The House of Usher

The ocean water was warm. It lapped over her feet and ankles, the ripples creating eddies of sand as she stood, staring into the horizon. Kasey had no idea what it was she thought she'd see, but she stood, nevertheless, until a tiny crab had a grab at her Achille's tendon. Time to move on. Even a few steps might make the difference. Small steps had already made a difference in other parts of her life.

It was November, the chill in the Gulf Coast air was apparent, but not unpleasant. She had come to this place annually, honoring the anniversary of that day by returning to the spot where her life had changed so dramatically. She took another step, only to pause, alarmed by the motion of something grinding under her foot. She reached down, her fingers meeting something both hard and pliable. Links of a chain. Before she even pulled it from the water, she knew what she had found. It was a dog show lead; she had stepped on the slip chain that had been threaded through the loop. Kasey shivered as she stared down at the braided white nylon, stained ivory by time, at the silver snake chain. She shivered again, absent any relationship to the spray from the wave that had just rolled in.

It couldn't be.

No, of course it wasn't. Finding a lead in this part of the Gulf couldn't be that unusual. How many times had she seen the motor homes trail in, one by one, as professional handlers set up operation in preparation for the two and three-day dog shows held at the Fairgrounds. Some exhibitors carried their leads with them all the time, forgotten in their pockets, waiting for the next use at the show. She often had a slip lead on hand to catch the errant collie puppy who would rather bingle away than come in for supper. Losing a lead was not unheard of--they often seemed to leap unbidden from pockets and tack boxes. Neither was it unheard of for the occasional handler to sneak a dog onto the beach in the early morning or late-night hours, "for the exercise," as if not being seen by human eyes would keep their duplicity from being discovered or would mitigate the damage done to dunes and tern nest areas.

This lead had belonged to Steve. She could feel it with every fiber of her being, despite the impossible nature of that belief. Kasey could feel his presence, could smell the aromas of dog shampoos and conditioners and coat sheen sprays that had lingered about them both at the time. How many times had they leaned into an embrace, only to be poked by a comb or brush tucked into an armband, waistband, or pocket? Their dogs had been overwhelmingly important to them, to the point of building their identities around them. And Usher, Usher had brought about that fall.

She gazed once more into the horizon. Fishing boats were barely visible, nearly lost in a shimmering haze. Were they coming in or going out? It was impossible to know. She shivered again. With evening approaching, she was beginning to feel the chill.

She had met Steve at the Houston cluster. They'd been laughing together in the line at the concession stand, joking about the size of the huge show hall as they waited in line for the seven-dollar hot dogs, served with a scant handful of fries. They had agreed that it was either laugh, or cry about it. It was only after they had gone to their individual setups that she had realized that he was a professional handler, whose string of herding dogs held an impressive number of Top Five dogs in their breeds. She had no excuse for not recognizing him, not when she had been casually showing her border collies for years.

Their romance was what magazines and novels would term "whirlwind," combining lives and show schedules and grooming duty for the next year and a few months. She had gone from being a small-time exhibitor of border collies at regional shows to an owner-handler with borders and rough collies, who was beginning to get a toe in with the pros. She had seen Steve handle Usher to the number two rough collie in their division. And she'd stood here, almost in this very spot, as he'd thrown this very lead into the Gulf.

Impossible.

It had been five years. Even a braided nylon lead should have been chewed to bits by the surf or by sea creatures. The chrome links of the slip collar, she was sure, would have been corroded by now. It couldn't have been the same lead, but she was sure it was. Kasey crumpled the lead into her hand, retreating past the lapping surf, across the hard, narrow beach, to where her car was parked beyond. The chill didn't leave her until the hot water of the shower pelted it from her skin. She fed the puppy, exercised him, and returned him to his crate to sleep while she went out again.

An hour later, sitting in the chicken restaurant that had once been a Popeye's, Kasey removed the lead from her pocket. She stretched it on the table in front of her, touching it, moving it, searching for evidence. And there it was. faint remnants of the mark that Steve had made around the base of the lead, the yellow highlighting that marked the lead as Usher's. Steve had joked about that massive collie, calling his future kennel the "house of Usher." Once the collie retired from the conformation ring, Usher's owner would sign him over to be Steve's stud dog. He had the power and grace it took to do it all: conformation, herding, obedience, agility. His titles were myriad--the last time that she had counted, there were eighteen. The night after they had arrived here that final time, the flames had come, burning everything to ash.

Usher had disappeared after the fire. Everyone had just assumed that he'd escaped from the motor home, to die on the highway or from the wounds he'd inevitably sustained. In the early morning hours, before the sun had even thought of peeking over the horizon, she and Steve had stood on the beach. His career as a handler was over, or so he was certain. His dreams of his own kennel, gone with Usher and the two exquisite female class dogs he'd purchased as his foundation.

Even Kasey had wondered if she would be able to give him the support he needed. Most of her dogs had died too, in the blaze that engulfed the rear of his motor home, converted to hold a dozen dog crates. The memory of that emptiness brought the taste of bile to her mouth. She wrapped the rest of the chicken in a napkin and returned to the counter to ask for a bag.

He had thrown Usher's lead into the water and sunk to the sand, sobbing like a child. He'd ordered her away when she tried to comfort him. Stung, she had walked back to the hotel, alone. She had never seen him again. Like Usher, he was gone without a trace and her life was split in two.

Rumors abounded. The most hopeful of them was that he had found his beloved collie and that the two of them had left the country. It had made her smile, thinking of Steve and Usher living their best lives in Mexico, with nap times punctuated with good meals accompanied by Dos Eqis. The most pervasive rumor--and perhaps the most believable--suggested that Steve's mind had snapped, that he'd drowned himself in the Gulf. Kasey had never believed it. That lack of belief had never stopped her from returning here on the anniversary of the fire. It had marked her, irrevocably; she had to acknowledge that somehow.

This year, unlike the others, she even had a pup to show. He was a mahogany sable collie, the very image of Usher at eight months, but still awkward and gangly, sorting out his legs and his brains. A brief smile fleeted across her lips, gone before she could register its presence. She crumpled the lead into her hand again, feeling the heft of the chain that slid through her fingers like a memory.

Could it be an omen?

She didn't believe in omens, not really. Maybe luck, or fate, played a part in life, but how else could it be explained? It defied explanation, just as that pup, slumbering peacefully in his kennel in the hotel room had done. His sire had been from the one litter that Usher had sired. She'd found the pup at auction, at the closing of his breeder's estate. She'd bought him on a whim, before knowing of his lineage. An omen? Maybe. Jo put the lead into her tack box and exercised the puppy one final time before getting into her nightclothes and climbing into bed.

The lead lingered in her tack box the following day, casting off its scent of salt and decaying seaweed to the rest of her equipment, until she could ignore it no longer. Even a good wash in the hotel room sink did nothing to subdue it. Usher's grandson watched with interest as she soaked it in a solution of baking soda, cursing when it made little difference. To her, the scent was as strong as ever.

On a whim, Kasey draped the collar around his neck. The chain shimmered briefly, then settled to hide inside the shaggy hair that would later be his ruff. A whiff of smoke scented the air, mingled with the salt, and dissipated. Kasey gingerly removed the collar from his neck. Nothing had changed. It still had wear on it. But it was a nice collar, much nicer than the nylon slip she'd been making do with. Usher's grandson would wear it in the ring the next day. It would be a fine way to mark the occasion of their very first show together, the occasion of reclaiming her life. She didn't believe in omens.

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The House of Usher, Part Two: https://todaysurvey.life/fiction/the-house-of-usher-vs120hes%3C/p%3E%3Cstyle data-emotion-css="14azzlx-P">.css-14azzlx-P{font-family:Droid Serif,Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:1.1875rem;-webkit-letter-spacing:0.01em;-moz-letter-spacing:0.01em;-ms-letter-spacing:0.01em;letter-spacing:0.01em;line-height:1.6;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:32px;}

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This story was originally set in Biloxi, in August, when the "Death March" circuit had left the Houston Reliant shows and continued its parade to Florida. It is a slight reworking of one that I started shortly after Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. The chicken restaurant that had originally been a Popeyes was one that was destroyed by the storm. That Popeye's was one of the last places I had eaten before making the drive home, after the Biloxi (I think Singing River Kennel Club?) show that year.

Knowing it was slightly outdated and wanting to add it to a short story collection, I thought I could revise it and post it here while it waited in Limbo for the stories to be selected for whatever manuscript might come to pass. I also decided that Kasey and her unnamed puppy needed to have a complete story arc. The dog show community is amazing, hardy and resilient enough to take a Gulf Coast show from its 400-dog post-Katrina entry back to its current entry of about 1200. Kasey would be a resilient person, too. Just because she doesn't believe in omens doesn't mean that can't see strong suggestions for making a change in the future.

I would love your comments on this part of the story. I'd also love to see any thoughts you might have on what happens next. Please, if you would, like this story and tell me what you think!