Larry & the Dog People

by J. Paul Henderson

  This was the downside of Larry’s experiences with dogs. On the upside he had no lasting fear of dogs and had been assured by a doctor that he had enough anti-tetanus serum in his system to last a lifetime. He also remembered the many times he’d stroked and patted dogs without consequence, and after careful consideration decided that the bark of a dog in the house was preferable to unremitting silence. It was, in other words, a gamble worth taking.

  Larry’s first dog was a mutt, a mongrel borne of other mongrels, its lineage as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks. It was, however, the only dog in the pound to have shown any interest in Larry: it had wagged its tail, licked his fingers and rolled on its back. Unbeknownst to Larry, the dog was a veteran of pounds, a recidivist; it knew all the ropes, all the tricks, and recognised a ticket out of there when it saw one. The dog’s name was Loop and its fur, Larry noted, was the colour of desert sand. (Had Loop been human he would have hung out on street corners, whistled at passing girls and rolled dice; he would have smoked stogies, pared his nails with a flick-knife and drunk neat bourbon.)

  ‘I’ll take him!’ Larry said to the young girl who’d accompanied him on his tour of the pound. ‘You’re sure, Professor MacCabe? Loop can be a bit of a handful,’ she replied. Larry’s mind, however, was made up. He left the pound with Loop, and as the gates closed behind them the dog turned its head and appeared to give the girl a wink.

  As Larry had never owned a dog before he had no idea how to control one, and the pound assistant’s warning that Loop could be a bit of a handful turned out to be an understatement – has deep-seated behavioural problems might have been a more accurate description. The dog barked incessantly, ran from room to room knocking over lamps and small tables and drank from the toilet bowl. It chased its tail for long periods, dug up the garden and chewed cushions, made Larry’s favourite armchair its own and slept uninvited on his bed. And when Larry and Loop went for walks through the neighbourhood it was the dog that decided the pace and direction, one minute idling at a bush and the next straining at the leash and dragging Larry helter-skelter down the street. (Loop, however, preferred to wander the streets alone, and when opportunity presented itself – which invariably it did, considering that Larry’s yard was far from escape-proof – it ran riot through the neighbourhood, terrorising cats and small children, dumping its faeces on lawns and urinating on the wheels of parked cars.)

  Even though Larry was in thrall to the dog, he loved its company. Loop brought life to the house, made the bricks and mortar a home again and provided him with an audience. He talked to Loop as enthusiastically as he’d talked to Helen: ‘Blah, blah, blah,’ he would say; ‘Ruff, ruff, ruff,’ the dog would reply. They were oblivious to each other’s meaning, often talked at the same time and at cross purposes, but it mattered little. Each in their own way had suffered abandonment, and a bond of mutuality grew between them.

  Whenever Larry returned from an errand Loop would be there to greet him, wagging his tail and licking him on the face. Larry, after all, was the man who’d sprung him from jail, put a roof over his head and supplied him with food. He recognised Larry as a meal ticket and became protective of him. If anyone came too close when they were out on their walks – especially Dr Young who Loop sensed to be a particular threat – he would growl, bare his teeth and demand a wide berth. (Ironically, this was the one thing Larry hadn’t wanted. He’d hoped that having a dog would lead to conversations with other dog owners or people drawn to the innocence of animals.)

  Only once did Loop bite Larry and that, Larry was convinced, had been an accident. It happened early in their relationship when they were still learning each other’s ways and misunderstandings were inevitable. That day Larry had returned to the house with a stick of shortbread in his mouth – put there while he unlocked the door – and Loop, mistaking it for a dog biscuit, had jumped to retrieve it and accidentally bitten Larry on the chin. The wound wasn’t sufficiently serious for stitches but it did make shaving difficult, and for the first time in his life Larry let the whiskers there grow.

  Although the presence of Loop enriched Larry’s life it had the opposite effect on the neighbourhood. The neighbours quickly tired of his barking and chaotic wanderings, but fearing a simple complaint to Professor MacCabe would entail an hour’s lecture on the history of dogs, mentioned nothing of the matter to him and only muttered amongst themselves. Things came to a head, however, after Loop, on one of his unofficial walks, bit Dr Young on the rump.

  The retired plastic surgeon waited for Larry to return to the house and then banged on his door.

  ‘That dog of yours is a menace, MacCabe! He’s a danger to the neighbourhood!’

  ‘You mean Loop?’ Larry said somewhat incredulously. ‘Loop’s not dangerous, Dr Young, he’s just playful.’

  ‘You call these teeth marks playful?’ Dr Young shouted, lowering his trousers and showing Larry a perfect imprint of Loop’s teeth.

  ‘You’re sure it was Loop that bit you?’ Larry asked, slightly off-put by the wide expanse of dimpled flesh in front of him. ‘He’s never bitten anyone before.’

  ‘Of course it was Loop! My eyes aren’t as good as they were but they sure as hell know Loop when they see him. And what kind of damn fool logic says that just because he hasn’t bitten anyone before he hasn’t bitten me now? There’s a first time for everything, MacCabe. Check it out with the people of Hiroshima or Nagasaki if you don’t believe me. Ask them if they ever doubted it was us who dropped atomic bombs on them just because we’d never dropped atomic bombs on them before. Use your goddamn common sense, man: who else is it going to be? You got the dog from the pound, for fuck’s sake. Did it never cross your mind that there was probably a good reason why someone dumped him there in the first place?’

  Larry could hear Loop barking in the backyard and was perplexed. ‘I don’t understand it, Dr Young. What were you doing in my garden?’

  ‘I wasn’t in your damned garden! Your dog was out on the street, shitting and pissing like it always is.’

  Larry was aware that Loop had escaped from the backyard on a couple of occasions, but had no idea it was a regular occurrence. (It had certainly never cropped up in any of their evening conversations.)

  ‘Well if that is the case, Dr Young, I’m very sorry. But a dog bite is nothing like an atomic bomb. I’ve had six of them myself – seven if you count the one on my chin – and it’s a lot less painful than being stung by a wasp. Anyway, I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Damn right it won’t happen again. I’m having your dog put down! And just because you’ve got hair growing round your mouth these days doesn’t mean you can talk to me like a…!’

  A passing laundry truck backfired and Larry misheard the last of the sentence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Young, I didn’t realise I was,’ he apologised. ‘I’ve never even read Kant. Look, can’t we settle this in a more civilised manner – man to man? After all, we are both doctors.’

  ‘No!’ Dr Young said. ‘And as far as I’m concerned there’s only one doctor in this conversation and that’s me. In my book a PhD counts for nothing! I’m off for a tetanus shot now and I’ll be sending you the bill. Make sure you pay it!’

  That night Loop was put down, and the next day a hastily scribbled note pushed through Dr Young’s letter box. Dear Dr Young: One day, I hope someone puts you down. Yours sincerely, Larry K MacCabe (Professor).’

  Dr Young thought it was a hoot and had the letter framed.

  It was Ms Parker who once again rode to Larry’s rescue. He was walking across the parking lot of a supermarket when she saw him, struggling with three large sacks of dog food and apparently in the process of making a delivery. One of the sacks fell from his grip and she called out to him. ‘Professor MacCabe! Professor MacCabe! Wait there and I’ll give you a hand.’ Larry turned and smiled, and then rested on his haunches while Ms Parker finished loading groceries in
to the trunk of her car.

  ‘I’m afraid this old beanpole body of mine isn’t as strong as it once was,’ Larry smiled. ‘By rights it should be me helping you.’

  Ms Parker took hold of one of the bags, and while they walked, Larry told her of Loop and how he was hoping to get a credit for the unopened sacks of dog food he’d bought. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a cup of coffee, do you?’ he asked, once the matter had been resolved. ‘It would be nice to talk to someone.’

  Ms Parker looked at her watch and then searched her conscience. ‘Sure, Professor MacCabe,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’ll be glad to have coffee with you.’

  They walked to a small coffee house close to the supermarket and Larry told her the full story.

  ‘That’s simply awful,’ Ms Parker said. ‘What kind of a man has a dog put down!’

  ‘A plastic surgeon,’ Larry explained. ‘I don’t know if all plastic surgeons are like Dr Young, though.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not,’ Ms Parker replied for want of anything more interesting to say. ‘Incidentally, I think the beard suits you. It makes you look distinguished. Like Trotsky.’

  ‘Trotsky!’ Larry exclaimed. ‘No wonder people have been avoiding me. They’ll have been thinking I’m a communist!’

  Resolving to shave his beard when he returned home, an uncomfortable thought struck him – had Ms Parker been flirting with him when she’d mentioned his beard, trying to hitch a ride on his broken-down old wagon? He enjoyed her company but, for reasons mentioned, didn’t want to risk the possibility of any sexual shenanigans. He sought to clarify the situation. ‘Your husband won’t mind you being here, will he?’

  ‘I don’t have a husband, Professor MacCabe. Alice is my life partner.’

  Larry was relieved. ‘That’s a strange name for a man, Ms Parker. Then again, there was that boy named Sue, wasn’t there? You know, the song recorded by Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison. Funny thing that. Because he had an outlaw image, most people thought he’d been in prison himself, but he never had. He had a few scrapes that landed him in jail overnight, but nothing serious. One time he got arrested for trespassing in someone’s garden and picking their flowers. Now where was that? Starkville, that’s where it was, Starkville, Mississippi. I guess the moral of that story is that you don’t mess with the people of…’

  ‘Alice is a girl’s name, Professor MacCabe. I’m attracted to women.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to be ashamed of there, Ms Parker.’

  ‘I’m not ashamed,’ Ms Parker said. ‘There hasn’t been a day in my life when I have been ashamed of my sexuality.’

  ‘Quite right too, and good for you. Well done. It’s a pity there aren’t more lesbians in the world.’

  There was a lull in the conversation and Larry took advantage of the pause to blow his nose. ‘I don’t suppose Frank’s been asking about me, has he?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I wouldn’t take it too personally. He doesn’t ask about anyone these days. He has trouble talking.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ Larry replied. ‘I think Frank and I would have become good friends if we’d met earlier in life. By the way, now that we’re not meeting in an official capacity, is it all right if I call you by your first name? My name’s Larry.’

  ‘Feel free. It’s Laura – Laura Parker.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be! That was the name of the girl killed in Twin Peaks, wasn’t it? I tell you, that was just about the strangest piece of television I ever watched. That dwarf who danced and all those cherry pies. I’ve never been a fan of cherry pie myself. I much prefer a pie that’s made from apples, or apples and pears. Helen used to…’

  ‘Her name was Palmer,’ Laura interrupted, a slight tone of impatience creeping into her voice. ‘Laura Palmer.’ How, she wondered, could a man meander from one aimless topic to another, dredge up everything he knew on a subject and pump it willy-nilly into a conversation.

  ‘Larry,’ she said. ‘Focus for a moment. Forget about Twin Peaks and Johnny Cash and think dogs. Why don’t you get another dog?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Laura. I still feel responsible for Loop’s death.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Larry. Your next-door neighbour shoulders that responsibility. You took good care of Loop. It seems to me, though, that he did have a few behavioural problems.’

  ‘You mean he was challenged, like the old folk in your home?’

  ‘If you like. A lot of dogs in the pound are like that. People take them there for a reason and in that respect Dr Young had a point. What you need is a purebred, a dog with a good lineage and I know just the one. A friend of mine’s mother has just died and she’s trying to find a home for her dog. What do you think, Larry? Are you interested?’

  Larry stroked his beard for a moment, remembered it was a communist beard and quickly changed tack and rubbed his bald head instead. ‘What kind of dog is it?’ he asked finally.

  ‘It’s a Basset Hound, Larry. And he has ears just like yours!’

  2

  The Care Administrator

  ‘Well, we might both have long ears, Moses, but at least mine don’t trail in my food when I eat. Now keep still, will you, and let me give them a wipe.’

  Moses stopped fidgeting and allowed Larry to clean his long velvety ears with a damp cloth. The dog looked sad, as if about to burst into tears, but the sadness was congenital rather than of the moment. There was no other way a Basset Hound could look.

  Moses was a purebred, a hound descended from the hounds owned by St Hubert of Belgium in the sixth century, and had the papers to prove it. He was three-and-a-half feet long, twelve inches high and weighed around forty-five pounds. His legs were short and crooked, his head big and his nose large. He had long dangling ears, pendent brown eyes and a coat that was black and tan, soft and short-haired. Folds of loose skin concertinaed round his neck and a wide white stripe ran down the middle of his wrinkled face. Indeed, the only part of Moses’ body that didn’t droop was his white-tipped tail which curved upward like a cavalryman’s sabre and waggled from side to side like a metronome, its movement the only indication the dog wasn’t about to commit suicide.

  ‘Now let’s take a look at those eyes of yours. We don’t want Miss Laura thinking I’m not taking good care of you.’

  In Larry’s opinion mongrelism had a lot to offer the world. Loop had been a mongrel par excellence and had needed no special care. He’d stayed healthy on his own account and had been untroubled by problems peculiar to a lack of breed. Moses, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether. The structure of his ears, for instance, inhibited the free circulation of air inside them and they were prone to infections and ear mites, just as the folds of his mouth were also susceptible to yeast infections. The configuration of his eyes, which allowed dirt to collect under the eyeballs, was another design fault, and unless Larry wiped them with a damp cloth every day they would clog with mucous.

  ‘There you are, old son. Good as new!’ Larry said. ‘Stick with me and you’ll live to be a hundred.’

  The chances of this were remote. Moses was already a year old, and in all probability would live for no more than another eleven. In human terms, and if he was lucky, he would die at the age of seventy-four and leave Larry heartbroken – if, indeed, Larry’s heart was still ticking at this future date.

  Although Larry sang the praises of mongrelism, he would have plumped for Moses’ company over Loop’s any day of the week. While Loop had been independent, Moses was happily dependent and hated to be left alone. He was more sociable, friendlier, hardly ever barked and was naturally well behaved. He was also too sluggish to rampage the house as Loop had done, and spent most of the day asleep on the floor and usually in the same room as Larry. Despite this indoor inactivity Moses was the polar opposite outdoors. He was after all a scent hound, bred for hunting rabbits and hare
and would have run for hours if given the chance. Larry remembered Laura warning him to keep Moses on a firm leash whenever they went for their long daily walks, which she’d insisted they take. ‘Basset Hounds might appear lazy, Larry, but they need exercise – and plenty of it!’

  And these walks had become the highpoint of Larry’s day. Despite the dog’s name being Moses, the sidewalks no longer parted like the Red Sea when Larry traversed them. People smiled at them, bid them a cheery hello and often stopped to fondle Moses and chat with Larry. Larry was happy to answer their questions on Basset Hounds and, against Laura’s encouragement, often in more detail than was strictly necessary. Though wary of Larry’s gasbag tendency, people now stayed on the same side of the street when they saw him and greeted him by name, even though they were more interested in his dog. Moses, Larry realised, was providing him with an entrée to the world he’d never had before, and he mentioned this to Laura. ‘Good! Make sure you don’t blow it!’ she’d replied.

  Although young enough to have been his daughter, in the weeks following Larry’s adoption of Moses, Laura in many ways became his surrogate mother. She thought of him as a gentleman loser, a well-meaning person who unwittingly drove people nuts, and couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Larry was a lost soul, she decided, walking along life’s hard shoulder with an empty gas can in his hand and unlikely to reach a service station without the help of another person. She was under no illusion she could change his essence – it was far too late in his life for this to happen – but at least she could seek to moderate his more annoying traits. And she had the patience and temperament to do this.

  It was Laura who’d facilitated the transition of ownership, assured her friend that Larry would provide Moses with a good home once he got his backyard fence fixed, and had then bought her protégé a book on Basset Hounds. She’d visited his house and observed the two of them together and given Larry her critique. ‘You can’t be a milquetoast with Moses, Larry. You have to show him that you’re the boss. If you want him to obey you then you have to be firm with him – and for God’s sake try and look a bit more confident. Prove to him that your balls are bigger than his… No, of course I don’t mean this literally!’