by B. G. Thomas
Jake climbed out of his side, and Ned bounced after him, which only made Jake laugh. He led Ned by the leash toward the building, but then he stopped.
“You gotta go potty, boy?”
Ned realized he did have to go, now that Jake said something, and he looked up at the man expectantly.
“Well, do your business, then.”
It took Ned a second to get it. Then his eyes went wide with disbelief. Here? Outside?
“I don’t lay down newspapers, dog. Sorry. So go. Go on. Do your business.”
Ned looked around. They were outside, of course. And Jake wanted him to pee outside? Not that he hadn’t peed outside before, he realized. Sure he had. Unzip, go, rezip. The world was a urinal to a man, wasn’t it? But then at least it was his choice—usually because it was an emergency. He’d had the choice. Now he wasn’t being given one. And what if someone saw? He looked around again to see if anyone was coming, because the press on his bladder was growing. Hell!
When he was sure no one would see he… stopped. Because he didn’t know what to do. Certainly not stand up on a tree like he’d done with the toilet at home, right? But then he thought, Well, why not?
So that’s what he did. At least it gave him a little privacy. It took a few minutes because he was hit with a terrible case of pee-shyness. But nature took its course, and finally he was able to relieve himself. Jake looked at him goggle-eyed and then laughed.
“You are one weird dog, you know that?”
Ned barked, “Yes, I am!”
It was only as they made their way into the building that Ned noticed that it had stopped snowing.
7
THE INSIDE of the apartment building, poorly named the Dove, was far worse than the outside. Dark, dirty, ugly walls with peeling wallpaper—what few walls had wallpaper, that is. Not even to mention the fact that the inner security door wasn’t locked. Anyone could come in off the streets.
There were four apartment doors circling what seemed to pass as the foyer, and a staircase in the middle went up to the next floor. The stairs were wide at the bottom and then narrowed, a fairly fancy design for such a foul place. Ned wondered if perhaps all of this had, once upon a time, been a much nicer place.
But, oh God! None of that meant a thing compared to the smell. Piss, piss, and piss! He pulled on the leash, strained his head back, and scrabbled at the scarred wooden floor.
“Yeah, boy. I know. I can smell it too. I can’t imagine how bad it is for you with all those nose receptors of yours. It must be nasty as can be!”
Were they going to have to go up those stairs? He looked, and as the stairs narrowed, they seemed to become a tunnel leading to a nightmare, like in some horror movie.
There was certainly no elevator. And if there were, would anyone trust it?
But then, at last, there was some good luck. As it turned out, Jake lived on the first floor. He pulled out his keys, opened the door on the far right, and inside they went.
The place was not House Beautiful….
“Home sweet home,” Jake said cheerfully. “Notice the five-star accommodations. Let me show you around!” He undid Ned’s leash and hung it by the door.
Ned followed him, thinking, You do know I’m a dog, right? You are talking to me like I understand you.
Which he did, of course. But Jake wouldn’t—couldn’t—know that. Could he?
Jake led him to a kitchen smaller than Ned’s master bathroom. It was narrow and “I want you to take a look at these features,” Jake said. “We have a sink here on one side, with a foot or so of counter space.” He moved his arms and pointed with his fingers as if doing some kind of Vanna White imitation. Then he spun around on his heels. “And on this side, we have a stove and a refrigerator! Please note how none of them do anything as tacky as match.” He went to the refrigerator, barely bigger than two of a college kid’s units brought from home and stacked on top of each other. It was a scuffed yellow, with a half-dozen magnets stuck to the door. Jake opened said door with great flourish and gestured to the nearly empty inside. “As you can see, I have only gourmet selections.”
Ned trotted over and peeked inside. Some bologna, a small packet of square orange slices that smelled nothing like cheese, a half-dozen eggs, an eggplant (of all things), a half of a tomato, some browning lettuce, and a white Styrofoam container—the type used for leftovers from a restaurant—within which Ned, his nostrils flaring, identified celery and chicken and peanuts and… of course, Kung Pao chicken. Oh, and one piece of pizza in a ziplock bag. It had a lot of meats and sausages on it, and Ned’s mouth began to water.
Jake’s response was to close the door!
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll feed you. But something really healthy, okay? We want you to live a long and healthy life!”
And what might that be? Ned wondered. Probably not cold pizza off the floor.
Next, Ned followed Jake into the living room, small as it was. There was an old couch, two folding chairs, a disreputable-looking recliner, and a coffee table made from two four-by-sixes and some cinder blocks.
Jesus, kid, Ned thought, didn’t your ex let you have anything? What kind of high school sweetheart who took you to the prom is this guy?
Jake looked at him, then said, “I didn’t really want anything.”
The words startled Ned because it was as if Jake had read his mind. And as if he thought that Ned, in his eyes only a dog, could understand. It didn’t make any difference that he could.
“Because all of it, every stick of it, was ours. We picked it out together.”
Ned tilted his head. Eyed Jake.
“Everything was us. If I took anything, I’d be looking at us every time I saw it. I couldn’t bear it.”
Ned tilted his head the other way. Would he feel that way when it came time to split all that he and Cliff had gotten together? It was just… stuff, wasn’t it?
But then he thought about the rug and lantern they’d gotten in Morocco, and what a dream vacation that had been. The masks from New Orleans for Mardi Gras. That hysterical wine-bottle holder—a chef from the shoulders up, making as if to tilt back a bottle. Except that Cliff had put a dildo in the resin man’s hand with the tip in his mouth, and oh, oh, how they’d laughed! The print they’d bought on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Geez. Their wedding rings—not bought at Zales or Kay Jewelers or Shane Company. Made special for them.
And the portrait. Painted by that up-and-coming artist Keaton Jefferies, who had told them to call him “Kit” because that was what everyone else called him. Ned had thought he certainly couldn’t, but Cliff sure had. He’d been delighted to do so and had told all their friends what a sweetie the artist was, because that’s the kind of thing Cliff did.
And now it’s over. Good Christ, it was over and…. And of course it was over. He was a dog. A dog! Everything was over. There would be no splitting up of their belongings. Everything would go to Cliff. And he would be fostered to a man he’d almost fired before fate decided what “Forever Home” he’d go to. As if dogs lived forever. Good Christ! How old was he for a dog? Dogs didn’t live very long. How much time did he even have left?
A long keening noise rolled up out of him, startling him. He hadn’t known he was going to do it. It was just… a dog thing to do.
Jake blinked at him. “It’s almost like you do get it.”
Then Jake surprised the hell out of him by kneeling and hugging him tight. Hugging him against a hard body that he’d not guessed Jake had. And suddenly Ned smelled that—that warmth. Sunlight on skin and hair.
Jake pulled back and looked at him. Really looked at him. “You’re so soft, doggie. You know that?”
Ned didn’t know that.
“So soft. Coco wasn’t nearly as soft.”
Jake petted him, and that felt so good.
He stood up. “Well, let me show you the rest of the place.”
Like that should matter to a dog. Like a dog would care.
But then it hit h
im. Hit him hard.
Jake was treating him like a person. He’d had quite a bit of contempt the last few years for people who treated their pets like people, talking to them in baby talk, dressing them up, spending thousands of dollars on them when they got sick. It was an argument he’d had with Cliff several times because his mother insisted on bringing her yap-yap-yappity-goddamn-yappy little Chihuahua to the big Thanksgiving dinner every year.
But now?
Well, now Jake was treating him like a person. And after everything that had happened today, he could almost break down and cry.
“You okay, boy?” And something… something like cinnamon, but not, rolled off him.
God, I’m… I’m smelling his… his concern!
He’d heard dogs could smell emotions. He’d dismissed it with all the other New Age bullshit: crystals, listening to whale song, chakra balancing, Kirlian photography, Reiki, psychiatrists who treated people for mental issues they’d brought with them from a previous life, sacred geometry, ear candling….
New. Age. Bullshit.
But now….
I’m smelling his emotions.
This is crazy.
And once more he thought about how this couldn’t be happening. People. Cannot. Be. Turned. Into. Dogs!
So looking up at Jake, who was gazing at him with, why, lovely dark eyes filled with concern—and who was taking care of him despite the fact that his dog had died less than a week ago—Ned realized he had a choice.
Rail against this, which would do nothing. Or for now at least, go with it. Like he had been the last few hours. Just—for now—go with it.
And before he knew it—he kept doing these things and not knowing why—he jumped up on Jake and… oh… whew! He almost licked him. Thank goodness he stopped himself at the last possible second. That he would not do.
But as Jake scratched him behind the ear—oh!—his leg wanted to shake.
He could just bide his time.
Watch. Listen. Hell, smell. And figure this out.
“Down, boy!” Jake laughed, and it was a delightful sound. Full of life and a childlike joy, and it smelled wonderful.
Ned didn’t want to get down. But he did.
After that, Jake showed him the bathroom—Ned’s walk-in closet was bigger—and he could smell generations of use. But it was clean. Jake was clean. Ned could smell Clorox and Windex and shampoos and toothpaste, and they really weren’t so bad now that he was getting used to his nose.
Then it was the bedroom with a lovely headboard and footboard and what must be a new mattress.
He could smell that too. The newness of it.
A bureau and two end tables and a quilt rack and a bed.
And a dog bed.
Ned looked at it. It was Jake’s beloved dog’s bed. Coco’s bed. The scent of dog was powerful. And there was something underneath. Like rot and decay. Ned whined.
Jake sighed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to sleep there. Or you can sleep in the bed, but I’ll get you some new bedding? Like what I’m doing?” He tapped a carved wooden ball atop one of his bed’s four posts with the palm of his hand. “This was my mom’s bed. But… but I couldn’t sleep on her mattress. I got a new used one at an outlet store.” He hugged the post and rested his head against the ball. “This way, I feel close to Mom without it being… too much. I feel like I’m sleeping in her arms.” He sighed.
Jake was melancholy now. Ned felt it in Jake’s words. He was surprised how deeply he felt it. Someone he hadn’t given a shit about a day before, and now this feeling was in his gut. Jake’s eyes filled with that glassy wetness, and it was clear he was hurting. And more. Ned realized he could smell this too. It smelled like… semifrozen dates of all things. Fleshy. Fruity. Full. But not gross. This….
This was crazy. Just crazy.
Please let me be crazy. It was so much better to think he might be lying in some hospital bed somewhere—Two Rivers Psychiatric Hospital—and that he could be fixed than dwelling on the alternative.
That he was, in fact, a dog. Because that was so… so not real! This was real life. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. That was the province of the worlds of King or Kafka.
He whined. He wanted to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t. He felt sad for Jake.
But also irritated. He wanted to say, “For God’s sake, get over it! It’s been….” How many months had it been since Bob or Brice or whatever his name was had left Jake?
Bruce. It was Bruce.
Ned had no trouble sleeping on the mattress he and Cliff had slept on. He wouldn’t get a new mattress. Fuck Cliff! He could drown in the water outside the lake house for all he cared….
Except that wasn’t true, was it, dammit?
He thought of the portrait. How excited they’d both been. Partly knowing that one day Keaton Jefferies, the flamboyant young man who’d told them to call him “Kit,” would be famous and that they had a portrait done when he was first becoming known. And it was gorgeous. A wonderful melding of realism and impressionism, the two of them, bare shouldered, gazing at each other against great swatches of brightly colored oil paints spread thickly on the canvas with a palette knife.
What would it be like to decide the fate of that painting? Gorgeous, but a sign of the two of them together. Would he want it hanging in his home?
Ned whined again, in sympathy now.
“Is that how you feel about losing your family?” Jake said, going down on one knee again. “Are you lost, boy? Or did they dump you?”
Dumped me, Ned thought for one second. But it wasn’t true, of course. His family, Cliff, and his whole birth family had no idea where he was…. Did they all know he had “disappeared” by now? Had Lillian called them? Why, of course she had. She knew his parents, although in the last several years she had been a much warmer mother figure to him than his own had ever been. Not that he didn’t love his mother. He did. And the fact that she and his father and brother and sister came to the big Thanksgiving extravaganza demonstrated that at least on some level they all accepted he was gay. There had never been a big deal made of it, only his mother’s regret there would be no grandchildren. Perry had handled that, of course, with three kids with three different mothers, and always without a job so he wouldn’t have to pay child support. No. That had fallen on his family, who wouldn’t let a Balding child go without.
Still, Cliff had dumped him, hadn’t he? With no warning?
Jake hugged him again then, tight, burying his face in the scruff of Ned’s now-furry neck and crying. Gentle sobs that he didn’t suppose he could have heard without his doggie hearing.
I’m a dog. I’m a dog.
Jake didn’t cry for long. He wiped at his face once more with his sleeve, stood, and then fixed the dog bed. Took the bedding, lifted it almost reverently, folded it, and put it in his small closet. Then he took a blanket off the quilt rack, which held both an old throw and a much lovelier quilt that looked to be handmade. It was the dingier one he picked—after all, this was for a dog and the quilt was gorgeous—and he put it in the rattan bed, obviously trying to make it comfortable. He stopped, looked at Ned, and laughed. “You’re going to take care of this yourself, aren’t you? You’ll arrange it in a way that’ll be good for you, so I’ll just stop. Want to try it, boy?”
Ned most assuredly did not want to try it. Not at all. He would sleep in the stained bathtub before settling into a place that would confirm his fate once and for all.
“Come on,” Jake said. He patted the old blanket. “Come give it a try.”
Ned gave a little humph, or as close to as he could, and stood and left the room. Down the hall he went to the little living room, and he jumped up on the couch and settled there, hoping that when Jake came in the room he would get the message. I’ll sleep here. At least for the night.
Jake shook his head. Sighed. “Okay. You can have the couch tonight, doggie.”
Good. They were of one accord.
“You know, I
really am going to have to come up with something to call you,” he said.
Wait. What? Jake was going to name him? Oh no….
“I mean, I can’t keep calling you doggie or boy, right?”
Jake bit his lower lip. Nodded. Looked off in the direction that people do when deciding or thinking on things.
He smiled. “How about Woodrow?”
Woodrow? Was he kidding? Ned shook his head and tried as close as he could to say just that. It came out closer to something Scooby-Doo might say. “Rummermmm!”
Jake laughed. “Okay, not Woodrow. It just popped in my head is all. How about Howard?”
Ned growled.
Jake’s eyebrows shot up, and he laughed even harder. “No. I get it.” He scrunched up his face. “Bear? You look like a bear….”
Ned turned his head. Bear. Please. He knew more people who’d named their Labs Bear than you could shake a slobbery squeaky toy at. He huffed.
“Fine. You’re nixing Bear too. Not that we have to come up with anything today.”
Ned didn’t even look at him. His name was Ned, and he didn’t want a dog name. It would make this even more concrete than sleeping in a doggie bed.
“How about Gunnar. You look like you could be a Gunnar.”
You said that about Bear too. He tried the “Harumph” again and settled his head between his paws.
“Forrest? Abe? Sam? We could always go with the standard Brownie.”
Ned looked back with as close to an are-you-shitting-me? expression as he could muster with his flappy lips and jowls.
“You know, I don’t really need to find anything at all, Mr. Cranky Pants,” Jake said, brows drawn together. “It’s not like you’re staying here with me!”
Ned’s head popped up straight. Not stay here? Then where would he go? At least he knew Jake.
You don’t know him at all, you hypocrite! The words hit him and he flinched. He wasn’t sure if it was the Voice or not. Because maybe it was he himself who had thought it. He didn’t know Jake, did he? He’d almost fired the man.
Jake shook his head. Settled on the floor. “Bane?”