Atticus

by S. Bennett

  “Are you serious?” I ask him incredulously.

  “Don’t worry,” he replies, still staring at the puppy but with a sly smile curving his mouth that doesn’t put me at ease. “I can prescribe you antibiotics if he bites you, and he’s up to date on his shots.”

  “And after that,” I clip out.

  “You know anything about accounting?” he asks, turning his attention to me.

  “Accounting?” The stupid expression on my face should give him his answer.

  “Stuff like reconciling bank accounts.”

  I blink in surprise. “Yeah… actually I do. I mean, I did mine and my husband’s account each month.”

  Ironically, it’s how I found out he was cheating on me. The charges on our credit card to Victoria’s Secret and the fact I’d not been presented with pretty lingerie in years had clued me in.

  “I hate paperwork,” he explains. “I’ll let you take a crack at it.”

  He moves away from the cage and I take the opportunity to move in closer. The puppy turns his head my way, and stares at me blankly for a moment before his little butt starts to wiggle. I stick my finger in and he starts chewing on it, and the feeling of joy that sweeps through me is indescribable.

  He still likes me.

  Dr. Peele moves to a supply cabinet and opens it up, pulling various items out that I suppose he needs for his appointment. “Don’t you have any staff?” I ask him.

  “Not currently,” he replies vaguely.

  “Why not?”

  Scoffing from deep in his throat, he cranes his neck to look at me over his shoulder. “Because I’m a small practice and it’s hard to find one person—which is all I can afford—who can do everything I need. Besides, most people aren’t dependable. No one knows how to work hard for an honest wage.”

  His words are bitter. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to hear me defend humanity in general, so I don’t bother. Instead, I ask, “How did the puppy do last night?”

  “Very well,” he says. turning back to the supply cabinet. “Now get going on those floors. I want them finished and dried before Daisy gets here.”

  “Daisy?”

  “The Rottweiler,” he replies.

  Oh, sure… a Rottweiler named Daisy. That makes me feel loads better.

  ♦

  “Do you need help with the next patient?” I ask Dr. Peele. I didn’t get bit during Daisy’s appointment—she was quite sweet but slobbery—and I was feeling accomplished. Daisy was very well behaved, and she followed her owner’s command with complete obedience.

  I’d finished reconciling the bank statements, which were quite easy mainly because Dr. Peele just doesn’t have a lot of business and not many transactions to account for. I found in doing so that his full name is Oley W. Peele, but I have no clue what the “W” stands for, nor does it matter. He’s Dr. Peele to me.

  “Not unless you know how to express anal glands,” he says. He rises from the small break table where he’d been eating a tuna fish sandwich he’d apparently brought with him for lunch.

  “I do not,” I say firmly. “Nor do I want to know how.”

  To my surprise, Dr. Peele chuckles as he grabs hold of his cane and ambles over to the sink to wash his hands. The cage where the puppy is sitting, watching us intently, catches my attention.

  “Can I take him for a walk?” I ask.

  “Suit yourself,” he grumbles. “I’ve got nothing left for you to do today. You can give him half a can of dog food, too.”

  A wave of adrenaline flows through me. A bolt of pure excitement makes my skin tingle. I practically lunge for the cage and when I pull the little guy out, it feels as if all is right in my world even though deep down I know it’s not.

  Cradling him in one arm, I move to grab the leash hanging on a hook by the door. “Have you found someone to adopt him yet?” I ask casually, but even I can hear the quaver in my voice.

  Dr. Peele doesn’t respond, and the silence is ominous to me.

  I turn to look at him. He stares back at me uneasily.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I think I’m going to take him to the shelter,” he finally says. His voice sounds brittle and frail. “I don’t know anyone really, and besides… I’m sure they’ll find a good home for him. I just can’t keep him here anymore. I’m too old to keep coming back here to care for him while he’s boarding. He’s too active for me to take him home. He needs to go.”

  “You’re taking him to the shelter?” I ask, my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth as if the words are too much of a burden to even release.

  “He’ll be fine,” he assures me with a false bravado. “They have like a seventy-percent adoption rate there, and most of those people are decent enough.”

  What the what? That leaves thirty percent that don’t get adopted, which means…

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say carefully, cuddling the puppy in close to me. He rears his head back and licks my neck.

  “It’s the best I can do, Hazel,” he says wearily and it’s the first time he’s called me by my name. Somehow, that makes what he’s saying even more true. “He’s a cute guy. Someone will want him.”

  Not like I want him, though.

  CHAPTER 8

  Atticus

  Hazel lays back on the grass, and I pounce on her. She laughs and pulls me onto her chest. I feel pretty good.

  I’m not hungry, my cuts don’t hurt, and Hazel is here playing with me.

  I was so sad when she left yesterday, and I truly didn’t think I’d see her again. When she walked in, I pretended to be a little mad and showed extra attention to Dr. Peele—who has been nice to me in Hazel’s absence, so I really like him, too.

  But then I couldn’t contain it. She put her finger through the cage, and I went nuts trying to chew on it.

  She really, really likes me.

  Hazel takes one of my paws, lifts her head from the ground, and puts her nose against it. She inhales deeply and then says, “Did you know your foot smells just like Frito corn chips?”

  I did not know that because I’ve never had a Frito corn chip before, but that knowledge seems to delight Hazel so I bet they’re yummy.

  Her hands come under my front arms, thumbs to my chest, and she pulls me up to her face. She breathes in deeply again. “And your breath… I can’t describe it. It’s like sweetness and innocence and rambunctiousness all rolled into one.”

  I grin at her, my mouth opening and my tongue falling out the side. Hazel laughs at me, and the corners of my mouth pull way back to curve up the sides of my face.

  I really, really like her too.

  “You’re a tough little dude, aren’t you?” she murmurs as she rubs a knuckle behind my ear. I push my head against her, creating more friction which feels so good, my back leg starts shaking.

  “God, you’re so freaking cute,” she blurts. She frames my face with her hands, pulling me in for a kiss to my wet snout. My tail wags so hard my entire butt starts jiggling.

  The back door opens and Dr. Peele stands there, leaning against the doorjamb, his cane loose in his hand. Hazel rolls her head on the grass to look in his direction. My head tilts to the side, and I raise one of my eyebrows. Wonder what he wants?

  “Time to go,” he says. “I have to lock up.”

  Hazel’s body goes tight, and it puts me on high alert. But her hands come to my back, and she strokes down my spine in a soothing way. I relax slightly.

  “I’m keeping him,” she says, and I might not fully understand the implications of what she just said, but I can tell by the tone of her voice she just made a monumental decision that is going to make us both very happy.

  “Say again?” Dr. Peele asks with surprise.

  “I’m keeping him.”

  Oh, my puppy heavens. She’s keeping me.

  “Thought you couldn’t?” the vet responds smugly.

  “I’ll find a way,” she says confidently.

  “It’s a big
responsibility,” he cautions, but I can hear it in his voice… this is what he wanted all along. I can see it within his eyes, that old coot. He wanted Hazel to keep me, and I think he manipulated her into it.

  Oh, that’s very good, Dr. Peele.

  “I can do it,” she tells him as she pushes to a sitting position. After crossing her legs, she sets me down onto her lap where I decide to chew on her sleeve.

  Dr. Peele stares at us a moment before saying, “You can bring him here tomorrow while you work if you want. And I’ll sell you food at cost to save you some money.”

  Something rolls through Hazel’s entire body, and I can feel it meld into mine. It’s that feeling I get when I’m offered food. So very, very happy and humbled. “Thank you,” Hazel says.

  “He’ll need his shots. You can work that off if you want.”

  “That would be great,” she murmurs as she stands up and takes me with her. She presses her face into my neck and I feel… loved.

  “And you need to name him,” Dr. Peele demands with a glare I think he thinks is intimidating, but he’s done too many nice things to scare me. Hazel seems unfazed, too.

  Hazel pulls her face back and studies me. “What should I call you? Thor?”

  I tilt my head to the right. Thor? It sounds like a name that might be hard to live up to for some reason.

  “Bear?”

  At that moment, something tickles my nose and I sneeze. Hazel seems to take that as a “no” from me, because she says, “Bubba?”

  Wait… Bear. I could work with that. Let’s go back to Bear. I give a tiny bark, and Hazel laughs.

  “Bubba is ridiculous,” Dr. Peele scoffs, which I agree with. Hate it. “He needs a noble name as he’s a noble breed.”

  “Do you have a suggestion?” Hazel asks in a way that seems to be poking fun at Dr. Peele.

  “Atticus,” he replies with a firm nod of his head.

  That does indeed sound like a noble name. I think I could work with that, too. Back with my siblings, we didn’t have names, but we were given different colors of ribbon around our neck to tell us apart. I was always called “orange,” which wasn’t a very good name.

  “Atticus?” she asks, testing the sound of it out. It’s a weird name for sure. Coming from her, though, it sounds pretty cool.

  “After Atticus Finch,” Dr. Peele says.

  “Who?” Clearly, Hazel does not know this person.

  “My God, don’t they teach kids anything in school anymore?” he mutters while shaking his head. He thinks Hazel is very foolish. “From To Kill A Mockingbird. Didn’t you read it in high school?”

  “Not before I dropped out,” she says.

  Dr. Peele’s face goes soft for a moment. For once, he looks really, really nice. His voice is certainly softer when he says, “He was a southern gentleman. A scholar and a lawyer. He fought for the underdog. He did unpopular things. He was a man of pure integrity. Read the book and learn something.”

  “Is there a movie?” Hazel teases.

  “God help the human race.” Dr. Peele sighs, then turns to walk back into the clinic. “Come on… I want to get home, so I can watch my soaps.”

  Snickering, Hazel holds me up so we’re eye to eye. “What do you think? Do you like the name Atticus?”

  I lick her nose while my butt wiggles exuberantly.

  It appears I have a name.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hazel

  I gave up having Atticus walk the little more than a quarter mile back to Charmin’s apartment. He doesn’t understand the leash, nor does he like being restrained. On top of that, he gets sidetracked easily.

  We’re walking, walking along, and then ooh… a rock. Let me pick it up and chew on it.

  Or walking along, making progress, and ooh… a bubble gum wrapper. Let me also pick that up and chew on it.

  Mostly though, when we were about a hundred yards from the apartment building, he started lagging. Little tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and heavy panting made it clear he wasn’t up for such strenuous activity. I don’t know the little bugger’s story, but he’s clearly still a sick pup. He was only nine pounds when he should be fifteen, with saggy skin and knobby bones that could be felt through his fur.

  It sickened me to think of not only the pain this puppy was in when I found him, but also how starved he was.

  So I picked him up and carried him the rest of the way. This was no picnic for me since nine pounds over a period of distance can seem like a hundred. Plus, I was carrying a plastic bag with four cans of dog food Dr. Peele had sold to me before I left.

  Rather, he added them to the tab I owe him as I didn’t have any change to spare. I used my tips from last night to buy cigarettes and a biscuit this morning, and diligently set aside the remainder for the upcoming rent I owe to Charmin. It’s not due for four more days, but I’m very serious about budgeting. I can’t afford to get kicked out on the street, especially now that I have another mouth to feed.

  The apartment building I live in is two stories and built of red brick with black wrought-iron railing. It’s nothing more than a long, rectangular unit with four apartments upstairs and four downstairs. It’s so old it doesn’t have central heat and air, but rather one air-conditioning unit the landlord splurged for in each living room window, which means a lot of time is spent in that one room in the summer. For the winter, it has baseboard heating that means furniture can’t be up against the walls. The carpet is ancient and so threadbare padding is visible in some areas, and the padding is so thin the sub-flooring underneath can be felt. For all this luxurious living, Charmin still has to pay six hundred a month in rent. The only reason she can afford this with some peace of mind is she works a part-time job on the side to supplement her income. It’s really something I need to do, but the job market’s not overly kind to people like me without a high school education and no experience other than bartending.

  Before I reach apartment number three—which is on the bottom floor, third from the left—I put Atticus down to let him do any additional business he might need to. I can’t have him pissing on Charmin’s floor before I have a chance to plead my case to her.

  I hold his leash loosely in my hand. The collar and leash were also added to the tab I have to work off, but that’s fine. I’ve got the time in my schedule, and I’ve never wanted anything for free.

  Atticus sniffs around and I’ve already learned this means he’s searching for a place to go. Dr. Peele provided me some potty training advice before I left.

  1. Take him out frequently.

  2. Take him out after eating or drinking.

  3. Praise heavily when he goes.

  4. Don’t chastise or harsh him when he makes a mistake.

  5. When I leave him alone, keep him in a crate.

  I could handle items one through four fairly easily, although I can’t promise not to curse under my breath if he pees or poops inside, but I can’t afford a crate. Although Dr. Peele offered to sell me one of his, it’s just not an expense I want added to my ledger of red already accruing with the man.

  Atticus walks around almost aimlessly, nose pushing through the weedy grass. Finally, he seems to find what he wants. He circles around three times—which means I have to hold the leash up high so he doesn’t get tangled—and then does his business.

  I don’t feel foolish in the slightest when I squat down to praise him like Dr. Peele instructed. “Good boy,” I say in a high voice that makes his tail wag. I scratch his head. “You’re such a good boy, Atticus. I’m so proud of you, little man.”

  His mouth opens, tongue falls out the side, and he grins at me while his body wiggles with excitement.

  “Gah… you’re so freaking cute I could eat you up.”

  He flops to his back, and grins bigger with his two bottom canine teeth poking out. He gets belly rubs and more praise before I tell him it’s time to go inside and plead our case.

  Standing straight, I give a gentle tug on the leash to get his attent
ion. He rears backward, shakes his head left and then right trying to get free, and then sits his butt down on the ground. The look on his face says, I’m not going anywhere with this thing attached to my neck.

  The little shit sometimes will walk fine on the leash, and at other times it’s like I’m leading him to his doom.

  “Atticus… come,” I say sternly, and give another gentle tug—just as Dr. Peele instructed me.

  His tail thumps, but he doesn’t move. Those little brown eyebrows slant inward, and the expression on his face is one of pure stubborn refusal.

  “Atticus,” I say again in a firm voice. “Come.”

  The little dude pushes his front paws down into the grass, and digs his position in. His demeanor tells me we’re at a standstill, and I don’t know what to do.

  With a sigh, I walk to him and mutter, “Okay… you win this round.”

  I pick him up, tuck him under my arm with my hand splayed to support his chest, and walk toward the apartment.

  Charmin is usually home at this time of day. Luckily, Chuck will be at work. I had thought about trying to hide the puppy by just staying away during the day, but I knew it would eventually be futile. While I’ve not always told the truth and have lied like any other person in certain circumstances, I just feel in this instance I should lay everything out on the table and then prepare to beg.

  I unlock the apartment door and walk in, locating Charmin immediately in the kitchen frying up some bologna. My mouth waters because I love fried bologna sandwiches. It’s something my dad would often cook if he was in charge of dinner when Mom had to work late.

  Charmin keeps her back to me, but says, “Hey,” in greeting. She’s still in the t-shirt she must have worn to bed, which comes down just below her butt. It’s one of Chuck’s, and she told me he likes her wearing his clothes at night.

  “Hey,” I say, setting the bag of dog food on the dinette table.

  “Want a sandwich?” she offers, knowing I’ll say no because I only eat breakfast on occasion, and then something substantial for dinner. She knows I’ll say no because it’s her food she’s paid for and not mine, and while I could give her some money for the sandwich, I won’t. Every dollar is important to me and accounted for, and because I’d much rather spend five bucks a day on cigarettes, I forego lunch.