
     As the player’s skill develops, she will be able to inhabit a smaller and smaller box, like that of my star pupil, Pat van Praat. My own box is tiny. I have modified it many times, and I feel the need approaching again. When I am alone, there is almost too much space in here. My memories frighten me. Concentration!
     I promoted badminton behind the Iron Curtain by sending information, candid advice on child-rearing, and a small box to the Honorary Secretary of the Badminton Section in Prague. A personal friendship developed between the Secretary and me, and I was saddened to hear of the incident involving his son.
     There is no denying that Oedipal rage is heightened in the close quarters of my box. Even the under-fives grasp that badminton is not just fun and games. Play until blood runs from your anchor fingers, worms, I tell them. Pat, play your mother, the 1965 Philomina Pimms Women’s Singles Champion. Give yourself seven points and the serve for an eight-point game. Teach your mother to spell a new word.