One Good Dog

by Susan Wilson

  “Don’t get too comfortable; you’re going back tomorrow.” Adam wags a finger at the dog. Swallowing the last of the scotch in his glass, Adam heads into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He drops his clothes on the floor, refills the scotch glass with the bottle he keeps on his nightstand, and climbs into bed, exhaustion waving through him and making it impossible even to read to the end of the article in his Business Week magazine. He finishes off the scotch and turns out the light.

  Instantly, he hears the scratch of claws against the wood. “Go to bed.” Scritch. Scritch. Like some Stephen King predator. “Knock it off.” The scratching becomes rhythmic, persistent. “Stop that.” His landlord won’t give him back his security deposit on that happy day he moves out of this dump if this mutt has damaged the woodwork. Adam leaps out of bed and wrenches open the door.

  The dog is sitting, his tail swishing back and forth on the floor, his mouth gaping. Aowr. Aowr. It almost sounds like a syllable. He stands up, all happiness to see Adam back in the room.

  Adam slams the door shut, gets back into bed, and pulls the spare pillow over his head.

  For once, he’s slept late. Groggy from unaccustomed deep sleep, Adam comes out of his bedroom, and nearly steps in the pile of dog shit laid carefully in front of his door. The dog is sound asleep on the futon.

  The screech and cackle of the two parrots inside Gina De-Marco’s store grows even more excited as Adam, attached to the dog, walks in. Gina is bent over an aquarium of tropical fish set on a low shelf. Her low-slung jeans gap at the tantalizing space just below the last bump on her spine. She stands up, her mouth crooked in a little surprised smile, which quickly fades. “What have we here?” She stands aside to assess the dog, then looks at Adam. “Would never have pegged you for the pit bull type.”

  “I’m not.” The dog leans against the choke chain, trying to get close to the decorative cage with the parrots.

  “Okay. So that’s not a pit bull on the end of a leash?”

  “It’s a long story.” Adam snugs the animal back to his side.

  “Where did you get him?”

  “Shelter.”

  Gina’s disdain suddenly disappears. It is replaced with a grudging approval. “Wow. Good for you. Rescue dogs are the best; it’s like they know they’ve been saved. I’ve got three greyhounds—”

  “It’s temporary.” Adam isn’t interested in rehearsing the whole sorry tale. He just wants some dog food. “I’m not keeping him.”

  “Fostering is good, too.”

  Fostering. The word has no heroic connotations for Adam. “No. Not fostering.”

  Gina ignores his assertion, as if he’s a little boy refusing to eat his peas. “What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t have one. Doesn’t need one. I’m taking him back to the shelter as soon as the doors open.”

  “Why did you get him if you’re not keeping him? These are living creatures; you can’t decide that they don’t fit and then return them like a damned shirt.”

  “Like I said, it’s a long story. I was trying to find a guy’s dog, and this isn’t it. He goes back.”

  The dog is leaning against his collar again, his pale brown nose working hard.

  “Give him a chance.”

  Yanked back to Adam’s side, the dog sits.

  Gina leans over the counter, exposing that crescent of skin above her jeans. She reaches into a jar and pulls out a dog biscuit. She cautiously approaches the dog, whose eyes are fixed on the biscuit in her hand. He lowers his head, swipes his tongue over his lips. “Here, fella.” Gina offers the biscuit and the dog shows good manners in taking it gently from her hand. She stands up and smiles. “He seems like a good boy. You should keep him.”

  The idea is ludicrous, adding an ugly dog to his list of worries. Adam doesn’t even know what the pet policy is in his building, but he’s willing to guess it’s not in favor of dogs like this. “I can’t keep him.”

  Gina reaches out and touches Adam’s arm, as if consoling him. “Sure you can.” He hears that subtle southern drawl. “He likes you.” He likes the feel of her hand on his arm, the persuasive touch of someone who thinks she can change his mind.

  “Well, I don’t like him.”

  “You will. He’s a beauty.”

  Adam laughs. “Not really. And he drools. And smells.”

  “That’s normal.” Gina runs the same hand that’s touched his arm over the dog’s head. The dog wriggles beneath her hand. She makes baby-talk noises at him, then looks up at Adam and sighs. “It can be very rewarding, bringing an animal back from a rough beginning to a satisfying life. I’ve done it with greyhounds, and several friends of mine have adopted pits.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I told you: I’m not keeping him.”

  “Then why did you bring him in here?”

  “I have nothing to feed him.”

  Now she looks at Adam with a tight-jawed disappointment. “Give him a chance. Haven’t you ever needed someone to give you a chance?”

  Adam almost laughs at her sincerity, at the storybook ending she’s shilling. “I have always made my own chances.”

  “And see where that’s gotten you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see you standing there, staring out your window all day. Too many hours for a guy with something better to do.”

  Adam feels the flush build, the hum of annoyance vibrating through his skin, the urge to snap.

  Gina turns away from Adam, leaving him alone in the shop while she goes into a back room. She comes out with a small bag of dry dog food, two cans of wet food, and a tennis ball. “This’ll take care of him for a couple of days. Just remember to give him fresh water, too.” She gingerly offers the mutt another biscuit. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “You think he’s got so much potential, I’ll be happy to give him to you.”

  “I would if I could, but I’ve got those three greyhounds. They take up a lot of space.”

  “What do I owe you?” Adam fishes his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “It’s a gift. For the dog. Throw the ball for him a few times. You both could use the exercise.”

  “No, no gifts. I’ll pay.”

  “Forget it.” Gina’s full mouth is drawn into a thin line. She folds her arms across her middle, her hands resolutely not taking any money from him.

  He doesn’t know exactly what he’s done wrong, but he’s done something. All women have that ineffable power to transmit disappointment without words, and he’s getting a full dose from this woman he barely knows. She bags the food and hands it to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “I guess he’s better off dead than unloved.”

  “Dead? He’ll get adopted.”

  “Not very likely.”

  “You just told me you have friends who adopt pit bulls. What makes it less likely for this one?”

  “Where was he?”

  “End cage.”

  “Nuff said. That’s death row. They’ve given him his last chance with you.”

  The dog, who has given up pulling on the leash and trying to sniff at every nose-level object in the pet shop, suddenly relaxes the tension on the leash and sits. He looks up at the two humans, his muzzle following the conversation like a line judge. Adam turns away from the counter and nearly trips over the dog. The touch of his knee against the dog’s ribs is enough to get a yowl out of the animal. “Hey, that’s enough out of you.” Adam jerks the leash.

  “Who, me or the dog?”

  Adam doesn’t answer, yanks the dog to his side, and walks out. Really, the woman is too much.

  As they wait for the light to change, Adam hears the dog growl, a low, throaty rumble that is aimed up the street. A middle-aged man in a track suit is walking a Labrador retriever. The dog’s growl elevates to something more like a roar and Adam is nearly taken off his feet as the dog lunges fiercely at the oncoming dog. The bag of dog food hits the pavement and the tennis ball rolls out. The dog is pow
erful enough that it takes both hands to keep him from reaching the yellow Lab.

  “That dog is dangerous, mister. Put a fucking muzzle on it, will ya?” The Lab’s owner pulls his own dog to one side and hurries by, fuming about city ordinances. The pit bull is barking at the top of his lungs, as if the very existence of that Labrador is an insult to him. The Lab glances back at the raging dog and then looks longingly at the rolling tennis ball.

  “Knock it off!” Adam pulls on the leash, but the dog is oblivious to the pressure. As soon as the guy and his dog disappear around a corner, the dog sits, licks its lips, and scratches at his half of an ear, then looks up at Adam as if expecting praise.

  The dog has to go. Now.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I was embarrassed at having to do my business in the house, but then again, I have never been house-trained. I wouldn’t have even considered soiling the area—it was, after all, not a lot bigger than my cage back in the cellar—but he didn’t give me a clue as to what was appropriate behavior. His language was familiar. I understood the “Shut up” and “Knock it off” bit, but my own attempt at communication was ineffectual; he didn’t speak my language. So I crapped where he’d get the message. No furtive behind the furniture for me. Uh-uh. Right there where he’d step in it. I got the reaction I half-expected. Again, familiar words were tossed at me, but he didn’t touch me. He also, after a few minutes of diatribe, had the good grace to be embarrassed himself. “You needed to go out? I should have known. Not your fault.” Well, he didn’t exactly say that, but I understood by his seated posture, his head in his hands, that he had figured it out.

  He leashed me and we banged down the three flights of stairs to the outside. The sidewalk was clear, but the grassy divide between sidewalk and street was filled with snow. I hiked my leg up to mark my new territory against a dug-out fireplug but got dragged along before I could finish the job. This guy had no leash manners at all.

  Then—oh boy, what fun—we went into that place where the scents of treats and rubber toys was almost narcotic. The female actually touched me with kind fingers. Something I’d never known before, and something I had a sudden and uncharacteristic craving for. The mommy noises from her mouth were enough to make me long for puppyhood. Ah, if only the lug on the other end of my leash had had the brains to leave me here.

  And then, would you believe it? One of those Labs from the night of the storm came sauntering down the street, all up in my face, bragging on being somebody’s spoiled pet. I guess I showed him. The cur squealed with fear aggression, and I’d have made mincemeat out of him if he’d had the cojones to pull away from his man. The guy at the other end of my leash was surprised, but he had a pretty firm grip. Lucky for that Lab.

  He yanked on my leash and off we went back to his crib. If I had hoped for a reprise of my first adopted home, with a nice escapable fenced-in yard, this sure wasn’t it. Before he could get his entry door unlocked, I squatted. If I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy the leisure of a backyard bowel movement, I was going to have to get busy before he dragged me back into the building. I have my standards.

  There is a certain comfort in recognizing human male behavior, and this guy’s language was completely familiar. He spoke as my boys had spoken. Muttered, yes, not shouted. And no violence, true. I wasn’t confined to a cage, but he kept his distance, as if I was. I just knew that my fighting career was going to be revived. Why else bail me out of the shelter? He was tough—nothing namby-pamby about him—and I just knew that he was looking for someone as tough as he was. Right from the get-go, I knew I liked his looks. Hey, I knew that I was out of condition, but I was certain we’d rectify that soon enough. I was even looking forward to the road work and the weights. We’d be a pair. Yes we would.

  Inside, he dumped some kibble into a plastic bowl. Good start. I wolfed it, looked for more. He paid no attention, just sat talking to himself with that little toy they all rub on their ears. Suddenly, he stood up and swore. I ducked. I’m not proud of my cringe reflex; I don’t speak of it often, but it’s there. I ducked and scurried out of reach. The little table afforded me a place to call my own. Chair legs, table legs, like a veritable “cave” of protection. I could look out and see the man’s legs pacing back and forth, but he couldn’t reach me.

  “What’s your problem?” He growled like an alpha dog.

  Aowr. I acknowledged his position in this pack of two. He had the hands to open cans; I had to be subservient.

  “You lucky bastard. You’ve got a reprieve. Goddamned shelter doesn’t do intakes on the weekend. Goddamn it. They need a better business plan.”

  I laughed. I had no idea what all those words meant, but I do know when things are looking up. Aowr. Hunh-hunh.

  “Maybe there’s another one I can take you to.” He scratched at his chin, then said, “Maybe there’s a pit bull rescue. Yeah, that’s it.” He entertained himself for a long time, but at the end, he slammed his toy down. “Fuck it.”

  More words, but I knew that they were just sounds. I bent to lick my nethers. I was full, and, for the moment, safe.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Today is his kid day. His court-approved, Sterling-approved visitation. He’s given up trying to get Ariel here; instead, he will meet her at Sylvan Fields, where he will be forced to wait outside in the car until she drags herself down to join him. He’ll take her to lunch at a restaurant he can no longer afford, while she texts her friends, no doubt complaining about her wasted afternoon. Then a negotiated trip to the mall, where she will test his patience by going from store to store, leaving him to cool his jets on a bench like some abandoned luggage, then home to Sylvan Fields, where Sterling will berate him for giving in to Ariel’s questionable taste in clothing—this after he’s bought her something he cannot afford to buy. Any hope of a consulting job, or employment in his field, has so far proven futile

  Adam remembers to take the dog downstairs before leaving. The midmorning air is crystal cold, and he’s come down with his bare feet tucked into his beat-up L.L. Bean slippers, and his parka is unzipped. “Hurry up.”

  The dog is happy to comply. Adam bends over with a plastic bag in his hand. He doesn’t know if any neighbors are checking out his dog-owner manners, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that someone will complain to the super that he has this dog. Even if it is only until the shelter reopens on Monday. No other shelter will take him. In bailing the dog out, Adam has signed a contract agreeing to return him to the same shelter. No bending of rules.

  The dog nudges Adam with his nose, letting him know it’s time to go in. If he had balls, they’d be frozen off.

  “No more crapping in the house.”

  Aowr.

  “Okay.”

  Adam dumps kibble in the bowl, fills a pot with cold water, and points at the futon. “You stay off.”

  The dog’s mouth breaks open and the tongue lolls out in a gentleman’s agreement.

  “Yeah, right. Not till my back is turned.” Adam locks the door behind him. He has no idea how long a dog can go without getting into trouble, but he figures he can hold on for the six hours or so that Ariel will tolerate Adam’s company. Six at the most. He’s just been out, he’s been fed and watered, and Adam has thoughtfully left the television on so that the dog thinks he’s got company. He shrugs back the fact that he has no idea if this dog has the self-control to behave. Then he consoles himself, thinking that, so far, he’s crapped on the floor only once. Hasn’t chewed anything, and hasn’t barked at noises. If he’s been hard to handle on the street, lunging at every passing dog, at least he’s been good in the apartment.

  Ariel saunters out of the house barely dressed. Her skinny rider’s legs are encased in tights, which end midway down her shin, a skimpy floral skirt is wrapped around her waist, and her coat is wide open. In a nod to the season, she wears short Uggs on her feet, like Gina wears. Ariel’s two thumbs are busy communicating with luckier friends. She gets into his car without a word, ignoring
his “hi, honey.” As Adam moves down the long shrub-lined driveway, Ariel finishes her texting and looks at him. “This car stinks!”

  “You noticed?” He aims at droll, but it comes out weak.

  “Whew. Smells like wet dog.”

  “Interesting that you should mention that. It is wet dog.”

  Suddenly, Ariel takes notice. Her eyes widen. “You have a dog?” Emphasis on the you. As if he had suddenly taken up bungee jumping.

  “Temporarily.”

  “Can I see him?”

  Adam recognizes a dilemma when it faces him. If he introduces Ariel to the dog, then gets rid of him, she’s going to be as mad at him as ever. If he doesn’t show her the dog, she’ll be as mad at him as ever. The old “rock and hard place” situation where Adam feels so at home. “I’ve got him only for a day. No sense getting to know him.”

  Ariel shoves her hands into the sleeves of her coat, her slump eloquent of his failings. “Fine.”

  “I’ve booked us lunch at Trois Chevaliers.” He knows this is Ariel’s favorite high-end restaurant. He lets her have a little champagne when he takes her there. His pocketbook cries McDonald’s, but his pride and his credit card call for Trois Chevaliers.

  “Fine.”

  “School going okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Any concerts or plays this year?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How’s your old pal Kiki?”

  Her eye roll is not charming. “We’re at different schools.”

  “Gran and Granny doing well?

  “Guess so.”

  “Your mom okay?”

  “Why do you keep asking me these questions? They’re always the same and the answers are always the same. Ask Mom yourself.”

  Adam swallows back his reply: Unless Sterling wants something, she never answers his calls. Anything of a substantial nature between him and his ex-wife is carried out through intermediaries. Ariel, for good or ill, has become his only connection to his past life. His message board. Poor kid. No wonder she hates these forced dates.