The Dog, Ray

by Linda Coggin

  “What about this dog with the funny eyes?” the man asks.

  “Ah. We can’t tell you much about her. She hasn’t been with us very long. She’s awaiting assessment.”

  They nod at me.

  “Well, I can tell you all about me if you want,” I say, jumping up at the bars to get their attention. “I like playing soccer, riding a bicycle, going to the movies, and baking cakes. I think I would like running through tunnels and over jumps too. I’m not at all worried by strangers — in fact, my mom always said I was good with people.”

  “She barks too much,” the woman says. “It would not be good for the children.”

  I sigh and lie down on my cushion. I look around me.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask Max. “Who were you, before you were a dog?”

  But Max just stares at me and goes back to his corner. I remember that Max is worried by strangers so I think I’ll talk to Toby, but he is chewing on a bone so I decide not to disturb him. Really, where is the communication? It strikes me how silent the place is. No one seems to have anything to say. It is as if they’ve had their personalities sucked out of them.

  I am thinking about having your personality sucked out of you and the fact that I went through the wrong door. The woman in the Job Center had twice told me to go through the door on the right. And I went through the door on the left. Perhaps the door on the left was a prototype and because of all the cutbacks they hadn’t been able to afford to put a lock on it. Really! What if you couldn’t read? They should at least have put a chain across it.

  And now, suddenly, I know why I was supposed to go through the right-hand door. You’re not supposed to remember who you’ve been in a previous life! Max and Toby, well, they must have gone through the door on the right and had their memories erased. I don’t want to lose my memories. Getting my left and my right muddled up was an advantage to me this time. If I forgot everything about me I wouldn’t be me. I want to still be me.

  I sit in the quiet space. Only the sound of the warden’s voice drifts over the silence.

  “Now, George here loves to eat and to play with his squeaky toy, but cats and small furry animals are a no-no.”

  The dog pound is situated near a farm in the middle of nowhere. There is a fenced-off area, surrounded by fields, where we are taken to do our business. Those fields look so inviting that I long to stretch my legs and run through the grass. I stand by the wire fence and stare into the distance, wondering what has happened to Pip. And when I’m in my kennel cell I sit in my corner and wonder what has happened to Pip. And then the wondering turns to worrying. I imagine him locked in a police cell or back with his foster parents. Although I’ve just met Pip, I feel very close to him. I think it was the photograph that sealed our friendship.

  And when I’m not worrying about Pip I worry about Jack. He is probably dead now, without those pills Pip got. And all because of his damp socks. Mom always went on about damp clothes and not going to bed with wet hair. “You’ll get pneumonia!” she’d say.

  I never used to worry. Well, I suppose I worried the first day of school that no one would like me, and I worried when it came to exams in case, after they said, “Now turn over your papers,” I couldn’t answer anything other than what my name was. But I wouldn’t say I was the worrying type. As a dog, though! The responsibilities of being a dog are enormous. You have to make sure your owner is safe. You have to make sure that no one robs the house when they’re out. And that can mean being worried all day. At the moment I’m worried that Cyril and his mom might come to the dog pound looking for me, even though I must be miles away from them by now.

  My kennel is near the front desk. This means that I know of all the comings and goings at the pound. I can watch the girl who sits at reception eating candy when she thinks no one is looking and using the phone to make personal calls. There is a different girl who sits there sometimes doing her nails.

  I have learned that all us dogs have a card with our particulars on it, pinned to a board by the front desk, and our fate is dictated by which way the card is facing. I know this because a nice man in a hat, who was doing volunteer work, was brushing one of the dogs up by the front desk.

  “That’s Bertie, isn’t it?” said the girl at the desk, and she took his card down and turned it around.

  “Why are you doing that?” the man asked.

  “Bertie’s got to go. I meant to turn his card around this morning. No one wants him and he snapped at one of the cleaning people yesterday.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “He’s going to be put down.”

  “Oh, no he’s not!” said the man, grabbing the card and tearing it up. “He’s coming with me. I’m not letting him be put down. Come on, Bertie! We’re going home!”

  The girl at the desk and I looked on in amazement as the man opened the door and took Bertie over to his car.

  “Well, I never!” I heard the girl say. “Whatever next!”

  The words “going to be put down” rolled around my mind for the rest of the day. So that’s what happens when a dog gets taken to that little room at the end of the corridor. I had noticed that they never come back. I only hope that it is quick.

  The staff refer to the dogs that no one wants as “sticky” dogs. Dogs that stick around. Max and Toby are definitely sticky dogs, and I wonder if either of them takes any notice of the cards and which way they face. I find I am constantly checking on mine now. So far no one has been interested in taking me. I must learn to keep quiet, I suppose. Actually, if I’m honest I haven’t wanted anyone to take me, so perhaps I’ll go on telling them what’s what. Though I wouldn’t have minded if the nice man in the hat had come back for me.

  But really it’s Pip I want to come in through the door and claim me. Though I don’t think they’d let Pip take me. They do all sorts of checks and go and visit the homes of the interested owners. They wouldn’t be too impressed with a pile of cardboard and some old sleeping bags. I could tell them different, though. That it’s not where you are but who you’re with. And that in my opinion, Pip takes better care of me than Cyril and his family ever did. The Animal Control people would probably be impressed with a pink furry toilet seat cover. But what do they know? They think dogs are dogs. But I know otherwise.

  Max is the first to go.

  They give him a biscuit and a pat on the head and lead him off to the little room. I hope with all my might that he believes he is going to a quieter life. And in many ways I suppose he is. I wonder if this is the end of the line for Max. Is he still a soul? Will he be in the Job Center by now? Certainly, unlike me, he seemed to have no recollection of who he’d been in the life before. But presumably when he gets there he’ll still remember being Max. Perhaps, with time, even though I went through the wrong door, I’ll forget too.

  I go over some things to remember in my head. Henry VIII’s six wives, for a start. Their names and what happened to them. Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived. I can’t remember, though, if Jane Seymour was beheaded or just died, but I don’t think that matters. I can still remember our telephone number and the plate number of Dad’s car.

  It’s a few days later and I come back from doing my business and find that my kennel has been scrubbed out and I have been put on the other side of Toby, next to a blank wall. Does this mean the end for me? My card is still facing the same way, but I remember Mom telling me that in some hospitals the patients that weren’t going to last the night were moved to the end of the ward. They’d done this with Grandad. The day before he died they put him at the end, near the exit door. He had a wall on one side and an empty bed on the other. There was a picture on the wall of a boat battling through the waves. It was probably the last thing he saw before he died. Well, I hope so. You wouldn’t want your last view to be someone emptying out a bedpan.

  I am thinking about my grandfather and I hear a faint voice at reception.

  “We’re looking for a dog for my husband. A
dog that would be a good companion and could be trained to do simple things.”

  My ears suddenly prick up.

  “What sort of simple things?” asks the girl at the desk.

  “Oh, like taking a wallet out of a pocket, for instance.” The woman clears her throat.

  At first I think they must be pickpockets and that this is a novel idea, getting a dog to do it. But when she speaks again I know who it is. It is Mom! We watched the program about guide dogs together!

  Some chatting goes on that I can’t hear, probably some form filling, and then, coming into sight, is Mom pushing my dad in a wheelchair. I practically turn a somersault I am so excited. It is like a prayer has been answered. There is Mom, looking a bit thinner and tired, but still Mom. She’s cut her hair shorter, but I don’t mind. And there is Dad, sitting upright in his chair as she pushes him along the corridor. Since the accident he’s grown a beard, and his hair is flecked with gray. He has a look on his face that tells me that this idea of getting a guide dog was definitely not his. I am excited and sad at the same time. Dad will need a lot of looking after, I can see, but I’ll be proud to do it.

  “This is Ben. He likes splashing in puddles but probably wouldn’t be very good at fetching things.”

  “Mom! Dad!” I cry. “It’s me! Daisy! I’m over here! Look in my kennel. I’ve been trying to find you, but you’ve moved. I don’t mind, really — it would be fun to live in a new house, and you’ve probably got elevators and hoists and things in it.”

  “Gosh, that dog makes a lot of noise, doesn’t it?” says Mom. She bends down to look at Ben. “He’s rather sweet. Darling, what about this fellow?”

  “No! You can’t take him! I can do all the things other dogs can do and more.” I hesitate for a moment, remembering Jessica Warner and not wanting to show off too much. “Cats and small animals are probably a no-no, but other than that, take me! Take me!” I jump up and down at the railings, managing to tip my water bowl over at the same time.

  “I’m sorry about all the noise,” says the girl. “This dog hasn’t been here very long. I don’t know what’s got into her. She’s normally as quiet as a mouse.”

  I don’t believe in omens, but this morning a bird flew smack into the window. The window was too high to see what happened to it, but it hit with such force that I don’t imagine it survived.

  I watch Mom push Dad up to my door. She stops and peers at me.

  “Oh, you’re a sweetie,” she says, and bends down to get a closer look.

  I feel as if my heart is bursting out of my chest and I leap up at the door.

  “Yes, Mom — it’s your daughter. You can take me home now. I’ll be so good. I know I won’t have a bedroom to keep clean, but I won’t leave any bones lying around and I promise not to chew any slippers and I won’t dig holes in the yard and I’ll come when you call me and —”

  “Look, Dennis. This little dog is so full of energy. Why don’t we take her? There’s something about her I like. I’m sure we can stop all the barking — she must be fed up being cooped up in here. I wonder what her story is?”

  “She was probably abandoned because of all that barking,” my dad says.

  My father and I look at each other, and all the color drains out of his face, like he’s a bottle that someone has suddenly tipped upside down.

  “No! I couldn’t live with this dog. Look at its eyes. It would just remind me of Daisy. It’s hard enough as it is without thinking of her every time I look at it.”

  “But, Dad — it is me.”

  In desperation I roll over onto my back, trying to make myself as appealing as possible. Then, when that doesn’t seem to work, I get up and try to lick his hand through the bars.

  “Dad! Dad! I keep telling you, it’s me! I’d comfort you. I’d always be around and I wouldn’t argue much. You’ve got to change your mind and take me with you. I’ll never complain or judge you or be embarrassed by your jokes.”

  “Let’s go,” my father says. “Perhaps a dog isn’t a good idea after all.”

  As Mom turns the wheelchair around I try again.

  “Take me. Please take me. Don’t leave me here. I didn’t mean to break those photo frames by your bed. It was an accident. The blanket got caught up when I was jumping on it. I’m really, really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “Does that dog ever stop making noise?” I hear Mom say. This is definitely my mother. She was always telling me I was making too much noise. “I imagine it would be difficult to find a home for a dog like that,” she goes on. “It’s a shame, because she looks like such a sweet little thing.” She puts her hand to her neck and pulls out her locket, twisting it around her finger.

  The girl nods in agreement.

  “I can give you the number of the Assistance Dog people if you like.”

  And I watch them go back down the corridor. Dad’s wheelchair makes a funny little noise like some small creature is stuck to the wheel and is making a squeak every time it hits the floor. I can’t believe I’ve seen them and now I can’t believe they’re gone. I can’t believe they’ve turned around and disappeared, leaving me here. All on my own. How can they not know it’s me?

  “Please don’t go. I’m trapped in this body of fur, your daughter, who you always said you loved. If you leave me here you’ll never see me again. I know you don’t know it, but I came looking for you and you never left a forwarding address. Why don’t you look back? Why don’t you see me?”

  I strain my ears till I can’t hear the squeaking anymore and then I lie down on my cushion and I’m howling again. For my lost childhood and the girl I was and my lovely mom and dad. For the lost opportunity that I know won’t happen again. For the grief I know they are going through. I want to tell them it is all right and that I’ll always be with them. There are no tears running down my face to comfort me. I just have a huge pain in my chest, as if someone’s ripped my heart out and stuffed the hole up with old newspapers.

  They’ve left the building now, and in the distance I can hear their car drive away.

  As I said, I don’t believe in omens, but the morning of our crash a young blackbird flew out of the porch straight under Mom’s foot as she was walking in. It broke its neck.

  Later that day I notice that my card has been turned the other way.

  All the dogs are let out at a regular time, and today I am allowed out to the back field with them. The workers always stand around and chat, drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes, while we mind our own business.

  I am sitting by the fence, wondering what will happen to me. I’m not afraid. Perhaps I’ll get a better job next time around — a qualified one. I wonder how far back I’ll remember. For instance, if I went out the wrong door again, and if I came back as, say, a human, would I remember being a dog? And would I remember being Daisy as well as being a dog? When I was Daisy I couldn’t remember being anyone else. I think about Henry VIII’s wives again but am no clearer as to what happened to Jane Seymour. Hey — perhaps I was Jane Seymour in a previous life!

  I am just imagining being Jane Seymour when I notice a plume of smoke rising from the dog pound.

  “Fire!” someone shouts. The workers rush into the building, and I keep thinking about Jane. There is a lot of smoke now, which sets off the fire alarm. Some of the dogs are barking. Through the mayhem I hear a voice.

  “Ray!” it says. “Ray! Over here. Quick!”

  I look toward where the voice is coming from, and there, right by the fence, is Pip. My heart almost leaps out of my fur.

  “Pip!” I shout. “You’re all right! How did you get here? How’s Jack? What’s going on?”

  “Shhh, Ray,” he says. “Don’t make so much noise — they’ll hear us.”

  I see that he has cut a hole in the fence and that he is holding open the wires.

  “What about the others?” I ask. “Perhaps they’d like to get out too.”

  I look back at the other dogs. There is Toby, sniffing around, and George, busy wit
h his squeaky toy. I don’t think Toby would be able to cope with the stress, and none of the others seem interested. I squeeze through the wire and give Pip a big lick.

  “Let’s get out of here before they catch us. I set some newspaper on fire and put it in one of the trash cans to create a diversion.”

  “What a brilliant idea!” I congratulate him and give him another lick. Then I run around him in small circles, telling him all the things that have happened since we parted outside the supermarket.

  “Be quiet, Ray, they’ll hear us. Oh, no! They did! Let’s go!”

  I glance behind me and see one of the workers making her way toward the hole in the fence.

  “Hey! Come back with that dog!” she shouts. But we start to run. We run through the long meadow grass, scattering wildflower petals as we go. Poppy, corn cockle, oxeye daisy. I know them all thanks to Mom and her love of flowers. It must look like a wedding with all this colored confetti.

  We cross one field and into the next. The skylarks are singing for a beautiful day. If Pip had thrown me a stick I would have fetched it. I definitely wouldn’t have fetched a stick for Owen Taylor. And as we round the corner we come across some cows.

  I’m not sure if they are Guernsey or Holstein. I rack my brain for the right page in the I Spy Book of Farm Animals. I think you get twenty points for a black-and-white cow. Whatever their breed is, they are all looking at us and have herded together into quite a tight-knit group.

  We stop running. I am standing by Pip. Well, I’m standing behind Pip.

  I feel all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in fright. Mom and I were chased by a bull when I was little, and I can still remember flying along at the end of her hand as she raced for the gate. She wore a floral dress, like the meadow we have just run through, and for some reason I had on a woolen hat and leggings. I must have boiled.

  Pip stands his ground.

  “What shall we do?” I ask.

  “Don’t bark, Ray. You’ll make it worse.”