Upon your point of view. That POV thing, that’s a stickler, especially if you’re writing about yourself. I’d wager a dollar on the fact that the majority of the copy edits being made to my book will be all about point of view. It’s a little weird. Not only do you have to figure out WHO you are, but actually WHEN you are. From there, things get a little more complicated.
So last week at our writer’s workshop. One of the best things about my job, might I add, is a built-in group of caring writers. We worked on an exercise in which the POV shifts from first to second to third person.
Here’s what has to happen in the story: A guy takes his dog for a walk and ends up getting shot. For this story, we used Ben Bernanke and a Mexican hairless named Bunting.
Here’s where I landed:
I didn’t actually see it happen. It was that fast. One minute, one moment, really, I was walking Bunting and the next second I had a hold of a leash that was tethered to a massacre.
Bunting was minding his own business. At least, that’s what I assume was the case. He and I have a pretty good routine. Maybe it was the unfamiliar walk, or the smell of the ocean air.
At any rate, Bunting and I set out on an innocent walk along the beach when the other dog—was it some kind of wolf? They are all some kind of wolf, I guess. But this was more wolf-like than Bunting. OK. I know, just about every other dog is more wolf-like than a Mexican hairless. That’s beside the point. This German Shepherd-looking-attack-Nazi dog just came out of nowhere and throttled my little dog.
It was that fast. He—the other dog—I think it was a he—isn’t it odd how we assign aggression to males? Anyway, HE grabbed my baby Bunting by the neck, gave a quick shake, and … it was over. At least it was over for Bunting. The Nazi and I were another matter.
***
You grab at just about anything you can, a leash, a collar—this dog had nothing—no distinguishing item of any kind. Not even a collar. You grab, and you twist, and you shout. Oh boy do you shout. Your dog lies dead at your feet. His killer turning his blood lust on you. And suddenly, you are all hands! Your body is tense. If you could only relax into the fight, like something you do everyday, but no you are as stiff as a … well, a stiff. The dog can sense this, you know this. Your blood is up. That’s probably what the animal can smell—its large, dark, flaring nostrils find your own, coursing, carotid artery on their own.
Your mind fades as the Nazi-dog-out-of-nowhere sinks its teeth in first to one side of your neck—the wound—then the other side of your neck—the kill. You think, This must be what it feels like to be attacked. Except you aren’t feeling attacked. You are feeling cold. Calm, cold, no fear—just you, the dog at your throat, and the cool, numbing cold of the world you are leaving.
***
Ben’s mind went first. You could see it in the way his eyes just faded out of focus. Only a minute into the attack, blood coursing out of the open wound in his neck, Fritz waited. Jaws locked. Until just the right moment. Then, as easily as he had dispatched the Mexican hairless, he gave a solid yank on its human prey and a strong, forced twist.
The sound of Ben’s neck breaking echoed up the bank. That was what caught Officer Hernandez’s ear.
He charged, the officer, just fast enough to arrive at the scene as Ben was finishing bleeding out.
“Fritz,” he called. “Heel!” And the dog let go of Ben and trotted to his side. Hernandez slipped the collar over the dog’s neck and buckled it under its bloody jowl. Some of Ben’s blood slipped onto Hernandez’s sleeve. Shit, Hernandez thought, I’ll have to explain that now. Fritz sat, then downed at Hernandez’s side.
Hernandez exhaled, drew his service revolver, and walked calmly up to Ben’s body. “Stop,” he said, barely audible. “Police,” he said in a dull, clear voice.
Then he discharged a bullet into the forehead of Ben’s lifeless body.