by Susan Wilson
When his glass was empty, he lay down, but the sounds didn’t cease. Finally I got up, stretched east and west, shook myself, and then sat. If he’d stopped making the sounds, I might have just wandered off. But the sounds went on, a primal sound of despair, of great anguish. Not like a rabbit in a cat’s jaws, or even like the losers in the pit. This was more like the howls of those who ended up in the shelter with me, the ones who were lost, separated from their humans, unable to fend for themselves. The sound of abandonment. Not unlike the sad moan of my mentor when he realized he wasn’t going to be reunited with his man. Or even a little like the sound I made myself when he was taken beyond the door at the end of the hall.
What else could I have done? I’m only canine, I had to help. I pushed myself up beside him, nosing his hand until it reached for my ears, until I felt his fingers slide along the edges of my good ear, and then I did it. I nuzzled him. I stuck the tip of my nose against his cheek and touched his face with my tongue. He tasted salty. Not a bad flavor. He didn’t push me away, so I pressed myself closer, edging against him until we shared the futon. He draped an arm over my back and pressed his face against mine. And then we slept.
Chapter Thirty
Adam dreams that he is walking through a busy hallway. There is something he has to do, but he can’t remember what it is. His arms are heavy with the weight of something he cannot see. He is bumped right and left by the crowd of people walking in the opposite direction. He wakes with a start.
The dog has managed to press him against the back of the futon, his whole body stretched out alongside Adam’s, his boxy muzzle tucked into Adam’s neck, the moist dog breath tickling him. Adam struggles against the weight of the dog to sit up. Abruptly, the dog dismounts from the futon, stretches, and yawns. “At least one of us has had a decent sleep.” The dog, clearly pleased at his piracy, shakes vigorously and sits in front of Adam.
Adam strokes the dog’s head, noticing just how soft it is. The bone of his skull is rock-hard beneath his hand, but his short brindled coat is as soft and smooth as silk. Adam does it again. The dog opens his mouth and grins, makes a little chuffing noise; his tail ticks back and forth on the floor. “You are one ugly dog.” Adam’s tone soothes the dog into raptures. “I should call you Uggie, boy.” The dog stands up, whipping his tail in excitement at Adam’s compliments.
“The shelter is open again, you know? Dr. Gil left me a message.”
The dog begins to dance on his forefeet. Excited at this unusual conversation.
“You ready to go back?”
Hunnha hunnha.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Adam gets to his feet. The sky beyond his window is dark, and Adam is uncertain of the time. It could be evening or the dark of predawn. He feels as if he’s been run over. The jelly glass is upended beside the futon. Adam checks the microwave clock. Three in the morning. He hasn’t let the dog out. He hasn’t fed him.
The last of the February nights is cold, clear, and astoundingly silent. Adam takes the dog for a complete walk around the block, letting the piercingly cold air clear out his own lungs and fuzzy brain. It is so quiet, so still, Adam lets the dog off the leash to sniff around an empty lot. The only traffic is a slow police car; the only other soul, the lone cop. He looks directly at Adam, rolls down the window, appearing almost glad of an interruption in his rounds.
“Just walking the dog.” Adam holds up the leash.
“Leash laws here.”
“I know. Thought I’d flaunt them a little.”
The cop smiles and drives off.
The dog is gone a long time, and suddenly Adam wonders if he’ll come back. What if he bolts? What if, having been a street dog, he thinks Adam has just set him free? Adam has never let him off the leash before, and he has no way of knowing if the animal will come even if he calls. Adam strains to listen, to see if he can pinpoint where the dog is in the half-acre empty lot. He’s disappeared. Run off. Adam pictures the empty bowls on his kitchen floor.
Adam gathers the leash into a coil. He can’t even call the dog; he’s nameless. He’s had the animal for almost three weeks and has refused to call him anything but “boy” or “buddy” or “you.” Refused to consider him anything more than an annoying houseguest. “Come, boy. Here, buddy.”
The feel of his soft coat was like satin beneath Adam’s fingers. The softest thing he’s touched since Ariel’s baby skin.
In the distance, the sound of snuffling.
“Hey, boy!”
From out of the darkness comes the dog, tail wagging.
A unaccountable sense of relief flows through Adam, and his hand is shaking a little as he clips the leash to the collar. “Good boy.” He pats the dog on the head.
Adam goes into the bathroom and pees, brushes his teeth quickly, and pulls off his sweatshirt and jeans, which he drops into a basket he’s stuck in the bathroom for dirty laundry. He climbs into his unmade bed. He lies still, then calls the dog. “You coming?”
His last thought before falling into a deep sleep is that he can’t imagine what Gina will say if he tells her he’s keeping the dog. The dog that is snoring at the foot of his bed. But, somehow, it comforts him to think that she might approve.
Chapter Thirty-one
I almost didn’t come to his call. I was loose for the first time in a long time and I honestly thought that’s what he intended when he took off the leash. We’d communicated, him through touching me with his hands, me with touching him with my nose. A piece of the barrier that we both respected lowered a little bit. Like unrelated puppies, we slumbered on, tangled up, one with the other. So when he let me go, I thought that was his way of acknowledging that I should strike out on my own once again. Our time together—for what purpose, I still didn’t get—was done.
We went outside in the night, the neighborhood around us quiet as only city neighborhoods can be when the people are inside and the cars are furtive. The night animals, the mouse and rat, the city raccoon and skunk, lurked around every corner, but I ignored them, attached as I was on the end of the leash. Not much point in it.
There were no other dogs around; no scent more recent than that afternoon collided with my searching nose. I marked fresh territory. When we got to the empty place and the man unsnapped the leash, I took it that he was releasing me. Well and good, I thought. Fair enough. He’s served me fairly well, and I’ve behaved myself. Now is the time to scoot. Go find that warm shelter beneath a bush, tuck my nose under my tail, and let go of this soft life of bed and kibble. We’re done. Shake hands all around and cheerio.
I headed out into the dark, quartering the empty place, checking for the signs of other dogs, the warm smell of vole, of future meals. I became intoxicated with the odors of free creatures. Feces told me of scavengers and gourmets, of those who fed themselves, and those who enjoyed the servitude of humans, the easy dependability of scheduled meals.
Like I’d been enjoying for this little while. I knew that unlikely show of submission on his part wasn’t to be mistaken for subservience. I wasn’t going to fall for a pathetic belly-up as total submission. No sirree. We’d kept it simple: He fed me; I was pleasant enough. I didn’t owe him anything. Conversely, he didn’t owe me anything, either. I felt sorry for him in that moment, that’s all. He was grieving, and I offered a momentary solace. That didn’t mean we were ever going to be partners.
I heard his voice, understood the meaning, if not the words. A pat on the leg, a low whistle. I continued quartering, but I was torn between freedom and a warm place to sleep. Images of old pals and trash cans insinuated themselves into my thoughts as I found traces of both beneath the hard-packed snow.
He called again, a little louder, a little more concerned. Had I misunderstood? Had he been only allowing me a little privacy, a little decision-making latitude? I raised my head, stood as still as a pointer on mark. A sharpish breeze caught at the scraps of paper nestled among the ragged hills of iced-over snow, lifting them into eddies. I shivered. I re
ally didn’t have to sleep rough tonight. I could just go with him. Take the leash.
Come, boy. Here, buddy.
There was nothing in my experience that led me to believe that human beings were ever trustworthy. When I lived in the cellar, the boys who handled us could be pleasant enough, especially when I was winning. Or, with no warning, they could also kick us across the room. Why should I deem a comfortable moment between us a harbinger of a better life and not some anomaly? What did he mean by letting me go and then making those petulant noises? An assertion of pack leadership? No, I’d keep myself to myself. Pick the pack I wanted to belong to.
It was when he went quiet that I heard what he meant. In the absolute stillness of the winter night, I heard him sigh, a sound of capitulation, of disappointment.
I went back to him. Greeted him in the spirit of compromise. Attach your leash to my collar for now. I’ll wait till spring to book it.
Good boy.
Chapter Thirty-two
Adam feels a surge of jitters as he snaps the leash to the dog’s collar. The hand-painted parrot is turned over to the WELCOME side and the lights are on in Gina’s store. It feels as though those little fish that swim across the rainbow of her storefront are in his belly. He’s only recently gotten it: the A to Z tropical fish on her window are angelfish and zebra fish. He’s tried not to stand in his own window as much, still smarting from Gina’s remark about his life. Well, he’s about to show her that he can make changes if he wants. He’s talked to Stein about this, about this irrational need to explain himself to a woman he has no relationship with, or, worse, who is an antagonistic acquaintance. Stein wants him to examine his motivations.
Gina didn’t talk him into keeping the dog. It was his decision, and one he’s going to have to live with, or live to regret, for a long time. He wants to make it clear to Gina that while he is committed to keeping the dog, she hasn’t shamed him into it; and to get some advice on training. This business of lurching at every passing dog on the street has got to stop. Maybe she can recommend another book.
“Come on.” He still hasn’t named the animal. Each time a name comes to him, he auditions it to see if the dog will respond. At this point, Boy is the most likely one. The dog neither comes to nor obeys any softly spoken word. Adam has gone through the little book on pit bulls, but it hasn’t provided much guidance. So, for now, it’s all intuitive. When he picks up the empty bowl, the dog comes. When he rattles the leash, the dog goes to the door. Any sudden movement, like when he cracked his shin on the coffee table and let out a yelp, startles the dog back into his hiding place beneath the table. This is not Rin Tin Tin. This is not Lassie. This isn’t even Marmaduke.
“Let’s go see Gina.”
The year has tripped over into March, but the air is still pure winter. It is just the time of year when warmer weather is impossible to imagine. The men at the Fort Street Center are hardened by this weather, cheeks and lips chapped and noses blue-veined and reddened along the edges. They take the plastic trays hot from the Hobart out of the rack and hold them close. They wear layers of clothing, castoffs donated to the Salvation Army or directly to the center. A big cardboard box sits in the foyer, where donors can drop off unwanted clothing. These days, it’s pretty much empty; anything wearable is on someone’s body.
Gina is standing framed in the doorway as they cross the street, and for an instant Adam thinks that she’s been waiting for him. She turns away; whoever she’s been watching for hasn’t come. Of course she’s not waiting for him.
The parrots squawk a reasonable imitation of a greeting as Adam and the dog enter the shop. Gina is standing with a fishnet in one hand. Despite the cold outside, the shop is warm and she is wearing a short sleeved, button-front white blouse that fits her shape and leaves a lovely triangle at the base of her throat. Her hair is down, softly grazing her shoulders. She doesn’t look like a shopgirl; she looks like she may have a date after work. There is a drop of water clinging to her wrist.
When she sees that it is Adam and the dog standing in the middle of her small shop, she hangs the dripping fishnet on a hook and folds her arms across her middle. She doesn’t smile, but her expressive brows arc into question marks. “Thought that shelter was open again.”
Adam leans over and runs his hand down the length of the dog’s body. The dog’s tail swings gently side to side, but his eyes are on Gina. “I’m going to keep him.” He waits, his own eyes on Gina’s face, his lips parted in expectation of her reaction. He waits to see if the hostility with which she usually looks at him will, even for an instant, abate.
“What made you change your mind?” Suspicious, not approving.
Adam shrugs, a gesture nearly lost in the bulk of his jacket. “I don’t know. Things.” He is disappointed, feels like a kid with an underappreciated crayon drawing. “Got used to him.”
Very slowly, reluctantly, a smile comes to Gina’s lips. “If you want my opinion, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
The disappointment lifts; he has no idea why he wants Gina to be nice to him, but he just does, and even this mild approval feels nice. “I was hoping you’d say that. I still think I’m a little crazy.” The dog sits, drops his jaw into a cavernous yawn.
“Have you called Dr. Gil? To let him know?”
“No. Why should I?”
“He’s going to want to know. Given your”—she hesitates—“peculiar circumstances, you may want to make sure he understands that you’re committed to keeping him.”
“All right.”
Gina reaches for a dog biscuit. “What are you going to call him?” She holds out the biscuit; the dog takes it out of her fingers like a gentleman.
“For the moment, the default name seems to be Boy.”
“No. No good. Every male dog on the planet gets called Boy at least half the time. You want something that will distinguish him from the pack.”
“Like being a pit bull isn’t enough?”
“No. You’re giving him a chance at a new life, a new identity.”
“Witness protection program for dogs?”
“Something like that. It’s not going to be easy, I hope that you’re planning on working hard with him.”
Adam has not planned any such thing, fairly satisfied with things as they are. Except for the aggression on the street. “I need to get him so he doesn’t pull my arms off every time we meet another dog.”
“He’s been taught that. He can be taught something else.”
“I sure hope so.”
“I’ve got a few business cards from dog whisperers. Let me see if I can find them.” Gina disappears behind the counter.
“When did trainers become whisperers? This guy is pretty tough; I may need to shout at him.”
Gina stands up. “That’s something you can’t do. Really. He’s got to be convinced that gentle is better.”
Adam recalls the dog’s quick bolt under the kitchen table every time he raises his voice on the phone, or at the opposing team’s interceptions on Sunday afternoon. “Yeah, he’s evidently the strong, sensitive type.”
“Don’t kid. He probably is. These dogs are made, not born, that way.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but time will tell.” Adam takes the business cards from Gina, flips through the little collection. He knows that he can’t afford a dog trainer, but he plays along. “Which one would you recommend?”
“They’re all good. But you should start with K-Nine Etiquette. He’s very good with problem animals.” She sets her olive eyes on Adam. For the first time, there is something besides disdain in them. “I really think that there’s hope for him.”
Adam can discern a willingness to be nice, or maybe just a willingness to see that he isn’t all bad. That maybe there is hope for him.
“Maybe you should call him Chance. You’re giving him one. And I think he’s maybe giving you a chance, too.” Gina blushes a little, a slow pinking of the little exposed triangle at the base of her throat
> “Chance of what?”
Gina turns away, picks up the fishnet, and goes back to moving fish. Whatever she is thinking, she’s not saying, and Adam wonders if maybe she’s embarrassed herself with her presumption.
“Chance. Yeah. Maybe. You like that one? Hey, Chance.”
The dog, who has been poking his nose into the fish-food display, cocks his head at Adam and his satchel mouth breaks open in a doggy smile.
“I think he likes it.”
Gina hangs up the little net again and comes close enough to Adam that he can smell the light floral scent of her shampoo. She bends over the dog. “Looks like we have a winner.” She strokes the dog on his bulky head and then touches Adam’s forearm. “You’re doing a good thing.”
Now it is his turn to blush. He likes that touch, so simple, so human. It exposes a loneliness that is the central theme of his life.
Chapter Thirty-three
The fur between my shoulder blades rose even before I could thoroughly identify the scent. In a completely instinctive response, I growled. Low and warning. Not my usual style. It wasn’t another dog trespassing into the restricted territory defined by the length of my leash; it was them. The boys. The ones who had kept me and my parents in that cellar, dragging us out only to compete, or breed, or train. I could feel the pulse of hostility stir my heart. Was this deliberate, this crossing of paths? Was this when my sojourn living in daylight would end?
Lately, my man had been talking to me, repeating words over and over until I twigged to their meaning. It was quite fun, and the reward of a Milk-Bone was enough to keep me engaged in the process for whole minutes at a time. None of it bore any resemblance to the training of the boys, which required sticks and chains. We did run a bit now that the streets were finally bare of snow. Nothing terribly challenging, a little quarter-mile jog through the park, around the little lake. He huffed and puffed at the end of it, while I had barely begun to pant. Either my stamina was as good as ever or his was poop.