"Queer as Faith"
by Nathan Gunter

Queer as Faith is Nathan Gunter's unconventional, thought-provoking, and sometimes raw column about struggling to live authentically in the real world.

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This edition:
Straining to Hear

When my boyfriend and I found a house in a quiet neighborhood in midtown Oklahoma City, I was thrilled. We had spent all summer in his downtown loft, which, while stylish, was not conducive to writing. When your bed, your kitchen, your television, and your books are all in the same room, and that room resembles something like the inside of your brain because of how messy it is, it can be hard to get the day's work done.

Then, last fall, Brian and I bought a house, and the house had two bedrooms and a den, so I finally got to have an office. In the rush of life, however, the office remained half-decorated, like the "before" picture.

The house had a backup plan: there is a sun room on the back of the house that overlooks an immaculately landscaped garden: hydrangeas, hibiscus, lilies, roses. I relished any afternoon I got to be in the house by myself so that I could park out there and watch the weather, and listen.

Autumn is good for listening, because the air seems to slow down. The kids have to stay in gulag all day, and this makes the adults, even the ones without children, a little calmer, knowing that the next generation are more or less safe and under control by people who, by all accounts, are a little healthier than the rest of us.

God brings out the best stuff in autumn. The leaves change. People are nicer to one another. Holiday decorations appear suddenly. We wear scarves. We drink tea. We watch the sunsets because they are suddenly broadcast in HD, and the orange light reflects all around the neighborhood.

Or, at least, this was my feeling when the boxes were unpacked and, one afternoon, I took to my new sun room to write. I had my new computer all set up and ready to go, complete with a selection of Patty Griffin in the background, and a soothing cup of green tea. I was ready.

I did not count on the fact that my new neighbors owned a dog, and the dog could not hear. It lived outside, watching my every move through the fence. It had a bark like the splitting of concrete with a chainsaw, like the derailment of a train.

My neighbors own a deaf dog.

I was sitting to write, just preparing to begin listening to all those voices, all that life and energy that summer stored up, all those stories about my relationship, and my new church, and how much I am still afraid of the world and where we all seem to be headed. I was ready to bring tribal uplift, because I truly believe that this is my job, and no amount of mental illness, most of which is caused by that very belief, will deter me from my mission.

But a deaf, barking dog did.

I am a cat person. It's not that I do not like dogs. It's just that, at the tender age of two I was mauled by a dog on my aunt's farm in Arkansas, and since then I've been a little wary of them.

When large dogs jump on me, or spend too much time giving me that evil doggy glare like they can't wait to sample my liver, I get antsy. People with nerves do not often do well with dogs.

Dogs are wonderful beings, but I am not built for them.

The dog watched me through the tall windows of the sun room and kept barking. Soon I could begin to hear all the dogs in the neighborhood getting started, like a gossip circle, or a prayer chain. "What? Someone is there and we aren't sure who it is? YAP!"

At first I tried to ignore it. This proved impossible, and I stood, pacing in my bare feet, which only agitated the situation. I walked into the house and got a piece of prosciutto and tried to placate the dog with food. Maybe, I thought, if I feed him, he will like me. He barked even harder when I stuck my shaking hand through the fence to hold out the meat. He sniffed the air a couple times and redoubled his efforts to deafen me.

I thought, okay, so the dog doesn't trust me enough to eat from my hand. So I threw the meat directly in front of him. He sniffed it, then took the whole piece in one bite and began to bark some more. He became louder, and more frantic.

"I suppose some white chocolate chip muffins are out of the question," I said to him sardonically. He barked again.

I briefly ran over my options. The dog had proven that he would eat what I gave him, so I thought of poisoning another piece of lunch meat, cheaper this time, maybe olive loaf. I decided that if I went with this plan I would probably get a seat in Heaven in the Bad People's Section, and, as sure as I am that God loves Ann Coulter, I am not sure I want to spend eternity bumming cigarettes off of her.

I went inside. This was moot, because I could still hear the dog, who was apoplectic by this time, and because I was no longer calm enough to resume my work.

I was angry. I was angry with my neighbors for owning a deaf dog who seemed to be afraid of everything, and with myself for being afraid, and with that rotten, mean dog when I was two who gave me a scar on my forehead, and with every dog that has ever jumped on me since.

"I just want to write!" I called out, hoping to hear God's Vengeance Mallet come down, followed quickly by the sound of a muffled yelp.

The dog kept barking, and I turned on the television to drown it out, my afternoon deflating like a balloon that has been let go and is caroming around the room.

Time passed and it mattered less, as our neighbor ingratiated herself to us further. She greeted the arrival of a gay couple with such warmth and grace that I am considering nominating her to grand marshall our next parade. I thought of asking her gently, "Can you keep your dog inside? You see, I am a writer, and I need to be able to listen..."

But the dog was deaf, and the whole family is gone all day, and this seemed inappropriate at best. I waited until evening, when the dog was inside, to retreat to the backyard for a glass of merlot or to water the flowers. I stored up my resentment. I continued to think of ways I could make the dog as mute as it was deaf.

Two weeks later I was at work. There is a man there with a seeing eye dog, a black lab with a shiny coat and the kind of friendly face that says, "Love me! Feel safe!" Her owner was a hunched-over old man who muttered under his breath. I watched him as he pulled his dog by the leash so hard that it yelped. He looked down derisively and said, "Shut up, stupid," and jerked the dog forward, which seemed a little dumb, as he was blind, and ostensibly did not know where he was going.

The dog sighed. Have you ever heard a dog sigh? I ask you.

That day I got home and sure enough, Cujo was barking his head off. I knelt down and looked him in his wild eyes. How scary the world must be when you can't hear. I get afraid when I don't take time to listen, which is all the time.

I felt a little knot come loose in me, which is what compassion will do for you. I felt some of my fear dissolve a little, because I felt that the dog would not hurt me. It was just crazy and scared, and I can relate to that.

So now I write on the front porch, listening to the girls next door talking their inane, fascinating thirteen-year-old-girl talk, and the cars on the street. It is remarkably quiet for an urban area. There are stray cats in the neighborhood that I believe were sent from Central Casting to watch out for me.

Tomorrow, some of the people I love the most are coming over for a cookout, which will be in the backyard, invaded by the shrill bark of the deaf dog. The stars will come out clearly in the crisp air, and there will be burgers cooking on the grill, and good wine, and good music and loud laughter, and all of that will be the hymn.
 

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