Larry & the Dog People

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘Hi girls,’ the woman called out. ‘And who’s this cute little boy you’ve brought with you?’

  ‘It’s Larry,’ Larry called back. ‘Larry MacCabe. I’m an emeritus professor of history at Georgetown University.’

  ‘She means Moses,’ Alice explained. ‘I don’t think you qualify as a boy these days.’

  Larry blushed and started to blink. This wasn’t the start he’d been hoping for.

  The woman approached them and bent down to fondle Moses. She then stood and held out her hand to Larry. ‘I’m Delores – Delores Bobo,’ she said, breathing heavily. ‘And if I’m not mistaken you’ve brought Israel to see us.’

  ‘Israel?’ Larry replied, perplexed by the question. ‘No, his name’s Moses, Delores. I think Israel must be someone else’s dog.’

  Here Laura stepped into the conversation. ‘Originally Moses was called Israel,’ she explained. ‘And you can blame that clown over there for the name change,’ indicating the man with the crew cut. ‘When Moses first came to the park he was a puppy and forever wandering off and Mrs Eisler – the woman whose dog he was – used to call for him. She’d shout: “Israel! Where’s Israel? Does anyone know where Israel is?” And Tank would reply that it was in the Eastern Mediterranean, bordered by Lebanon, Syria and Jordan and then laugh his stupid head off. That type of joke is as old as the hills and once it’s been told it’s been told; after that it’s just annoying. But did Tank see it this way? No! He went on and on with the same stupid comment and then, to cap it all, the kids in the park started to shout the same thing. The poor woman was in her nineties by then, confused enough as it was, and all this malarkey just confused her more. It was her daughter – the woman I got Moses from – who persuaded her to change the name.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Larry,’ Delores said. ‘I must be getting as confused as Mrs Eisler. I’d forgotten all about the name change. Anyway, it’s good to see him again and know that he’s found a new home.’

  The man, who Laura had referred to as Tank, disentangled his legs from the picnic table and came to join them. ‘Did I hear my name being taken in vain?’ he asked.

  ‘I was telling Larry about the stupid things you say. And don’t you dare start calling Moses Israel again. You’ve done enough damage as it is. I still find it surprising that the State Department gave you a job. I thought they recruited people with discretion.’

  ‘Don’t you worry on that score, darling. I’m a reformed character these days. So tell me, how’s Retro doing?’

  ‘If you call Repo by that name again I’ll slap that stupid face of yours, Tank Newbold. You should pray to God that Sherman never gets CCD. You wouldn’t be making fun of the situation if that happened.’

  ‘Sherman’s not going to fall victim to any disease,’ Tank laughed. ‘He can’t afford to. The day he starts costing me money is the day I have him put down, and he knows this. We have an understanding. Ha!’

  Tank then turned to Larry, who had been a bystander through these exchanges, occasionally holding out his hand to shake Tank’s and then withdrawing it when Tank had failed to notice. But Tank had. ‘You some kind of slot machine, Larry? One of those one-armed bandits?’

  ‘Compared to you he’s the jackpot,’ Alice said, who had also taken affront at Tank calling Repo Retro.

  Tank again laughed but this time shook Larry’s hand. ‘You wouldn’t know it, but we’re all good friends here, Larry. A word of warning though: don’t try any guy humour on these broads – it’s a waste of breath.’

  Larry, who had no idea what guy humour was, said he wouldn’t, but asked Tank if he’d like to hear a joke he’d made up about hair shampoo. He then told the joke which aroused in his audience no more than a unified blank expression.

  ‘Tell me, Larry,’ Tank asked. ‘Has anyone ever laughed when you’ve told them that joke?’

  Larry had to admit that no one had, but here Delores chipped in and said that although she hadn’t understood the joke she had a feeling that it was funny, and that if only she’d followed her parents’ advice and gone to college as they’d wanted her to, she might very well have laughed out loud. And then, fortunately, she changed the subject entirely.

  ‘I lost two pounds this week, girls. I think this new diet’s really working.’

  ‘Good for you, Delores. Keep that up and you’ll be a new person in no time.’

  ‘But still fat,’ Tank interjected. ‘What you need, Delores, is a five-year plan, like the Soviets and Chinese used to have; either that, or go and live in India for a year. And it’s no use you rolling your eyes like that, Alice. You women are all the same. You never say boo to a goose. Instead of telling Delores the truth – that she’s a cascade of fat and likely to die of a heart attack or lose a foot to diabetes if she doesn’t do something about it – you give her a bunch of life-affirming compliments that will end up killing her. You ever hear the expression “cruel to be kind”? As her friends, that’s how we have to be. You should be encouraging her to do some exercise – and you could start by walking to work, Delores. The museum’s not two miles from where you live. What do you think, Larry?’

  Larry was hoping that Tank was referring to the Soviet and Chinese five-year plans. He could talk all day on those subjects if wanted to – even India, come to think of it. But surprisingly, he understood that he was being asked to comment on a woman’s weight, something he was reluctant to do, especially after Delores had been kind enough to almost laugh at his joke.

  ‘That’s a difficult one, Tank. My own wife, Helen, never had a weight problem and so I have no experience in these matters. I think she might have had a drinking problem, though – if that’s of any help.’

  Laura looked at Larry with what could only be described as a look of puzzled pride. She too had been expecting him to launch into a detailed account of Soviet five-year plans and when he hadn’t, but instead revealed information of a personal nature, she felt inordinately proud of her new protégé.

  ‘It does help, Larry,’ Delores said, ‘and thank you for sharing this.’ She then went on to explain that addiction wasn’t a life choice but a disease; that some people became addicted to food in the same way others became addicted to drink, drugs, gambling or even shopping. And none of it was their fault. It was a condition they were born with. Daily life for them was a struggle and not always successful. (As if to prove this point Delores took a half-eaten bar of chocolate from her pocket and appeared to swallow it.)

  ‘I’ve tried one diet after another, Larry, but even when I do watch the calories I still end up putting weight on. It just doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘You’ve probably got a slow metabolism,’ Alice said. ‘Or a thyroid condition,’ Laura added. ‘Or maybe you’re a cormorant,’ Tank said. ‘Maybe you should go to the zoo and get yourself checked out.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that, Tank? That’s just silly! Larry, you’re an intelligent man, do you know what he’s talking about?’ Delores asked.

  Larry, who for once in his life had been happy not to be part of a conversation, answered reluctantly. ‘Well, because a cormorant’s a seabird with a big appetite, some people use the word as, well, as a euphemism for a glutton.’

  ‘Look, Dolores, all I’m saying is that you’re as likely to be a bird as suffering from some disease! That’s just psychobabble. Every person has to take responsibility for their own life. You got yourself on this hook and only you can get yourself off it. You’re the size you are because you eat too much – and probably the wrong foods – and you don’t do enough exercise. Any doctor will tell you that. You have to stop making excuses and do something about it. I’m telling you this as your friend. And Laura and Alice should be telling you the same thing. Isn’t that right, Larry?’

  Larry hadn’t felt less like talking than at any other time in his life. Argument and discord always discomfited him. The worst thing about academic life had
been the monthly departmental meetings when members of one faction would squabble with those of another over seemingly trivial matters. Larry had joined no faction – hadn’t, in fact, been asked to – and would, in most votes, abstain rather than take one side and risk offending another – a practice that had endeared him to no one. How, he wondered, could he answer such a question without antagonising either Tank or Delores? He’d come to the park to make friends not enemies ‘Well…’ he started to say.

  ‘Leave Larry out of this, Tank – and you too, Delores,’ Laura said. ‘This is his first day at the park so let’s try and make it an enjoyable one. And Larry, you can let Moses off his leash now. He can have an enjoyable day, too.’

  Larry did as he was told, relieved not to be answering the question, and Moses ran to the far end of the grassy park where Repo, Sherman and Button, the Chihuahua, were playing. The dogs sniffed each other, jumped up at each other, play fought and took turns chasing one another. How easily dogs made friends, Larry thought. If only friendship for him had been this easy.

  The four of them moved to the picnic table and sat down on the attached benches. ‘I don’t know whether you know this,’ Larry said, ‘but if dogs were humans they’d vary in height from between two and thirty-one feet.’

  ‘Wow!’ Delores said. ‘I didn’t know that! I’m going to tell that to Petey. I know – why don’t we play a game and take it in turns to say something interesting about dogs that the rest of us might not know?’

  ‘Dogs see things in slow motion,’ Tank said. ‘That’s why they’re good at catching Frisbees and balls.’

  ‘Dogs hear things four times further away than a human and twice the pitch,’ Laura said.

  ‘Dogs have a sense of smell forty times stronger than a human’s,’ Alice said. ‘They can smell events months after they’ve happened – that’s why they’re good at finding missing people.’

  ‘Dogs are colour-blind but they can see blues and yellows,’ Delores said. ‘Your turn again, Larry.’

  Larry thought hard but drew a blank.

  ‘A dog has four legs,’ Tank said, who was losing interest in the game as fast as Larry’s knowledge was running out. ‘And Repo’s got three of his stuck in that picnic table over there.’

  It was Alice who went to Repo’s rescue, and in the lull that followed Tank took a cigar from a leather case and proceeded to light it. A cloud of thick pungent smoke filled the air and Dolores started to cough in theatrical disapproval.

  ‘Don’t give me any shit over this, Delores. If you felt so strongly about tobacco then you wouldn’t work where you do. It’s your guys that set the ball rolling.’

  ‘Delores works at the National Museum of the American Indian,’ Laura told Larry.

  ‘You know as well as I do, Tank, that the Indians smoked tobacco for religious reasons. It was a sacred plant to them, a gift from God and not something to be used recreationally. And I’ve never heard of any Indian getting addicted to tobacco like you are.’

  ‘I’m no more addicted to tobacco than you are to broccoli! I have one cigar a week and that’s it – and always at the park. And what’s more I’m doing you a service. You ever notice how many mosquitoes there are in this park since people in the neighbourhood started having their yards sprayed? This smoke keeps them at bay, keeps us all safe from their bites. You should be thanking me, Dolores: I’m risking my lungs for your well-being.’

  It wasn’t the mosquitoes that were worrying Larry at this moment, but the wasp that had been attracted to the syrup stain on his shirt. When he’d told Dr Young that a wasp sting was a lot worse than a dog’s bite, he hadn’t been joking with the plastic surgeon. As a child his face had once swollen to the size of a small pumpkin after a wasp sting, and though his body was more attuned to the venom than it had been, he still lived in dread of being stung. He whisked at the buzzing insect, tried to swat it and then panicked.

  ‘What’s wrong, Larry?’ Delores asked. ‘Is the smoke bothering you, too?’

  Larry had no time to answer. He jumped from the table and ran towards the edge of the park, flailing his arms and zigzagging like a man in the throes of St Vitus’ dance. Eventually he came to a halt under the branches of a large Osage orange tree, and once certain the wasp was no longer following him, sat down on the grass and drew breath. He was on the point of returning to his companions when he caught sight of a bucket of fresh sand close to the fence and the temptation proved too great. The unpleasantness of the wasp attack had weakened his resolve, left him exhausted and – on such an important day in his life – in need of a pick-me-up. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and casually walked to the bucket. Once there, he bent down in front of it and pretended to retie a loose shoelace. After glancing behind him one more time he reached into the bucket, took a quick pinch of sand and placed the grit in his mouth. Immediately the euphoria of old returned, but it lasted no more than a moment, blown to smithereens by a voice out of nowhere: ‘What you eating sand for, Mister? That’s for the Little Leaguers.’

  Larry turned but saw no one. The closest person was more than twenty yards away and not even looking in his direction. ‘I’m up here,’ the voice said, ‘just above…’ And then there was a crashing sound and a man came hurtling from the tree, landing no more than three feet from where Larry was kneeling.

  The man groaned. ‘That tree’s stupid!’ he whined. ‘Ain’t no reason to its branches. You hear that, tree? Your branches are dumb – D U M M!’

  Larry was in a state of shock, unable to speak but at least now on his feet. He looked down on the man who appeared to be about the age of Grover and Rutherford. He wore a short-sleeved shirt buttoned to his neck and a pair of trousers that at one time would have belonged to a suit. The man’s complexion was pallid and his arms white. He had short blonde hair, thinning at the crown, and a small snub nose with wide nostrils. His frame was slender and his height no more than five feet eight inches.

  ‘Are, are you all right?’ Larry stammered. ‘Can I help in any way?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mister. Ain’t the first time I’ve fallen out of a tree and it won’t be the last. Happens every dang time I climb one. I know how to land these days, though – haven’t broked a bone in six years. Did you see me do that roll like those parachute men do?’ His speech was slow, deliberate and hopelessly ungrammatical, and his facial animation was dictated by a desire to conceal two dead teeth in his upper jaw. He talked with his mouth almost closed, his lips contorted in a downward arc. His manner, though, was now mild and Larry’s initial disquiet subsided. The man climbed to his feet and held out his hand. ‘My name is Wayne,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘It’s Larry,’ Larry said. ‘Larry MacCabe.’

  ‘You’re a lot older than me, Mr MacCabe, but if you let me call you Larry then you can call me Wayne and not Mr Trout. That okay with you?’

  Larry told him that this would be fine, but that his title – if he was interested – was Professor and not Mister.

  ‘Man! I ain’t never met no professor before. Met plenty of doctors in my time, but never no professor. You must be one of them clever people. Tell me something, professor: what’s a clever man like you eating sand for? Ain’t normal, is it?’

  ‘It isn’t, Wayne, it’s anything but. I wasn’t eating sand, though. It might have looked as if I was, but I wasn’t. I’d been sucking a mint and it dropped into the bucket and I was just retrieving it. I hate waste.’

  Larry’s ad-lib struck a chord with Wayne. If it was one thing Wayne understood, it was mints. They were his favourite candy, and if he’d dropped a mint in a bucket of sand he’d have retrieved it too.

  ‘People say I ain’t right in my mind, but I am,’ Wayne said. ‘And I don’t eat sand, neither. Do you have another mint, Larry? One you could give me? I like mints.’

  ‘It was my last one,’ Larry lied, relieved that Wayne had bought his story
. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘You with the Dog People?’ Wayne asked, pointing to Laura and the others.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ Larry said with pride. ‘I came with Laura and Alice. That’s my dog over there, the Basset Hound.’

  ‘Miss Laura’s nice. She’s kind to me. Gives me mints all the time. The big man though, he scares me. He don’t smile much and sometimes he says things that hurt people and then laughs his head off. He’s never once given me a mint and I’ve seen him sucking them.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Jeepers Creepers, Larry, I got to go. People going to be wondering where I’m at.’

  He then went behind a thick bush and retrieved a small battered handcart. ‘Next time you come to the park bring some mints with you, will you? I like mints.’ He then set off for the gap in the fence, pulling the cart behind him.

  ‘I see you met Wayne,’ Laura said once he’d returned to the picnic table. ‘What were the two of you talking about?’

  ‘Mints mostly,’ Larry said. ‘He scared me half to death when he came crashing out of that tree. It seems strange for a person to climb a tree when they don’t know how to climb down one. He had a cart with him too. What does he need a cart for?’

  ‘Probably his meds,’ Tank said.

  ‘Don’t start on Wayne again, Tank,’ Laura said. ‘He suffers from challenges that you and I luckily don’t.’

  ‘What kind of challenges?’ Larry asked. ‘He’s not dangerous, is he?’

  ‘Wayne wouldn’t harm a fly,’ Laura assured him. ‘The best I can figure is that he suffers from a neurological disorder that affects his coordination. But there’s more to it than that, something deeper. A stress disorder, maybe. He’s in his thirties now, but talking to him is like talking to a small boy who just happens to shave.’

  ‘You’re a saint, Laura. You know that?’ Delores said. ‘A beacon for lost souls. There’s a place in your heart for all the waifs and strays of the world.’