The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  Here you go, Irene, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the dogs are good as new, but you still have your living room, which can comfortably represent the haunted recesses of your disturbed mind, to sit in and relax and then be completely consumed by your own apathy.

  If I give her any filth option, she’ll take it. So I can’t. But who am I to be giving her options about anything in her old age? I’m just the neighbor. Ridiculous. Am I the crazy one? Am I the one with the obsession? Why have I focused so and set such extreme goals in all of this when what I should have been doing since Roxy left me is working on ways to improve myself and my own life? I should have done what Casino did, just spend $300 on miscellany and walk away guilt free. If I had $300, I would’ve spent it on antibarking paraphernalia to begin with for Sophie (Satan torment her soul). Though, I have to admit, even with all the frustrations, working with those two dum-dums has been about the only thing that I’ve enjoyed in the last five months. And, sort of, with you.

  What would I have gotten paid to do all of this, even just to walk and feed the dogs for all these weeks? Here I am piss poor, struggling for every stupid penny, and I’ve soaked so much time and attention into this project as if it mattered. What a stupid choice. Look at what I’m doing. “Know thyself”—the oracle of Delphi. I’d rather know someone else.

  8:00 PM

  I should “assume the best, rather than the negative,” Ally preaches to me.

  “OK—Irene’ll come home, be thrilled with the transformation in her apartment, become overwhelmed with gratitude, will kiss me on the cheek and promise to take great care of the dogs and her surroundings from now on. Yep—with a brand-new bum arm on top of the blind eye, deaf ear, half-dead face, the vertigo, and the hoarding OCD.”

  “Yes, Richard, think positive.”

  February 19, 11:00 AM

  I got a phone message from Irene today. She thanked me for watching the dogs, actually made a little joke about their hair (which shows she hasn’t forgotten about it), asked me to give them hugs for her, and told me that she may be home in a week or so, maybe even sooner.

  My heart sunk—which surprised me. It’s all going to be over soon, I thought. It’s been fifty-three days since she fell. These dogs feel like they’re mine. They depend on me. And the work’s not done. The living room isn’t clean. Nelson isn’t ready. Lauren is so close. If I hand them back this way, then Nelson’s bacchanalian ways will take over the whole apartment again because she won’t clean up after him, unless I tell her to.

  I’ve got to get Nelson over the hump. If we do have one more full week, then maybe the crate and tons of walks with Treats for Pee can work their magic. Papillon never broke, but we might be able to turn Nelson.

  I’m not going to lie to you, Sheriff, I’m going to miss these guys. The pride in Nelson’s eyes as he chomps down a well-earned treat has become a nutrient to me. I pat him on the head and tell him he’s a big boy, and he says, I feel like a big boy, and his tail buzzes back and forth. He’s going to lose that when she gets back. She’ll cuddle him when he’s on her lap, but these dogs want some parameters of behavior, a regimen to follow. They’re happier the new way with some exercise. They need someone in their lives to follow and share their joy and accomplishments. Life is more than just being on someone’s lap.

  Irene said they want her to start using a walker, and she asked if I would “bring the dogs over” so that she could “practice walking them with the walker down the hallway.”

  Did I hear that right? Yes, I did. Do you think I said yes? Do you think I could have said no? I’m just going to try to avoid it until she gets home.

  I wish Roxy would call. I need someone to help me power through this. And to sit on my lap.

  February 20, 10:20 AM

  Time to get serious. I’m going to bring the dogs over to my apartment for these last few days. I’m going to keep Nelson in the crate all day, but I’ll be here to keep him company. This has to kick up to intensive training. I’ll check in with Austen. The trick will be keeping an eye on Lauren so that she doesn’t go inside. She’s been doing really well on our walks, so I think I can trust her. I’d hate to leave her alone at Irene’s while Nelson is here with me. I think we can handle this. I’m going to get up every morning before the crack of dawn, rush them outside, and then I’m going to walk them every two hours on the nose to head off any accidents or rebellion. It’ll be difficult, but, like a surgeon on call, I’ll just have to be ready and vigilant at all times, rested or weary.

  2:30 PM

  I found the answer. At Tailwaggers, resupplying myself with Organic Marvel for my own apartment, I saw these nylon dog houses. They’re soft-sided “dog homes,” they call them. They’re less Rikers Island than the metal crates. I bought one large enough to hold both dogs. It cost sixty-five dollars, about the same as a cheap dinner date, but since I have none of those happening anymore, I figured I could swing it on a credit card. As had Austen, the saleslady swore that the dogs would not pee inside there. It’s bright blue with black mesh windows and a zippered door. It looks like camping gear. When I was a kid, it would have been an adventure to sleep in there. I’m going to use peer pressure, keeping Lauren in there with him. There’s no way Nelson will mess up a small space that both dogs are in, right?

  Also, Fay called already to pester me about taking the dogs to help with Irene’s “walker practice.”

  “Can you possibly do it, Fay? I’m really busy.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid if something happened, I wouldn’t be able to control the dogs like you can.”

  So I’m stuck.

  7:00 PM

  Moving day: I put the camper together—I call it the Dignity Box—and brought them over with their bowls, food, and the remainder of Irene’s newspapers, just in case. Fed them dinner, walked. Now we’re here.

  February 21, 10:00 AM

  Having them here is an intense distraction. I’m so paranoid about an accident that I keep turning around in my chair and looking at them, even when they’re asleep. Stressful.

  2:20 PM

  It’s amazing how much they sleep. How was Sophie barking for so many hours? Her internal chaos must have been like the fission of atomic isotopes.

  I’m sitting here, watching these two dum-dums sleeping up against each other, Nelson’s tongue hanging out, their breathing synchronized, an occasional leg twitch from a dream off in their Lilliputian world. Their eyes squint closed when they sleep, like they’re working really hard at it.

  I don’t feel as much stress anymore. I’ve decided I’m not going to abandon them at that point, no matter how angry or freaked out Irene may be. I’m not going to just toss the dogs back in there and slam her door shut.

  I can’t believe I’m saying it, but they’re part of me. So I have to have a relationship with Irene. Maybe she’ll let me help out with them. I think about that gun, and I wonder if I should try to cajole her into giving it to me for safekeeping. Does her doctor know she has a gun in her bedroom? Does Fay know? Do you have any advice on that? If she says it’s for protection, then I’ll just promise to protect her. We’ll cross that bridge when we stumble there.

  I’m imagining that I’ll be able to have conversations with Irene when she may not even be grateful for the favor I’ve done. She didn’t care about me when Sophie was around, why would she now? People can be selfish when they want to be left alone. I’m learning to not have expectations. You can’t think anyone will behave the way that you would in any given situation. Look at Roxy. Instead of running away from our problems, I wanted to work on them. She felt that being away was best. Either way would have been difficult. I think her way inflicted more pain, but it’s what forced me to look at my own life as I have, so maybe it was right. Plus, I have to let her be who she is if I’m going to love her no matter how things turn out. And I need to figure out who I am before she can completely love me. Should the word completely be put with the word love? Do we ever figure out who we are?

  Your whole
life must be a struggle against expectations, Sheriff. Every bad person you meet on calls must behave in despicable ways that blow your mind. I wonder how much control you try to exert over your children, if you have any, or your wife. I’d think it’d be tough not to, given the havoc you deal with on the job. How do you separate your power circumstances? I wish I had power circumstances—just one, even. I think Roxy disliked my lack of power and assertion. I had that when I played music. But eventually I saw myself as a victim of everything. In many ways, I was, but now I’m going to fix that by involving myself in the havoc and trying to clear things up.

  Speaking of havoc, I’m thinking of going back to teaching. I’m more mature now. I was good at it. I could use the benefits, the retirement plan, and the stability. Maybe the dream I want now is to be settled and secure like what Roxy wants. Instead of being defensive, I need to see that she’s someone who loves me and wants what’s best for me. I’ve been afraid of really trying to be a provider because nothing financially for me has ever worked out. Slow and steady might be a better way to go.

  All this from watching the dogs sleeping together in their camper. They have no idea.

  9:30 PM

  Nelson pooped four times today. I’ve started a chart in a notebook. That’s the problem that I’ve been missing all this time. He needs to go way more often than I ever thought. He might need four or five walks a day. He seems perfectly healthy and content. He either needs these walks, or he’s become desperately addicted to treats. Nelson’s lifestyle really should be reversed—outside walking all day and only brought inside to relax three or four times. I’m going to keep track of this, the way a nurse jots things down on a clipboard at the foot of a patient’s bed. Maybe I’ll show it to Austen.

  I’m creating a clinical study, and if it bears out that Nelson needs this many walks, then I’ll have the numbers to show Irene to let her know what her responsibilities are. She can take that knowledge and do whatever she’s going to do with it, but it would be a heck of a life choice to ignore the data that I’m compiling.

  February 22, 3:00 PM

  Day two with the Dignity Box. They’re already accustomed to it. I let them out to sit in the living room for short periods during the day. Because we’re walking so frequently, I’m confident that they’re wrung dry by the time they get back inside.

  Nelson loves to sleep on the couch. He’s got such an interesting personality. He loves to jump and play, but he also likes his alone time. He wanders off and finds a place to curl up, facing away from you as if he just wants to sit and think, undisturbed.

  Lauren, on the other hand, cannot stand not being on my lap. First, she sits by my chair and stares up at me. Then, when the lonely eyes haven’t worked, she stands on her hind legs, paws at the seat, and squeals as if her heart is being ligatured. When she doesn’t see a lap, she’s perfectly fine. But as soon as my thighs are parallel to the floor, she can’t take it. So, I let her sit with me while I work. Her whole body goes limp, entirely submissive, very sweet. If she could purr, she would. She doesn’t fidget around, or nudge at me, or insist on being petted. She respects the privilege and knows well enough not to be pushy. That’s how we spend the afternoons—Lauren with me, and Nelson off thinking, wrestling with the great imponderables of infinite dog space.

  5:00 PM

  We saw Austen this afternoon as soon as we stepped outside for our walk. He was across the street in front of the school. I scooted back inside to grab the notebook with the Nelson chart in it so that I could show it to him and see what he thought.

  Austen waved lightly, not lifting his hand above his waist as we crossed the street. His usually bright posture was gone, his shoulders sloped, and his wrists were loose as he held his dogs’ leashes.

  After a quick greeting, he just said it: “Misty died last night.”

  “Oh no. Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

  Though we hardly know each other, he was comfortable enough to weep in front of me, which made me feel close to him. Blue tears welled behind his glasses.

  “She wasn’t feeling well. I took her to the vet, and he found a tumor on her lung. Cancer. It’d already spread to her liver. This kind of thing can happen with Labs, but you don’t think about it.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s a surgery, but it’s so invasive, and it creates, like, a yearlong process, and it’s horrible for the dog, so it was a terrible couple of days.”

  You could feel the empty leash with us there.

  “She was our leader dog. These guys don’t quite know what to do without her.”

  Nelson, Lauren, and I walked with them the rest of the way. It was quiet and slow. The dogs all knew. We did chat. We managed to chuckle about the chart. He said that Nelson was fine, normal. I gave Austen my number and said he could call anytime. I don’t want his eating disorder to strike again. And Austen was still in pain from his boyfriend.

  This is one of the reasons, Sheriff, that I’ve never owned a dog and don’t want to. It’s too short a time span, and it’s way too difficult at the end. I don’t know how people do it. At the same time, Nelson and Lauren, the enthusiasm with which they grab each day, already is pretty great to wake up to.

  February 23, 11:45 AM

  I got the annual West Hollywood neighborhood street parking permit renewal form in the mail today. Again. It reminds me that I might live here, in this apartment, in this situation, for another whole year, or forever. I get the new permit, scrape the old one off the windshield with a razor blade—why do you make them so difficult to remove?—then put the new one on, the new year staring me in the face. Roxy’d made a snide comment last year when I handed her the updated guest pass for her rearview mirror, a red one replacing the pink one, and it turned into a fight.

  “Committed to another year, are you?” She was holding a veritable “red flag” in her hand.

  “It’s the law,” I said. I was being cute, but all she heard was my personal Law of Inertia, and she was giving me a hefty fine for a nonmoving violation. Also, Sheriff, trying to be cute is a low-percentage way to avoid a fight.

  She said that I was consumed by a “myopic derangement” with this apartment and Sophie, and that I probably wanted to be here forever, “swallowed up by the ethos of my own complaining.”

  What she should have done was to tell me that she could compromise for the greater good of us being together. She could have rescued me from this place with love and support.

  “Why don’t you move in here with me?” I must have suggested that a hundred times. “With the money we’d each save, we’d both be working our way out of debt in no time.”

  “This place isn’t even large enough to hold you and your complaints,” she said, “let alone me and everything of mine.”

  “I’ll put most of my shit in my half of the garage in back. I’ll put an armoire in the living room for my clothes, and you can have the whole bedroom closet.”

  “It’s too small. And we’re too old for that kind of life.”

  “Let’s make it just for a year then. Twelve months. At the end of each month, we go to a nice romantic dinner where we drink wine and write our rent checks and celebrate the money we’re saving. Then we go get an apartment with cash in hand.”

  Ally’d thought that was a reasonable plan, but Roxy wouldn’t budge for a budget. Hey, she’s worked hard. She doesn’t want to feel like her life is going backward. I think she became an observer of the relationship as opposed to a partner in it.

  “I know plenty of couples who’ve sacrificed space for a while in order to be able to save some money or pay off some bills,” I said.

  “Those days are long gone for me. That’s not charming anymore, Richard.”

  9:00 PM

  I think about the gun over there and wonder if I should just take it. Just put my foot down and say, “Crazy old ladies should not have loaded guns.”

  I did take one of the OxyContin pills a couple of days ago. Didn’t really do much, helpe
d me sleep, but I need to get up early for the dogs anyway, so I’m going to put back the remaining ones.

  Fay called me again to ask about taking the dogs to the nursing home and doing the walker test.

  About a year after my father’s stroke, I coached him back to driving during a spring break. I took him to an empty parking lot and showed him that he could do it using his left hand and left foot. He eventually had his mechanic friend cobble up an illegal pedal extender that moved the gas from the right to the left of the brake. That gave him a ticket to limited freedom, to actually get back to Chick’s occasionally. It brought him some joy. But Irene with the walker and the two dogs? It’s the bridge at Arnhem.

  February 24, 7:30 PM

  The chart is unbelievable. Nelson is a hyperdigestive machine.

  9:50 PM

  Nelson had an accident in the Dignity Box when I was out. Had to scrub it down again with soap and a brush and hose outside. He’s not going to learn. There aren’t enough treats in the world. The only option left would be to lace them with cocaine so a manic addiction could drive his need to get outside. He’s energetic enough without it. Poor thing. He’s just a little too old and beyond the rainbow. Or I wasn’t a good enough teacher. Irene’s going to be home any day, and this has all been a failure.

  February 25, 5:00 PM

  Having the dogs here has definitely helped me break Lauren of her barking when other dogs walk by out front. I use an empty Bud Light can with a bunch of pennies in it, something poor Austen had suggested.