Two Guys Watching Cujo on Mute

‘People are actually scared of this movie? I’ll grant that that’s a big dog. Sure. But it’s not like he’s bulletproof. I don’t get what’s so horrific about this.’

‘The horror has more to do with the like existential betrayal of the situation. The way a pet can turn on you. What can and can’t be tamed.’

‘Man’s best… friend?’

‘I mean it either scares you or it doesn’t. Listen. I knew a kid once was afraid of dogs.’

‘How old are we talking about?’

‘Back in grade school. MacDougall Lewis. Spindly kid, pale, Prince Valiant bowl cut. He for one would hate this movie. And it had nothing to do with the size of the dog, either, I can tell you that. His fear. Couldn’t even come to a sleepover without the dog locked up. And I’m talking your typical family dog: black lab, basset hound, Boston terrier. Even a little rat dog like that, the parents knew to keep it in back. “Is MacDougall coming?” That sort of thing.’

‘What exactly was he afraid of? Did they ever bite him?’

‘They never had time to bite him. MacDougall burst into tears at the very sight of them. Big blubbering tears. The kid just had a lifelong deathly fear of domesticated dogs.’

‘“Domesticated.”’

‘I’m coming back to that. But note that that’s what’s so crucial about Cujo. What Dougall would hate and find horrific about the movie. Cujo’s not just some wild hound—he’s someone’s pet. Look, he’s about to get himself bitten. Nosing around in the rabbit’s burrow like that.’

‘The bat’s rabid, obviously.’

‘Yeah. Oof.’

‘So Dougall thought the dogs were rabid?’

‘No one knew what MacDougall thought. We just learned to keep the dogs locked up. Because if we didn’t—say someone left the door open, oops, or the parents forgot MacDougall was coming over—there’d be that dreadful moment when we first entered the house. I remember once it actually was a Boston terrier. A little handbag of a dog. Mark Carlin’s place. We were all coming in through the front door, and the terrier rushed from out back to greet us. Scrabbling across the floor our way. Yipping excitedly. MacDougall froze. Everyone saw it coming.’

‘It jumps him.’

‘Thing zeroes right in. Who knows what’s going through his head, what it is he thinks he sees, when he sees it rushing at him: a werewolf, you’d guess, judging from the waterworks. And of course it leaps up on his thighs to try to lick his face, which just gets him weeping harder.’

‘Christ.’

‘The worst part about the weeping, of course, for MacDougall, was that it only confused the dog. And the little dog—sensing his distress and fear—tried you know to ingratiate itself and prove its friendliness by leaping up higher on his thighs and taking heartier, hungrier licks at his face. Completely humiliating. MacDougall begging us to get it off him, get it off him.’

‘And? What do you do?’