Kling - The dog says how

the dog says how

Borealis Books is an imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press.

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2007 by Kevin Kling. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.

Photograph on page 181 by Mary Ludington.

The Minnesota Historical Society Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

International Standard Book Numbers

ISBN 13: 978-0-87351-599-3 (cloth)

ISBN 10: 0-87351-599-4 (cloth)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kling, Kevin

The dog says how / Kevin Kling.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-87351-599-3 (alk. paper)

ISBN-10: 0-87351-599-4 (alk. paper)

E-book ISBN: 978-0-87351-669-3

1. Kling, Kevin, 1957 2. Dramatists, American21st centuryBiography.

3. Essays. I. Title.

PS3561.L497Z46 2007

812'.54dc22

[B]

2007023557

for Mary

the dog says how

the dog says how

on a motorbike

It all started because I wanted to fly.

I remember watching the barn swallows on my grandparents farm

fork-tailed acrobats of the sky

darting in and out of rafters

following roads only they could see

living life just ahead of their bodies.

God I wanted to feel that,

a foot in two worlds.

So I got a motorcycle.

I love riding in the early morning before the earth stirs to life.

Im going to the store to get ice.

Take the car,

she wouldve said had I woke her up

and Im off riding in the cool morning

catching insects like a swallow,

each gear takes me further from myself

beyond obligations and administrations,

linoleum, clocks, and committees

so alive

and then I see the car in the intersection.

I hit the brakes

and from my body I flew.

accident

When we were kids, my brother and I had a three-and-a-half-horse Briggs and Stratton engine. That engine went into everything: the minibike, then into the go-cart, then to a boat, to the go-cart, back to the minibike again. Wed bolt the engine to a frame and if there was time, wed hook up the brakes. We lived by the theory, Why stop if you cant get going in the first place? This tactic usually ended up with one of us in the emergency room, where we were on a first-name basis with most of the staff.

Now, if my brother were getting stitched up I would sit in the back waiting room and read Highlights magazine. In it there were cartoons like the Timbertoes and the Bear Familya family of bears so perfect they made the Family Circus look dysfunctional. There was a page where one could search for the hidden objects, such as an anvil, a top hat, and a hatchet, all in a field of dancing unicorns. But best of all there was Goofus and Gallant, stories based on the lives of two boys, Goofus and Gallant. Gallant exemplified good behavior, Goofus bad. Bad behavior and good; Goofus and Gallant. The stories were written in the present tense; for example, Gallant cleans his room. Goofus sees if oily rags will burn in a window well. Gallant eats his vegetables. Goofus wonders whats inside a squirrel. What I liked was there was no recourse to either behavior. They were simply different approaches to lifeand I was naturally drawn to Goofus. But I realized even then we are all made up of a little Goofus and a little Gallant.

On August 11, 2001, my Goofus got on his motorcycle and my Gallant put on his helmet. When I came to the intersection of Lyndale Avenue and Lake Street in south Minneapolis a car pulled in front of me and before I or Goofus or Gallant could touch the fully functional brakes, I crashed.

Over the next several hours I was in sections of the newspaper Id never known and headed for one section I very much wanted to avoid. As I lay unconscious I had that end-of-life experience so often talked about. I never saw the light, but as doctors were working to save my life, I was heading for this amazing sense of peace. At some point I was given the choice to continue on or return to this plane of existence where it was made clear there would be consequences. I decided to come back. At first it bothered me that I had returned. Why didnt I follow that peace?

Then I remembered Australia. In 1987 I was visiting Australia. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. I wanted to stay there the rest of my life. The problem was my visa was only good for three months. As the clock was winding down this woman named Rea said she would marry me so I could stay and aquire citizenship. I had just met her that day and she said, Yeah, I dont care. Ill marry you. We were all set to go when at the last minute I said, No. I cant go through with this. I have to get home. I need to be back where I can do something about this world we live in. I need tension. I mean, Im the kind of guy who wears socks with sandals just because I know it ticks people off.

AT THIS POINT, there were people praying for me and sending well wishes. Its hard to deny the power of prayer when youre on the receiving end of it. I know it helped me heal. At times it was like waterskiing behind a powerboat. All I had to do was hang on.

I was also on morphine. Oh Morphine, you wonderful evil. Morphine is great because there is no pain. From running marathons, I know that when someone says youre looking goodyoure probably not. But when I was on morphine people would say to me, Youre looking good, and I was thinking, I already know it. And if I could get up or open my eyes, Id bust a move right here. But oh, the price you pay. When morphine takes over, it takes over everything. It falsely takes charge, like Alexander Haig when Ronald Reagan was shot. It says, IM in charge now.

And then all reality is Morphine Reality. I had no idea what was real. You cannot convince me that half of my stay in the hospital was not on top of an Italian mountaintop or that there werent two guys in the room spying on me dressed up like televisions.

At this time I was told my face would need considerable reconstructive surgery. In confidence a male nurse told me he thought I sustained minor brain trauma because my head used my face as an airbag. My girlfriend, Mary, brought in photographs so the plastic surgeons could put my face back the way it was. There was some concern from my buddies, though, because in one picture I was holding the dog.

Friends started showing up. They brought books on tape to help me through. I found Harry Potter got me to sleep at night, and when I couldnt go to the bathroom, Tom Brokaws greatest generation got the nation moving again.

Through all this time, my family was at the front: my mom, my sister Laura, and my brother Steve, who got me off a liquid diet by saying, Wouldnt a cocktail weenie taste good right now? You know, in that red sauce? At the time, my mouth was wired shut. I could tell by the slight smirk on his face that he was saying it to rile me but he was right. I had to have a cocktail weenie. I was out of those wires in a week; the doctors couldnt believe it. But when you have to have a cocktail weenie, you get one. Whoever said me against my brother, my brother and me against the world, got it right.