The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  When Nelson stopped to go, I told Roxy about the chart. She couldn’t stop laughing. It reminded her of our rummy score book. Yes, the chart—and I—are ridiculous.

  “He goes four times a day?” she asked. “No wonder Irene’s place was so awful. She can’t keep up with that.”

  “That’s the benefit of science,” I said. “Now I have the research to prove it. She’s going to have to step up—and soon.”

  “You’re going to be heartbroken to let them go,” she said. “I can tell. You love these guys, don’t you?”

  What an unfortunate grouping of words there. Was she just being clueless, Sheriff ? “Heartbroken . . . let go . . . love”? She’d taken a billy club to the innocent butterflies in my stomach. We were standing in the same spot where, several weeks ago, she’d announced to me that she was dating. But no one had asked me, to this point, if I’d loved the dogs. I hadn’t thought about quantifying something that had started out as a knee-deep swamp I’d been bumbling through.

  She cradled Nelson, and the two sets of eyes begged me for a response. I picked up Lauren and held her against my chest.

  “These two dum-dums? Well, I love it when they behave,” I said. Then Lauren stretched her neck and licked my chin, cleaning the bullshit off my face. Roxy and Nelson laughed at me together.

  We came back inside, and Roxy suggested we open a bottle of wine.

  “My bottle is a box from Trader Joe’s.”

  “That’ll do just fine,” she said.

  I loved having her here. I loved being around her. She is now the air in here. I hate that she’s gone. But I couldn’t get myself to be in the present to enjoy it. My mind was scrambling in a battle of Everything That Was versus Everything That Might Be—in the artillery phase—the infantries had yet to crawl forward for the real killing.

  This glass of wine put her beyond the limit for driving. She’d made a choice. What’d gotten us this far was that we hadn’t talked about “us.” We just talked by way of little updates—plenty of Steelers, politics, school, friends, stuff we already agree on. But an eight-ton circus elephant danced in the room on its hind legs juggling flaming barrels of hot dogs, and we ignored it. Maybe it was the dum-dums that kept us calm.

  After that wine, she wanted to peer through the looking glass again. We went over to Irene’s. The place is 99 percent done. The old odors exist now only in sense memory. The dogs hadn’t even been in there for a week.

  Roxy couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said, and she kissed me. It could have been just a pride kiss though. Hard to tell. She probably felt my trembling as I kissed her back carefully, a thank-you-for-the-pride-kiss kiss.

  Stasya would say, “You have the power. You are the man.”

  Maybe it’s not about power, Stasya. I just want her back.

  My mind was still made up. It was in her court to change things back. My stomach felt like it was boiling oil. I kept my hands in my pockets to hide them shaking. I hadn’t seen this mercurial side of Roxy as something so dangerously unpredictable when I knew it within the confines of a relationship. The capriciousness was cute. It was quirky. It was fun to be spontaneous and change our minds. I just never thought it could go as deep as to devotion.

  We came back over here, and sat on the couch to drink more wine and watch TV. Rear Window was on Turner.

  Roxy laughed, “Imagine how James Stewart’d feel if he saw Irene’s apartment through those binoculars.”

  “It’d be way more shocking than seeing just a stupid murder,” I said. “Too much for audiences of that time to handle.”

  There we were, sitting close on the sofa, looking at each other, laughing. Roxy’d kicked off her boots. Her feet were in my lap. She brought the dogs up to the couch. She couldn’t get enough of them. “Nelson, Nelson . . . Nelson, Nelson, Nelson,” she’d say, nuzzling her nose against his forehead. He looked at her the way I did, as if she were the most important woman in the world. How did he know?

  “His paws are so tiny,” she said. “When you brush the hair out of the way and really see them, you can’t believe he can even support himself. So freakin’ cute.”

  I didn’t understand what was happening. It seemed so intimate to me, but I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. If I leaned over the cliff to kiss her and she pulled away, I’d be rejected all over again. Do you have any idea how many times I told myself to play it cool?

  “I’m glad Irene didn’t break her leg,” I said, referencing the movie. “She’d be utterly helpless.”

  “Do you know anything about when she’ll be back?”

  “Any day, maybe tomorrow even.”

  “Oh no, then you have to give them back.”

  “Ha, yeah. Then, who knows.”

  “They adore you,” she said, but what her eyes were saying was I adore you.

  I kissed her. And I was right. Her rich, soft, giving lips extinguished all of the anxiety of the past six months, even the year, and gave me life again in an instant. I was whole again, as Aristophanes would explain it—my other half was found. This is right. Love is right. Holding on had been right. Pain, for both of us, had been a teacher, and pain had been right.

  She stayed the night. There is no heroin like the sheer stark beauty of being inside the woman you love. Aloneness is gone forever, and a bright energy pulls you toward the future. Then she insisted on having the dogs up on the bed with us.

  In an instant, I’d gone from sleeping alone to having little space for myself. “They adore you,” I thought to myself. And then I realized that Nelson snores a little bit. His head was on my pillow. With no vocal chords, it’s just tiny breathing sounds, like a mouse with a slight cold. About as damn adorable as anything I’d ever heard.

  The dogs made it through the night without any accidents, thank God. I hadn’t said anything, but Roxy had no idea what a leap of faith she’d taken by welcoming them up there. I have to say, they did come through. And thank goodness I’m still using hypoallergenic laundry detergent.

  In the morning, we were simply happy. No analyzing, no discussion. We walked the dogs and stopped for coffee at the Commissary on Fairfax. We enjoyed the cool and cozy morning, sitting side by side on a bench with the dum-dums warming our laps, making fun of people walking by—especially ones who looked like their dogs. We were back to being Stiller and Meara, nothing but silliness and joy. Life can be easy.

  Her phone did buzz a couple of times. She glanced toward her purse but never reached for it.

  And then she left. The endorphins lasted about six hours until they burned off, and I crumbled. Do I even ask her what she’s thinking? I’m too afraid for that—that buzzing phone. Life is basically Take It or Leave It. She was able to Leave It. How would I know that she wouldn’t leave again like Ally fears? Take It and Leave It. There are no guarantees. You know what? I could have left these dogs in the mess they were in, or I could have taken them to the pound where they’d have been fed and out of my hair. But I didn’t. I stuck with them. Roxy didn’t stick with me.

  I guess I shouldn’t think about it.

  1:00 AM

  Maybe I don’t want this in my life. Maybe the fact that Roxy left should be enough for me to know that she’s not the one. When I think about these dogs—and no, humans aren’t dogs—but they are something I think Roxy is not, and that is . . . devoted. Even if it’s naive, Nelson and Lauren are a simplified life of unconditional love and loyalty. They give back as much as they can, and they never waver. Is it that the first time I’m truly being loved is by these animals?

  Life is more complicated than that, I know. But isn’t it also just as simple? If what Roxy truly wanted was to be with me, then she never should have left my side, good or bad. If one of the issues is where my life is at, then get on board, and let’s figure this out together. I’d certainly helped her through rough times, and life will bring both of us much bigger challenges down the road. Maybe only now I’m figuring out what commitment is.

/>   I can’t believe I’m thinking this, Sheriff, but my mind is changing. I can’t have this Roxy heartache hanging over me like this, and I’m not sure if I want her back. Last night was so perfect in so many ways—except that it ended, and for the circumstance that created it—and that can’t be removed. Now she drifts in and out like a fog in a graveyard.

  I know, I know—she and I need to talk.

  March

  March 1, 8:30 PM

  Hoarders pile up junk for protection the way a dog crawls into a small space during a thunderstorm. Irene now has lots of open space to hide from. Roxy thinks she’s going to freak after having her things thrown away without warning (she of the Breakup Bags herself ). I’m no psychologist. I don’t want her reaching for that gun. I am the gift horse—about to get a bullet between its eyes.

  10:00 PM

  It’s been one day since Roxy was here, and it’s started all over again—the missing her, the mystery, the torment, my heart on fire. I want it solved. I want it easy. I want to forget, or at least disregard everything that’s happened and whatever she’s been doing since and just have that night with all of us on the bed again.

  Have you heard the story of Doctor Faustus, Sheriff ? It’s the “deal with the devil” idea from a play, an Elizabethan tragedy from the 1500s, written by Christopher Marlowe. Faustus is a scholarly professor, philosopher, and scientist who becomes bored with his own mastery of all intellectual skills and turns to the learning of magic and witchcraft for stimulation. This entwines him with the Good Angel and the Bad Angel, and he eventually makes a pact with Lucifer to be given twenty-four years of magical powers in return for his soul’s damnation at the end of the term.

  Faustus is ebullient and says, “All things that move between the quiet poles shall be at my command!” Can you imagine having that power? Through the years, the Good Angel tries to convince Faustus to repent and cancel the deal with Lucifer. He considers it, as he’s been told that God is all forgiving, but he ultimately decides against it. The satisfaction of the wizardry, the joy and power and succulent completeness with which he’s so drunken are all too much to live without, even if only temporarily, as long as he still has one more tomorrow.

  There’s a god-awful, cartoonish movie version of it from the ’60s out there directed by and starring Richard Burton. I love Burton, but that passion project got away from him. He even cast Liz Taylor as Faustus’s lover-ideal, Apollo. How many times were they married, Burton and Taylor? At least twice, right? No wonder he drank so much. And I drink so much, which I have to think about. I’m not saying getting back with Roxy is a deal with the devil, Sheriff. Maybe it’s a bad example. But what I’m talking about is doing anything, giving anything, trading anything, conjuring anything for love—to have it—the ideal—to destroy the not having of it like Faustus desired—and Burton. Right now, I want more. And I too want my Apollo. For real though. A real person, not thoughts or fantasy to Internet bullshit. No more of that, especially after having touched Roxy again. And thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to repent, even if my soul be damned.

  11:45 PM

  I don’t know. Maybe it would be a deal with the devil. Or some kind of bad deal with myself. I mean, Faustus doesn’t exactly have a happy ending. If Lucifer is known for one thing, it’s keeping his damn promises.

  I did get kicked in the teeth. That night at karaoke by myself, the thoughts that went through my head, ending it all. I could never tell anyone that. But I survived it. I guess. But maybe only on the thought of being back with her. Or, shit—maybe it was just because I knew I had to come back home to walk the damn dogs, I don’t know. But I did love having Roxy here again. Holding someone and being held. Is it worth it? What is it worth? I’d thought it was everything. She thought it was less. Can less be everything again?

  March 2, 9:30 AM

  It happened quickly, with no warning, just like when she fell. There was a knock on the door this morning and her voice calling out, “Richard . . . Richard!” but this time also “I want to see my babies!”

  The dogs went nuts. Lauren was beside herself. I shook the penny can. Didn’t work. She knows her non–authority figure is back. I got them out of the Dignity Box and put it back in the bedroom so Irene wouldn’t see it. I leashed them up and prepared to open the door.

  Then I stopped, opened the door just a crack where I saw that Fay was standing with her. “I’ll bring them over in a minute,” I said. “Why don’t you go over to your place, and I’ll be there in a few.”

  “What have you done with my lovelies?” Irene squeaked. “You can’t kidnap my children, Richard.”

  I chuckled politely. “How are you?” I asked through the screen where we’d first met.

  “Oh, it’s awful. They don’t know what they’re doing. My arm is killing me. I can’t even move it, my neck either,” she said.

  How could I have expected anything other than misery?

  “Well, at least you’re home now,” I said. All of the anxiety rebounded with the realization that life was boomeranging back to where it had been. People don’t change. “You and Fay go ahead to your place, and we’ll be right over.”

  I didn’t want to be there for the big reveal, mostly because I didn’t want it to be a big reveal. Maybe Fay, with the wisdom of her near nine decades, will keep it low key if Irene gets upset. Then I’ll swoop in with the smiling dum-dums. Plus, I need a few minutes to brush them up and walk them, real quick. I want them to look like they were ready for a calendar shoot, and also not to pee on anyone’s foot.

  10:30 AM

  The last walk. Irene had been gone for sixty-six days, over nine weeks, not enough time for Nelson to get trained, but enough time for me to not want to let them go. I’m finally walking them without having to clip the leashes to my belt loop. No more painter’s mask and rubber gloves. They’ve even mapped out their favorites places to sniff and pee.

  We ran the whole block around the elementary school, and then kept going south on Edinburgh. It was a long walk. I wanted to see if we could bump into Shadow, and Austen, or Elise, or Nathan, or Casino. I wanted to hear them say how good the dogs looked before they go back to no baths—even just a nod from Shadow would help.

  We went down to Melrose Avenue. I love the contrast of their tiny bodies scurrying along against the buses that mope and the cars that zoom by on the busy street. Tourists always comment on how cute the dum-dums are. There’s a billboard on the corner at Fairfax, an ad for NYB jeans. That rock chick always reminded me of Roxy’s nighttime side. The perfect smile, the perfect presentation, but a little dirty too, and smart. We walked past the high school and stood in front of the West Melrose Apparel shop windows, the mannequins there, perfect and still, frozen in moments of comfort and pleasure. I used to window-shop for Roxy here because what looked good on them looked perfect on her in her perfect world. Well, I’m not perfect. And I don’t want to be perfect. I look down at the dogs who are tugging at their leashes because they’re frightened by the traffic. And you know what? They’re not perfect either. They’re never going to be. Irene isn’t perfect. Our living arrangement isn’t perfect. This town isn’t perfect, and neither are you, Sheriff. I don’t want to live trying to fit into someone’s fairy tale perfect world. That’s not fair. Roxy only wanted me to get my shit together. And it isn’t. Maybe I’m just not a shit-together-guy. Maybe I never will be. And she knows she’s not perfect either. Who—ever, really, deep down—actually has their shit together? No one. I moved out here for a fairy tale. It doesn’t exist. This is what my life is now, and I’m going to have to decide that I love it for what it is, and eventually I’ll be loved for who I am—not who I was going to be, or who I am supposed to be—and love will change with me, not vice versa. Parmenides’s philosophy was wrong.

  Unfortunately, we didn’t see Shadow today, but we did run into Elise and Austen. It felt good to hear them gush over the dogs.

  “Oh, I can see that you’re sad,” Elise said.

 
“Of course, he is,” said Austen. “You can’t do what he did for these dogs and not feel like they’re your family. You are a wonderful father, Richard.”

  He had no idea of the impact of that statement.

  “They’re happy that Irene is home,” I said.

  “They are, will be, missing you so, so, so much,” Elise said, struggling with her English.

  “Well, I’ll miss them.”

  “You are such a good man,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You can still go see them, right?” Austen asked.

  “I actually hadn’t thought about that. Irene and I aren’t really friends, and now she’s pissed about the haircuts.”

  “Well,” Austen said, “you were just too good to her, and she’ll just have to get over that and appreciate you. Plus, they look adorable.”

  “The Im-paws-able Dream, right?” I joked.

  “Come true,” he said.

  Then, “You know something, Elise?” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know I used to be an English teacher?”

  “No, oh—I didn’t know that,” she said.

  “If you’d like, I can help you get over the hump with your English, your pronunciation.”

  “The—over what?”

  “I can help you, if you like?”

  “Oh . . . that would be wonderful. But I am so embarrassed sometimes.”

  “I can solve that.”

  “I didn’t know. I can pay you,” she said.

  “Actually, that’d be a big help. We can help one another.”