Killing Jack Russells
By Marshall J. Getz
Dr Trevor McTeer woke up while it was still dark on the morning of his killing spree. It was August, but he was freezing, because his wife, Petrina, insisted on both blasting the air conditioner and rolling herself up in the blanket like a cheung-fan - a rice roll. The bedroom was dark, and McTeer was glad that he did not have to see the sickly pink and powder blue décor. At Petrina's insistence, the bed they chose reflected the Cantonese idea of Western luxury - a large scallop-shaped headboard of silver gilded wood, with their wedding photo mounted in its center. For her, pure chic. For him, pure rot. Their wedding portrait -- him, the gawky gweilo, wearing a tuxedo and gigantic orchid boutonničre – a corsage really, and her, wearing a garish red and gold Chinese wedding dress - not a proper gown - just a silly dress, flowers in her piled-on hair and bloody awful makeup. And that was after he told everyone that he was allergic to flowers.
His eyes itched throughout the honeymoon.
Trevor shuffled into the living room, with its large Chinese style rosewood furniture, Sumatran masks and delicate Kashmiri hangings on the creamy walls, and huge entertainment system that gave him a jolt of pride. He moved toward his leather easy chair, the only piece of Western furniture in the room. He caught his pajama sleeve on a large rainbow faux-Ming vase. ‘Lord, I'm more tired than I thought. If I broke it, Petrina would kill me.’ He did not feel like reading, and he knew there was nothing to watch on English TV. He stepped up to the picture window and drew the heavy beige curtain. The black sky above, the glassy black water below, ringed by the light-spangled shoreline. God, Hong Kong harbor was beautiful, and all the travel books didn't lie, either. Even at - what, Trevor checked the clock - 4:30 in the morning - there were ships lights’ blinking, and the shore blazed with neon adverts, building lights, and traffic as well. There was even a traffic jam, the line of headlights forming a lemon-spotted street snake. Hong Kong was still up. He looked at the residential blocks built below at different levels of the hillside. Three-quarters of the rent for his place was the view; God, it was worth it to look down on the lively mouse village of Hong Kong.
Besides, the McTeers lived on expat terms, so he did not have to pay anyway. Trevor had the officious-sounding post of Chief Veterinary Surgeon of the Hong Kong Zoological Gardens. The Hong Kong government's way of saying that he was the only full-time vet. At times Trevor was overworked like a dog’s body, but treating exotics beat squeezing beagles’ bladders in Bristol, or docking a sheep in Devonshire. Exotics. Trevor's life brimmed with exotics. He even married one. And he knew that even the exotic could turn tedious. The job, the animals, this home, this wife and his life began to choke him. He stared out the window, and he really wanted to step out on the tile balcony, but at 23 floors up, he would have to worry that Voodoo, Petrina's cat, might slink out and jump off. He stared into the blackness, gradually ignoring the buildings below his flat, the lights and the nighttime activity of Hong Kong.
He saw the odd full moon. Trevor had never seen the moon so large or so low in the sky, a great shining white plate that nearly touched Mount Davis. Then he noticed the peculiar way that the trees bent, not like the storm-whipped palms around Repulse Bay after a typhoon, but as if they had been magnetized or drawn to the ground. The scene looked oppressive, and Trevor felt the aura of a migraine. ‘Damn, that's all I need’, he thought. He snapped the drapes closed, clutching the brocade in his sweating hand.
Trevor forced a pleasant scene into his mind. While not scientific, he found that doing this exercise sometimes blocked a headache. Better than getting hooked on painkillers, or ruining his stomach with aspirin. Trevor went over to a rosewood and mother-of-pearl inlaid piece that served as a liquor cabinet. He poured a snort and a half of brandy, and returned to his chair. He swirled the amber liquid in the thin glass, and enjoyed its mellow burning aroma. He recalled someone he met at a large animal veterinary conference in Nairobi three months earlier.
Dr Gaye Medford headed a bovine pneumonia research group at Texas A&M University, and she knocked him out. Tall - an inch taller than he was - blond, blue-eyed - everything he expected from a Texan - and she was brilliant. He had never met anyone from Texas before, and, for him, the place only insisted on TV. Then, in between papers on a new lungworm discovered in Egypt and the high incidence of nasal tumors in Polish oxen, Gaye spoke. After the symposium, Trevor introduced himself, mentioned the troubles he had with a group of sambar deer from Malaysia, and after an excellent French dinner alfresco, they confirmed more than a friendship.
Sleeping in the next morning, Trevor opened his eyes to see a mass of straw-colored hair caressing his cheek, golden waves that delighted him with their difference. Straight black hair was dull, Newfoundland dull, Labrador retriever dull, Doberman dull. Petrina dull. As they ate breakfast in bed, Trevor trying to figure out how to marry this glorious American, Gaye invited him to Texas A&M. The highly respected vet school would have an opening in eight months. She promised him a chance to teach and work together, all on the Texas equivalent of expat terms. Petrina in Texas? Never. Professor McTeer? The thought was even more seductive than the way Gaye nibbled a croissant and smiled as he croaked, "Yes, I'd like..." without finishing the sentence.
"You don't have to answer right now," she trilled. "It's a life-bending situation to change your life."
Trevor thought she said "wife" instead of "life", and he knew that he heard wrong, but blushed anyway. "I want to make a change," he replied.
He returned to Hong Kong determined to give up his post and leave Petrina. He actively thought about breaking the news to her. His even hinted that his marriage was rocky to a lawyer friend of his, over whiskey sours in the lobby lounge at the Mandarin Hotel, but his pal was as potted as a potto, and equally attentive. Then Trevor started writing to Gaye. She answered by e-mail, but he persisted in writing notes on his classy beige stationery. She teased him, suggesting that he join the electronic age, and stop using his parrot green iMac as a fancy paperweight. She teased, but at least she responded, and he believed she appreciated his European sensibilities and continental procrastination. It took a month for him to write his c.v., and another week before he sent it to College Station, Texas. He wanted Gaye, and to wake up in a sunny Tex-Mex style hacienda or ranch or whatever they were called, his face against her lemony hair, being careful not to knock over a cactus as he reached for the alarm clock. Dry, sunny mornings, a rough Navajo rug under his bare feet as he eagerly jumped out of bed to teach Aggies the difference between distemper in hyenas and pugs.
Whether from the Napoleon or his Gaye reverie he did not know, but Trevor was grateful that a migraine had been averted. Suddenly enthusiastic, Trevor wanted to do something. He thought about jotting a note to Gaye, but that felt like something he should not do at five in the morning with a strange moon out there. He thought about attacking the book - not something he was writing, but one he was trying to read. A feed supplier gave him a copy of the definitive biography of Hannah Drayne, the first female to scuba dive in the Antarctic. Trevor was less than 300 pages into an 800-page book. Obviously, she survived. Would he? He decided to take up an easy task, and clicked on the lights of his marine aquarium. He peered into forty gallons of Coral Sea, but the lights seem to startle the indigo triggerfish, neon blue devils, and an iridescent fish that looked like a Christmas ornament. The candy-striped and highly toxic lionfish moved its blank eyes upward, and drifted upward on wing-like fins. The lionfish bubbled at the surface, and Trevor dropped in a foul-smelling food pellet, avoiding the poisonous red and white barbs that flashed above the water. A bit of the pellet settled on the pink-purple tentacles of a sea anemone, and disappeared.
He heard footsteps behind him, and turning, he saw Dessie, the Filipina maid. At thirty, she was still cute in both face and body. In a robe and pajamas, her hair tousled and round golden face muzzy with sleep, she looked soft and inviting.
"Everything OK, Dessie?" he asked.
"Yes, Dr McTeer. I heard you and saw the light, and I wondered what it was."
"Sorry I woke you."
"That's O.K. You need something?"
"No, I’m fine. Couldn't sleep, so I might as well dress and go to the zoo early."
"I'll make breakfast."
Trevor shook his head. "No thanks."
"May I just use the bathroom first?"
Trevor always liked taking hot showers, because the mirror got steamy and he did not have to see his nakedness. Brown hair thinning down to baldness, ribby chest and a low-slung belly. Every time he looked at himself, a new worry, from the red sacs under his eyes to new wrinkles and more lumpiness, but Gaye still teased him by e-mail. He chuckled to himself that Gaye, a great-looking American, and Petrina, his so-so Chinese wife, both saw something in him.
He clicked on the novelty radio-toothbrush holder to hear the morning news. Radio Three crackled on, and he heard the Dundee brogue of Iain Conor prattle on about the latest troubles in China, then he mentioned that the moon was at its lowest point in the sky than it had been in over 130 years. This once in a century event caused an extraordinary gravitational pull, and fortunetellers predicted violent and weird behavior. ‘Great’, Trevor thought. Lunacy. More business for the psychologists.
Down in the lobby of the building, Trevor said good morning to Ganung, the Gurkha security guard. He snapped to attention. "Morning, Dr McTeer. May I ask you a brief question?"
"Are you still a vet?"
"Yes, licensed and in good standing."
"An interesting story. You probably don't know the Wu’s on the 10th floor. OK people, but bratty kids. They have an unusual dog. Jack Russell terrier."
"They're not that unusual."
"Maybe so, but those dogs are hard to find in Hong Kong. The Wu's got theirs from Australia. Very expensive, maybe $9000 Hong Kong, sir."
"They kill them."
"What?" McTeer stared at the short, stocky man in an olive uniform, a sky blue beret crumpled in his hand.
"They kill them. First they had one, a cute little pup, and he was run over by the kid’s bicycle. Nobody cares. They buy a second pup. This one gets washed with the laundry and drowns or something. Now I hear that their next one is sick. Perhaps you should check on this."
"Being a qualified veterinary surgeon,..."
"I'm sure they have their own man." Ganung seemed unconvinced, so Trevor added, "Look, I'm a partner in a private clinic in Sheung Wan. If they want me, I'm in the book. But I'll tell you something, Ganung.”
"If people are determined to kill their pets, expensive or otherwise, there is nothing a vet can do. Cheers."
"Should I do something?"
"You, Ganung? The law’s in place. You could call the police or the cruelty association, Amnesty International, even, but it's hard to prove all that, and if you did? You work for this building. The management association is not going to like you giving a tenant family trouble." He stared into Ganung's broad brown face. "Do nothing."
He thought about Ganung’s tale as he drove to the zoo. A giant baleful morning moon hung low in the milky blue sky. Unsettled by the sight of it, Trevor wondered if it had something to do with all the smog, or industrial pollution wafting down from China. Turning back to the dogs made him feel better.
When he arrived at his office, it was too early to contact the Hong Kong Kennel Association, so he telephoned the clinic. His partner, Carter Wang, picked right up. "Carter, any idea how many Jack Russell terriers in Hong Kong?"
"No, but I guess not too many. Check the Kennel Association, but at a decent hour. You’re in luck, though."
"Why?" Trevor's curiosity came through in his voice. Carter always laughed at how easy reading gweilos could be.
"Trev, we got a Jack Russell pup in here yesterday. Needs a de-worming and the battery of shots, but other than that, she's fine."
"That's one right there."
"Thinking about this, we have another one. Five-year-old dog, I think."
"Owned by the Wu’s?"
"Don't think so, Trev. Owners local, but that name doesn't click with me." Carter paused. "Why the sudden love of Jack Russells?"
"Nothing special. I’m thinking of writing an article about them."
"Jack Russells? You've got the most successful breeding record for sable antelope in Asia, and your tops in the world for golden lion marmosets, and you want to write about an expensive version of a fox terrier? Who gives a damn about Jack Russells?"
Trevor sounded so cold that Carter did not know if he should push it.
Carter pushed. "What is special about them ? You're not wasting your time on this study of them because of that one on the American sitcom?"
"Certainly not. I happen to be thinking about buying one myself."
"With that gorgeous black Persian at home? A big furry cat and terrier pup. Good combination. Now I have a real idea. Mrs. Sidwani has a fine female Persian and she's willing to pay a decent stud fee. You ought to consider it."
"Voodoo belongs to Petrina, and I don't think she thinks of him as a stud."
"What's the problem," Carter laughed, "Petrina still trying to smother him with a mother's love?"
"No, she thinks of him as more like a priest. Celibacy makes him truer."
After hanging up, he called the Kennel Association. The slug who identified himself as the acting information officer said that he had no idea how many there were in the territory. Trevor then looked over the summary reports prepared by each curator. After a cursory check of a bandaged, half-dead Gila monster, Trevor returned to his office to go through his mail and deliveries. A Japanese pharmaceutical salesman left an interesting sample with Sally, his secretary. Elurex, a new veterinary anesthetic, recommended for large animal use. Limited testing with exotics. ‘Why did he bother leaving that junk with us ? Do they expect us to experiment on our endangered species ? Don't think so.’ Leaving dangerous controlled substances with office workers did not strike him as wise, either. ‘Bloody foreign salesmen,’ he thought, and he felt the stirrings of another headache. The yellow-white flickers of a migraine aura danced in front of already aching eyes. The bits of light shredded thoughts of Gaye like shards of razor. He took out a can of ginger ale from his small fridge, popped the ring and began drinking. The flickers lessened.
He took a compact disc, a Baroque quintet playing something by Bonporti, and put it into his player. The solo flute that began the piece sounded like spring. He was ready for something musically fuller when the two violins, a viola and cello joined in, making the piece now sound like spring in a village or a small town. He shut his eyes with the pleasure, and he had to admit it to himself. He missed the West.
Did Gaye like classical music? He wondered. He imagined Locatelli or Puccini would give a Texan a migraine. What did those people listen to? Country and western, cowboy music and polkas, no doubt. Songs played by musicians named Chet or Clint. Who knew. Smiling, he imagined that bedroom scene, waking up to find the sun streaming into their room, the strains of a Bach concerto in the air. Could Gaye tolerate it? He began to imagine the paintings she had in her house. Giant cowboy pictures and heavy frames, or thick bronze steers dashing about. He could tolerate an oil entitled "How the West was Won" as long as he could choose the music.
He shook the brown vial of Elurex. The oily liquid inside swirled and frothed. It looked evil. It looked like freedom. He went to his locked cabinet and removed a box of syringes. He grabbed a handful of assorted sizes, and slipped them into his jacket pocket. He left his building and briskly walked down the main path. A jaguar in an antique cage grunted as he strolled by, a Japanese macaque squealed and an unseen peacock boomed from the aviary. Trevor stopped in front of an ornate Victorian concrete and iron cage housing a pair of Himalayan lesser pandas. The raccoon-like creatures, about a yard long and covered with red and gold fur, watched him with beady eyes. Trevor dipped under the visitors’ rail and reached into the cage. The male climbed over to have his head scratched. "Got a gift for you, mate." He reached into his pocket, touched the syringes and vial, and withdrew quickly. "Not those, mate." His other pocket had the dried apricots and he fed the pair.
Trevor went back to his office. Sally came in early, and was just settling into her desk with a cup of tea. "Morning, Trevor," she said brightly.
"I find you annoying, Miss Chan.”
She cocked her lovely head to one side. "Why?"
"Because you're so awake, clear and terrific at this lousy hour."
"Too early for you, doctor?"
"Quite. And the moon, too." Seeing that she did not follow, he continued. "Just look out the window. Nearly nine and the moon never set. And I heard some rot on the radio that it's like an equinox. Highly irregular."
Sally looked out the window. "It is quite full, but it doesn't bother me."
"It's giving me a headache."
"I saw the ginger ale and figured." She held up her cup with delicate fingers. "Would you like a nice cup?"
"No, thanks. I'll stick to soda this morning." He stared into her large dark eyes. "Sally, I look at you and can't help wondering... Why such a beautiful girl is wasting her life in the office of a bloody zoo?"
"I love the animals."
"You don't work with the animals. This job offers nothing that you couldn't get in any other office anywhere. I dare say you'd make more money elsewhere."
"Sounds like you want to give me a raise," she laughed.
"If only I could. No, I look at you each day. You're young, beautiful, you've got everything going for you."
"I don't know if I should thank you graciously or tell you that you sound wet."
"When is that cop boyfriend of yours going to marry you?"
"That's what you're getting at. You shouldn't ask me that."
"I know, but my life is so empty that I've developed a kink thinking about yours."
"I may be bonkers, but I'm not chi-sin. You should be with someone as marvelous as you, instead of typing stool sample reports. You go with one of Hong Kong's finest, yet the skinny lout hasn't got the lychees to make you his wife. What the hell’s he waiting for?"
"His mother is sick, and he's afraid of upsetting her."
"We are together. And when the time is right, and his mother can accept the thought of her baby being married, it will happen." Sally paused. "Sometimes I think we’re waiting for her to die."
"Nothing is longer than waiting for someone to die. Of course, you'd be avoiding a mother-in-law."
They laughed together, and Trevor moved over to Sally's desk. He sat on the edge. "What are you up to?" she sighed.
Trevor's fingers delicately lifted her chin. Sally’s soft skin and firm jaw-line pleased him, and his eyes blazed as he touched her. He loved firm chins; both Petrina and Sally had them. But Sally was an adventure sitting inches away from him, and Petrina, great lines or not, had turned into a harpy eagle.
"Trevor, you are the strangest thing," she said.
He kissed her, right on that smooth firm jaw-line. "Don't call the cops."
As she turned her head toward him, her jet hair glinted in many color flashes. "I had a dream the other night. I think you’d be interested in it."
His eyes widened.
"I was in this office typing a personal letter on the computer, but then, I may have been writing it with pen and ink.”
"A quill pen, perhaps?"
"No, but I'm writing this letter for you. I think it was to Dr Medford. I was telling her what you wanted to say, and then she walked into this office, looking for you. She was going to be your... what's the word she used... ‘ partner’.”
"She actually said that?"
"Oh, yes ! What she meant by it, …well, you can interpret ‘ partner’ in many ways."
He leaned in close. "What did Dr Medford look like?"
Sally covered her mouth with her fingers to block a chuckle. "That's where my dream went pear-shaped."
"That's right. When she talked, she was human."
"I'd hope so." Trevor shrugged.
"Being human, she had to be Chinese. When she was quiet she was like that tall blond Barbie doll. Isn't that weird?"
"Oh, yes. Gaye Medford is definitely more than a Barbie doll. And she came to this office, looking for me."
"In my dream."
"In mine, too." He stood up, reverting to his professional persona. "Pass a message to Ah-Kwok. Tell him to put the clouded leopard back on a regular diet."
"And have him change Flower’s dressing at least thrice daily.”
"Thrice?” She repeated.
"As in three times."
"Got it. But which Flower do you mean ? The rabbit, the parrot –“
"Trevor, I don't think Ah-Kwok is going to be too thrilled about that. He says he's not qualified to deal with large animals."
"It's a bloody dressing I'm asking that tosser to change. Tell him he's lucky I don't order him to give the elephant an enema."
"He'll threaten to quit."
"Sally, if he does, then give him an enema. "
Trevor left this office, and drove from Central to the London Veterinary Clinic of Sheung Wan. This silly, pretentious name reflected Carter's sensibilities; he wanted the practice to have a classy sounding name to impress the locals, and since the senior partner was a genuine Brit, it would have been a shame not to take advantage of the opportunity. Trevor protested that he came from Manchester anyway, but Carter insisted on the name and the ridiculous logo of a lion wearing a crown. As a person, Carter could be a prat, but he was a damn fine vet, and painfully ethical. Lo, one of the assistants, said Dr Wang was in the operating room and he would be joining him.
After Lo grabbed and slipped on his greens, Trevor went into the holding area. Not too many patients, so he quickly spotted the cute Jack Russell pup tumbling around in its cage, enthralled with a piece of newspaper. Best use for the South China Morning Post, he thought as he prepared the syringe. "As for you, little lass, sometimes bad things happen to nice dogs."
The brown and white puppy yipped when it got the shot, wavered and buckled. Within ten seconds, it shut its eyes. Trevor put it back in the cage, then eyed a fox terrier. She almost looked like a Jack Russell, but she just wasn't the same. A mangy cat hissed at Trevor, breaking his spell. "Don't push it, strawberry face. I got plenty of medicine for you."
As he walked into the lobby of the building where he lived, he startled Ganung. "Dr McTeer, back so soon." Ganung sprang up from his chair, and straightened the sky blue beret on his head.
"What you said this morning made me think. That little terrier in trouble, remember?"
"Yes, belongs to the Wu’s. You want to examine it?”
"I feel that I should. Give me the phone number, will you?"
Trevor slipped the number into his pocket, went up to his flat, and called. He spoke to a local man, and practically forced Mr. Wu to invite him up. As he stepped out of the lift, he saw a tall thin Chinese gentleman standing next to a dour Filipina amah in a doorway, the iron grillwork outer door already pushed aside. Stiff and unfamiliar, they almost seemed at formal attention as Trevor stepped up to them. Trevor smiled, suddenly unsure of why he came up to their flat.
Surprisingly, the man held out his hand. "I'm Dr B. K. Wu."
"Trevor McTeer." He shook Wu’s hand, noting the bony limp fingers.
"How may I help you?" Wu asked, as he gestured for Trevor to enter the apartment.
"No, sir, I'm here to possibly help you." Trevor stepped into the flat, and the chaos struck him. The place was nicely decorated in sunny yellow, blue and gray, with heavy lacquered furniture. The living room was strewn with toys, and with a sudden pang, Trevor remembered those arguments. Entering into the flat, he narrowly avoided stepping on a small red altar box by the side of the doorway, a gweilo cliché.
"You must take care." Wu smiled, showing tobacco-stained, uneven teeth. "Please excuse my messy home, but I have several young children."
Trevor looked around, and noticed a large jack-in-the-box, an impossibly small tricycle and a board game already set up on the floor. He did not hear children nor dogs, and he could not smell dogs or animals around the place. "I've heard something, Mr. Wu, from the security guard downstairs. You have Jack Russell terriers. I'm a vet, and I'm quite interested in the breed."
"They are very interesting dogs, Dr McTeer. I have had four, two females and two males. I considered breeding them, but then changed my mind. You have one, I’m guessing."
"No, but I'm about to get one."
"Think before you buy one. They can be quite clever and naughty. At the moment, we have only one."
"He's not very active. The usual terrier would be jumping around any visitor to the house."
"Not Tiger," Wu shrugged. "Well, not anymore. My children saw the first one at a pet shop in Central. She was very expensive, more than $3000 Hong Kong."
"That is pricey."
"Yes. But then my children did not pay attention to her. They should have been playing with her, instead of letting her run around the carpark with this maid of ours.” Wu snickered weakly. "I ran over the dog with my car. Aye-yah, the children were so upset. They made me get them another pup almost immediately. That's when I bought two, a boy and girl, imported from Australia. Very attractive. I tried to teach them tricks, like one could roll and the other would crawl. They both rolled, but they did it badly. I found it frustrating. Then I had another accident in the carpark, so the female was gone."
Trevor raised his eyebrows. "Accidents happen."
"They do. Shortly after, my daughter threw the mate out the window." Wu saw that Trevor was aghast. "My little Annie likes to experiment with gravity. Perhaps she'll be a physicist someday."
"But you have another one now?"
"Yes, Dr McTeer, the best one of all. I'll get him."
Wu disappeared for a moment, which seemed like a very long moment under the unblinking gaze of the maid. Wu returned carrying a stuffed Jack Russell terrier, mounted on polished wood. The small brown and white dog looked stiff and oddly angled, and the glass eyes stared in shock. A plastic tongue stuck out between sharp teeth, the jaws permanently gaped.
Trevor reached out to touch the little horror.
"Tiger’s our best dog. But he wasn't always this good. He bit me when I tried to train him. Now he knows what ‘stay’ means. And no barking, either. Sometimes you have to take control of your dog, or even your own life. Good luck and goodbye, Dr McTeer."
Wu reached out and shook hands. Trevor left the flat.
His mind reeled, but he knew that a migraine was not rising. He watched some television, looked at his fish, and paid no attention to Petrina’s babbling throughout the evening. He almost laughed aloud when he realized that when Petrina talked, it was like the air pump on his aquarium. Noise, bubbles and hot air. His fingers reached for the vial in his pocket. He shook the vial, and studied the tiny bubbles that formed on the surface of the oily liquid.
"Trev, which would you prefer?" Petrina's voice in the kitchen. He put the vial away as she walked up to him. "Would you like Cointreau or Amaretto with your coffee ?"
"Whichever you prefer, love."
He watched her walk away, and he slowly moved over to his balcony window. He opened the glass doors, and stepped out on the balcony. He loved the balmy air, the smoky black sky, and the dazzling jewels of Hong Kong harbor. His mind slid into a new level of reverie, and he barely felt the large Persian rub his leg. He stooped to pick up the heavy cat. The cat purred as Trevor ran his fingers through the luxurious jet black fur. Trevor looked down into the cat's huge gold eyes. "You like that, Voodoo? Voodoo the Baby Panther. Do you know what Dr Wu says? He says you've got to take control of the animals in your life."
His lips parted in a grin as he carried the Persian to the edge of the balcony.QLRS Vol. 3 No. 3 Apr 2004