How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  I stick my hand out. Reggie doesn’t nuzzle it. It seems to be way too much effort for him. “Come on, boy,” I say. “Forward, I mean. Just a little farther, I promise.”

  He doesn’t budge. He’s not being intelligently disobedient. It’s obvious he wants to go with me, but can’t. He can’t go another step.

  Oh crap! Crap, crap, crap!

  Hold it together, Nicky. Just a little while longer, until you find your dad. You’re Reggie’s master now. He’s counting on you.

  Gently, I coax Reggie to lie down. I unstrap his harness and shove it up into the half-built fort. I cover him with my coat and tuck it in. I tell him to stay. As if! There’s no way he’s going to wander off, not in his condition.

  I half walk, half run to Resolution Road. And it’s weird. Because I notice things about the neighborhood I never noticed before. All the streets are lined with gigantic old trees, for instance. And everybody has at least one super-nice car in the driveway—usually two. All the names on the mailboxes are like Burns and Ross, Johnson and Jackson, not like Singh or Rubenstein or Wong, which are the names of some of the kids in my class. Or de la Cruz.

  I walk right past Marky’s house. I’m so tempted to stroll up to the front door and ring the bell. Marky’s got bunk beds. Plus they had a dog once, so I know for a fact there’s a spare doghouse out back. Marky’s dad would know exactly what to do about Reggie. He’s in the army.

  But that’s not who I’m here to see. I’m here to see Dad.

  Turns out, 22 Resolution Road isn’t a house. It’s a whole gated community—about a dozen two-story condos all built to look like brick town houses, weirdly enough. They’re brand-new with nice, little front porches and upstairs balconies and shutters on the windows. Plus they form a big U around a built-in pool. It looks more like a little fishing village on Cape Cod than any street in Boston, if you ask me—not that I’ve ever been there.

  I don’t even need to hunt for Unit D. My dad’s black Beamer is parked outside the condo two doors down on the left. It’s gleaming in the setting sunlight. So at least he’s not working too late tonight. I shiver a little. I could really use my coat about now. But Reggie needed it more.

  I head for the front porch. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. I see from my own reflection in the storm window that I’m still wearing those stupid sunglasses. I whip them off and stuff them into the sumac on my right. Sumac. Another one of those S-and-a-vowel words.

  Just in the nick of time. Because suddenly I’m not staring at myself through the glass anymore. I’m looking right at my dad. He’s not in a suit. He’s in a polo shirt and chinos. His salesman smile vanishes the second he recognizes me.

  “What are you doing here?” he says.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say.

  “Where’s your mother?” he says, peering over my shoulder for her car in the driveway. Not: Oh my God, it’s Nicky! Not: I haven’t seen you in ages! Not: I’ve thought about you a million times, buddy!

  “It’s just me,” I say. “Can I, um, come in?”

  Dad blinks a couple of times, like I’ve just asked him in Swedish. “Yeah, sure, buddy, of course,” he says.

  I step past him into his living room, which is actually one big gigantic ground-floor room that has a kitchen and dining room and living room all in one. It’s nice—too nice—with everything matchy-matchy, which, if you’ve ever looked for an apartment yourself, is how you can tell it came already furnished.

  “Seriously, Nick,” Dad says, checking his watch. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve decided to stay with you for a while,” I say. “Isn’t that great?”

  “You can’t!” he says. “I mean, that’s not what the judge decided when your mother and I separated.”

  “He said you have the right to see me on a regular basis.”

  “Sure, a couple of weekends a month,” Dad says. “But not to live here. I’m not even set up for that. Look how tiny this place is.”

  I look around. It’s much bigger than the apartment on Eden Street. Plus this couch would be way nicer to sleep on. Plus there’s an upstairs I haven’t even seen yet.

  “Wait, does your mother even know you’re here?” Dad says.

  “Mom’s a big fat liar,” I say. “She’s always telling me you’ve canceled our weekends together because something last-minute came up. She said you were working on a presentation all weekend. It’s obvious she just doesn’t want me to see you.”

  Dad checks his watch again. He runs his hand through his hair. “Sit down,” he says. “Let’s both sit down.”

  I take a seat on the couch. He sits in the armchair opposite. “I got another promotion recently,” he says. “They’ve made me the big boss now, sales director of all Massachusetts. I’ve got tons more responsibility. A lot of people are counting on me. When I do get a day or two off, I really need to relax.”

  “So you’re not working this weekend,” I say.

  “I told your mom I’d definitely set something up for next weekend,” Dad says. “It’s on my list. Didn’t she tell you?”

  On his list to build a swimming pool in the backyard. On his list to help me and Marky finish the tree fort. On his list to take us all to the Cape on the Fourth of July for vacation. On his list to teach me how to throw a Frisbee.

  Mom wasn’t lying to me after all. He’s been canceling every one of our upcoming weekends together. How could I be so blind?

  Not now, Nicky. This needs to be about Reggie right now, not you.

  “Listen, Dad,” I say. “I really need your help. Things are a little tense between me and Mom at the moment. We have this new dog now, Reggie, and there’s been a little misunderstanding—”

  “What new dog?” Dad says. “She let you have a dog?”

  “Yeah, his name is Reggie. He’s a purebred shepherd. But listen—”

  “Figures! I’ve wanted to get you a dog for years,” he says. “Your mother always shot me down. Too messy, too much work. Now suddenly she’s the hero. Well, getting a dog was my idea, not hers—”

  “Listen,” I say. “Reggie’s had an accident and I really need your help—”

  The front doorbell rings. We both jump about a foot.

  Dad puts his head in his hands. He sighs. “Come on in,” he says. “It’s open.”

  A lady walks through the front door. She’s carrying a bag of groceries. She’s pretty. A real babe.

  “That’s Lori,” Dad says. “Lori, meet my son, Nicholas.”

  Lori’s all smiles. She comes right over and shakes my hand. “Your dad’s told me so much about you,” she says. “What a nice surprise! Are you staying for dinner? I’m making pork chops. I bought extra.”

  Suddenly I’m back in our old kitchen, pretending to read a Dr. Ice comic book at the table. Dad’s yelling at Mom for buying a twelve-dollar jar of mustard. He’s telling her she needs to learn a little self-control. She turns away from the pork chops sizzling on the stove. That’s rich, she says, coming from him. What’s his new secretary’s name again—Lonnie? Loren? He tells her to stop being so paranoid. She tells him to stop giving her reasons to be. It’s the wine talking now, he says. Go to hell, she says.

  “Nicky and I are just having a little chat,” Dad tells Lori, before I can answer one way or the other about dinner. “Then we’re calling his mother so she can come and get him.”

  “Oh. OK,” Lori says. “Some other time, then.” She heads for the kitchen counter and starts unpacking groceries.

  “What were you saying about a dog?” Dad says, remembering, finally, that I’m, like, another human being on the planet.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’d better get going.” I stand to leave.

  “Where?” he says. “Back to Charlestown? On your own?”

  “Mom’s meeting me over at the old house,” I say.

  “What’s she doing over there?” Dad says.

  “Can I use your bathroom real quick?” I say.

  “First door on the right
down that hallway,” Lori says, pointing.

  I lock myself in the john. I feel kind of dizzy all of a sudden. I run cold water in the sink so I can splash my face with it. But I don’t. Instead I race over to the toilet and fling up the lid—just in time. I puke up every last bit of the hot dog I had for lunch.

  ad grabs Mom by the arm. He yanks her around to face him. He holds the twelve-dollar jar of mustard an inch away from her face. This has got to stop, he says. Do you hear?

  —Take your hands off me, she says. Now!

  —No, you’re going to listen to me for a change, Dad says.

  I jump up from where I’m supposedly reading a comic book.

  —Stop it, both of you! I yell. I can’t take it anymore! Who cares how much a jar of mustard costs?

  —And you, Dad says, turning to me. You stay out of this. You’re still not out of the doghouse with me for frigging up my computer.

  —You told me to load that new video game onto it, I say.

  —I didn’t tell you to wipe out the hard drive! he says.

  —I asked you to show me how, I say. You said you were too busy.

  —Working my ass off to pay for twelve-dollar jars of mustard! he says. The pair of you! You’re killing me!

  He flings the jar of mustard against the wall. It bursts into a million pieces. Shards of glass tinkle to the floor tiles, leaving behind a big, yellow dripping sun. We all stare at it, speechless. The pork chops sizzle away in their skillet.

  Mom yanks herself free of Dad’s grip. She comes racing over and throws her arms around me.

  —Take a walk around the block, she says to Dad. Cool yourself off.

  —I will not, Dad says. You’re both going to listen for a change.

  —What’s next? Mom says. Me against that wall? Your son? You’ve got to find a way to control your temper, Nick. I will not continue to put up with these violent outbursts! If you don’t go and walk out your anger right now, I swear I’ll call the cops.

  —You will do no such thing, he says, stepping toward us. This is my house.

  Mom backs us over to the wall phone. She picks up the receiver.

  I wrench myself free and run upstairs. I lock myself in my room.

  ou OK?” Dad calls from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “Fine,” I say, flushing. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You aren’t being sick in there, are you?” he says.

  “Just a bad cough,” I say. “I can’t seem to shake this cold.”

  “Oh, OK. Just checking.”

  I rinse my mouth out under the tap. Now I splash water on my face. I stare at myself in the mirror. Everybody says I look just like my dad. The very spit and image, they say. Nick off the old block.

  It’s true what Mickey said: The apple didn’t fall very far from the tree. I’ve got quite a little temper on me too. But I swear I’m going to learn how to control mine. Because regretting that you’ve busted up a perfectly good Frisbee or written all over a fridge or flung crayons across the room after you’ve done it is way too late.

  I wipe my palms on the back of my jeans. I run my hand through my wild mop. Mom’s right. I do need a haircut. Bad.

  I head back to the main room, where Dad is whispering something to Lori.

  “I’d better be hitting the road,” I say.

  “Tell your mother I’ll call her this week to set up a weekend with you,” Dad says.

  “Okeydokey,” I say.

  “Maybe the three of us can do something fun together in the city,” Lori pipes up. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to Boston.”

  “Sure,” I say. “We’ll go bowling.”

  Dad raises his hand. I jump back—then realize, too late, he’s only trying to high-five me. I don’t high-five him back. I just stick my hand out for a shake. He shakes, then gives me the sort of slap-on-the-back hug football players on TV always do after a touchdown. I head for the door.

  Oh, he’ll intend to call next week. But then something’ll come up at work. He’s totally into his career at the moment. Waxing his BMW on Saturday afternoons. Dating his secretaries. He’s really not such a bad guy, my dad—not as bad, anyway, as Mom makes him out to be to her friends on the phone. In fact, you’d probably like him if you met him on the train. He just totally sucks at being a parent. For one thing, he doesn’t handle stress very well. For another, he never follows through with a promise. And P.S., he has no clue how to put the needs of anyone else ahead of his own.

  Reggie! I’ve got to get back to Reggie.

  I tell Lori it was nice meeting her. Not! I say good-bye to Dad. And finally I’m out of there. I don’t bother fishing those dollar sunglasses out of the sumac. The sun disappeared behind the trees ages ago. Anyway, I won’t ever be needing them again.

  ’m out of breath by the time I’m back at the waiting-room phone booth.

  I lift up the receiver. Please, I say to myself, please let just one thing go right today. Please. I hear a tone, and dial zero. I give the operator the number and my name. Mom picks up on the second ring. The operator cuts in and asks if she’ll accept charges from Nicky.

  “Of course!” Mom says.

  “It’s me,” I say. Obviously.

  “Are you OK?” she says.

  “Reggie’s hurt,” I say. “He needs to go to the animal hospital right away. Can you come and get us?”

  “Where?” she says.

  I tell her to meet us at our old house in Littleton. I tell her we’ll be sitting under the tree fort.

  “Oh God,” she says. “I’ll be right there. Don’t move.”

  “I won’t,” I say.

  “Promise me!” she says.

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she says again, and hangs up.

  I hang up. And I run. I run as fast as I can back to Reggie.

  He’s still at the tree fort, shivering under my coat. I sit cross-legged and lay his head in my lap. Reggie’s eyes open. He looks up at me. And there’s that big cartoon question mark floating between his ears.

  “I messed up,” I tell him. “I should never have made you jump off that dumpster. I knew about your hip. I knew that wouldn’t be good for it. I’ve been a rotten master. And I totally deserve to have you taken away from me.”

  Reggie closes his eyes. The question mark fades away. Now, at least, we both know the truth.

  om’s car comes squealing up the driveway. She jumps out and runs toward the tree fort without even shutting off the engine or closing the door. She skids to a halt when she sees us. “Oh my God!” she says.

  “We need to get him straight to the vet,” I say. I’m so tired it comes out like a whisper. “I’m afraid he’s going to die.”

  “What happened? Are you OK?”

  “Just help me get him into the car,” I say. “I’ll explain everything later. You can totally yell at me then—for as long as you like. But right now I really need your help.”

  “Nicky!”

  “Please,” I say. “Please, Mom.”

  She opens her mouth, but then closes it. Instead she crouches next to me. “OK,” she says. “Just tell me what to do.”

  And I do. I tell her to drive the car over here to the tree. Across the lawn? she says. I nod. She doesn’t even bother to say But what about the grass? While she’s backing the car over, I whisper into Reggie’s ear: “It’s OK now, Mom’s here.” I say whatever comes to mind after that, to keep us both calm. “Oh, she’s not perfect,” I say. “She buys stupid things to make herself feel better. She listens to heavy metal and forgets to change the station back. She always wants to communicate about everything all the time. And she likes her glass of vino at night. But she’s always there in a pinch, no questions asked.”

  P.S.—She’s not the liar. I am. I’m the only big fat liar in this outfit.

  I tell Mom to help me make a stretcher out of the raincoat she’s wearing. It’s the only way to lift Reggie up into the car, I say. She hesitates—it’s her good coa
t—but she takes it off. I lift Reggie’s head off my lap. I stand up. I ask Mom to lay her coat down beside him. I warn her about his hind hip, how it gave out on him. I say we’ll need to drag him by the forepaws onto the coat.

  She reaches out her hand, then pulls it away. “I’m afraid,” she says.

  “So’s Reggie,” I say. “But somebody’s got to make the first move. Start by telling him it was all a big misunderstanding. Because it really was. Reggie doesn’t know about high-fives. He thought you were going to hit me. He jumped on you to protect me. He’s always protecting me. He’s, like, the best sidekick a kid could ever have.”

  I am SO not going to cry right now.

  Mom looks at me. She looks down at Reggie. Slowly, she stretches her hand out again. “It’s OK, boy,” she says. “It was just a big misunderstanding, that’s all.” She touches his forehead between the ears. He flinches. So does she, but she doesn’t jerk her hand back. She makes herself pet him—gently, gently—between the ears. His eyes roll open. He whines. He tries to lick her hand, tries to make up with her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is all clogged with snot and tears. Tears are streaming down her face.

  I lay a hand on her shoulder. “Not now, OK?” I say. “We’ve got to hold it together—until we get this done—OK?” Mom nods. “Just keep petting him,” I say, “while I drag him onto the coat.” She nods. She tells him he’s a good boy. She says this whole thing was nothing but a big misunderstanding. She promises she’s going to get him the help he needs. She promises, as soon as we all get home, we’ll have a big talk to clear the air.

  Oh great.

  I grab Reggie’s forepaws and tug. He doesn’t budge. Eighty pounds never felt more like eight hundred. I pull harder and he yelps, tries to scramble up. But he’s too weak. He just lies there, panting on the grass.