by S. Bennett
“Perfect” is a word that pretty much sums up my life these days.
“Are you ever going to bother telling me how your date with that marine helicopter pilot went?” she asks coyly.
“I wouldn’t even waste your time,” I reply dryly as I glance at Atticus. He’s plodding along beside me with his nose hovering over the sand.
“Bummer,” she murmurs.
Yeah, bummer. He seemed nice at first, but then I found out he was one of those men who just likes to hear himself talk. He could be talking about piloting a helicopter in combat or about the brand of toilet bowl cleaner he uses, and trust me… I heard about both and so much more. On and on and on… blah, blah, blah. I don’t think he asked me one question about myself.
What’s even worse is he seemed genuinely surprised when he asked me out again, and I declined. He thought he was so interesting and such a great catch that I wouldn’t possibly say no.
Sorry, but bye Felicia. I don’t do self-absorbed anymore.
Actually, I don’t do much of anyone these days. Since my divorce from Darren a little over three years ago, I’ve tried dating. But it’s hard and stressful. Maybe I’m just too damn picky. I know exactly what I don’t want, but finding out what I do is proving to be troublesome. I think part of the problem is I’ve found out I can be completely happy on my own. My life is so rich and fulfilled I don’t feel like I’m lacking.
Okay… the sex is lacking and I miss that, but past that, I’m completely fine staying single.
Like I said… my life is pretty near to perfect as can be.
CHAPTER 40
Atticus
Benji is still a little human, but he is far more mobile these days than when he was a little baby.
He definitely doesn’t smell as interesting as he did, mainly because he doesn’t wear a diaper anymore. My favorite thing to do with him—outside of him throwing me food from the table—is to play tug-of-war. Sometimes, though, I get a little too rough. Hazel constantly reminds me I am over ninety pounds and Benji is half my size. This makes perfect sense to me, and it’s why he is so easy to drag around Hazel’s apartment. But that’s his fault. He won’t let go of the rope and once I pull him off his feet, there’s no way I can resist the impulse to drag him across the living room floor. Hazel yells at me, but it’s all good because Benji laughs when I do it.
Today, Hazel celebrated my Gotcha Day with me. She explained to me it was the day she found me in a ditch. I don’t have very good memories of that, but Hazel does and she always reminds me once a year when we celebrate our time together. I know she calls it my Gotcha Day, but it’s hers as well.
It’s the day I got her in return.
These days, I’m a pretty good boy. I finally stopped eating socks, but that only occurred after I couldn’t throw one up and had to have a surgery to get it out. That was not fun. It hurt a lot and they put these metal things in my stomach after they cut it out that itched like crazy. I wanted to lick at them so bad, but I wasn’t allowed to. I had to wear the stupid cone of shame around my neck, and it was absolutely humiliating because I would bump into walls and furniture all the time. It also prevented me from putting my face up near Hazel’s for kisses.
I’ve also eased up on the chewing of furniture, drywall, pillows, and such. While I still have great moments of rambunctious excitement that will overwhelm me at times, I don’t mind just snoozing for a good chunk of the day. Hazel was brushing me the other day when she frowned and said, “Atticus… you’re starting to get some gray hairs in your face.”
I’m not sure what exactly that meant, but Hazel’s tone was sad. That, in turn, made me sad.
Just because I’m slowing down a bit and perhaps maturing into a wiser sort of canine doesn’t mean I don’t still like to play. Every day, Hazel and I will either go on long walks around the farm or she’ll throw a ball for me to chase. Sometimes we have doggy play dates with Marsha’s boxer, Rex. He’s a young pup and a complete goofball. He tries to hump me a lot, but I growl and remind him who’s top dog.
That would be me.
Always me.
I heard Hazel tell Marsha the other day she was thinking about getting another dog, but I’m not sure I like that. I don’t like sharing Hazel’s time with anyone. I mean, it’s cool if it’s for a small amount of time like when she watches Benji for a little bit. That makes her happy, which makes me happy.
But when he leaves, I’m even happier. That means I have Hazel all back to myself. It’s sort of like the men Hazel dates on occasion.
Personally, I have not liked a single one of them. I’m also pretty obvious about it. While I have not gone as far as to poop in one of their shoes—because that’s reserved for real jerks like Chuck, and Hazel is far too smart to date someone like him—I can be ornery with them. Occasionally, I’ll growl in a really vicious type of way just so I can scare them. That always surprises Hazel as well as embarrasses her, because I’m really a nice dog.
But those men don’t know that.
One time, Hazel was watching a movie on the couch with one of the guys she’d been seeing, and I had a lot of gas. I mean… my butt smelled B-A-D.
I acted all nice and casually moseyed over to his side of the couch, where I laid down at his feet. He even reached down to pat me on the head before I let loose on the poor man. Hazel was embarrassed again, and the guy didn’t stay for the whole movie.
I don’t plan on changing my ways. Hazel is just fine without a man, and she has me for anything she could possibly need. But even if I felt they could give her something I couldn’t, they would have to meet some very high standards I’ve set.
Any man who wants my Hazel would have to make her as happy as I’ve seen on a very rare few occasions where she shines from the inside out with euphoric joy. I can remember a few of those times… like when Oley let her stay in the apartment above his garage. When she reunited with her sister. Or even when we sit down with family and friends on that one day each year I get to eat unlimited amounts of turkey and ham.
Yes… if a man would ever give that to Hazel on a consistent basis, I might just have to give him a chance.
CHAPTER 41
Hazel
When I pull into the Hidden Valley Estates, I do as I always do.
I snicker over the name of the trailer park Bernard has chosen to live because I can’t help but think of salad dressing every single time.
Calling it an “estate” is a generous term as it’s nothing but a single dirt road with eight trailers on each side. Bernard’s is the last one down on the right.
I’m not the only one who has had big changes in their life over the last four years. Bernard has moved out of his storage unit and into a single-wide trailer not too far from Oley’s farm, but also within easy and safe walking distance of Highway 17 so he can get around.
His decision to move came after a lot of poking and pushing by me, Tyrone, and Oley, but occurred only after Wanda asked him for a divorce. If he was upset by her request, I never saw it. He stoically agreed and wished Wanda well with the rest of her life. Personally, I think Bernard accepted the marriage was over the last time he walked out on her and she begged him never to come back.
Wanda has found herself a new man. According to Tyrone, he’s a pretty good guy. I’ve only met him once when I dropped by while over on that side of town to say hello to her. She appeared to be very happy.
Wanda knew what she was giving up when she decided to be free of Bernard for good. With marital ties legally severed, Bernard now had his disability benefits, which he had previously been letting his wife have.
After that, it didn’t take a lot of convincing to get him to rent a place with running water and electricity. Bernard didn’t want much, and an old single wide trailer was practically like a luxury hotel compared to where he had been living.
Since moving in, Bernard looks healthier and happier. He’s put on a few pounds because he can afford decent food. But I think the real reason this works for Bernard doesn’t ha
ve a damn thing to do with having money to support himself, but rather he doesn’t have the same familial pressures that had previously stressed him out.
These days, he has a relaxed relationship with Tyrone and his family. He has neighbors who ignore him, and he ignores them back. He has no obligations unless our standing get-togethers at Oley’s count. All of this means he leads a relatively peaceful existence with a solid roof over his head and better food in his stomach.
Granted, Bernard still likes his beer. He also doesn’t want a car, and he doesn’t mind walking to wherever he needs to go, although Oley and I try to give him a ride whenever we can. Tyrone also visits his dad regularly, and Bernard sometimes goes over to Tyrone’s house for family dinners and to visit his grandkids.
It’s amazing to me how much has changed for Bernard. It seems like a lifetime ago he was loitering in Tipsy’s and panhandling for his daily beer and food.
I pull into the front yard of Bernard’s trailer because there isn’t a driveway. Just a sparse patch of brown grass bordering the equally brown dirt road. I get out and grab the casserole dish, bumping the car door closed with my hip.
Bernard had been sick the last week with a nasty case of the flu. At least I think it was the flu as he stubbornly refused to go to the doctor to get tested. This makes no sense to me since he has free medical care for the rest of his life. Maybe it’s because he’s a former marine and wants to be all tough about it, but I came by every day unless Tyrone did, and we kept him stocked in chicken noodle soup, Gatorade, and medicine. Yesterday, he looked almost normal when I stopped by after work, so today I decided he needed a good, hearty meal since he had not been eating much. I made his favorite tuna fish casserole and a double batch at that.
Bernard is opening the front door for me before my foot even hits the first step of the little wooden staircase bolted to the side of the tin trailer that’s turning green with mildew.
His white teeth flash at me in welcome. “What you got there?”
I grin up at him, noting his gaze lingers hungrily on the dish in my hand. “Your favorite.”
Bernard gives a dramatic rub over his belly and groans. “I was hoping you would say that.”
He beckons me inside, and I head straight for the kitchen. I know my way around this little trailer well. The front door enters the living room and the kitchen is to the right. It’s nothing more than a small U-shaped countered area with a stove, sink and refrigerator. There’s only enough room for a small table that sits two people near the window and a small utility closet. His living room is sparsely furnished with just a couch and a recliner. There’s a rickety old TV stand, but it holds a forty-two inch, high-definition flat screen Tyrone gave him for Christmas.
On the other side of the living room there’s a narrow hall that runs along the backside of the trailer that leads to two bedrooms with a tiny bathroom in between. The bedrooms can’t be any bigger than ten-by-ten, but they are more than what Bernard needs. He sleeps on a single mattress on the floor of the back bedroom and refuses Tyrone’s offer to buy him an actual set of furniture, insisting this is far more than he had before and he’s satisfied with it.
I suspect the next major holiday might just yield some furniture, though, and Bernard will accept it. I mean, he was totally against having a TV until Tyrone showed up with one, and he didn’t decline the gift.
Regardless, Bernard has lifted himself up and is a much happier person for it. I credit most of that with his ability to reconnect with his son and to also forge a new and sweetly gratifying relationship with his two grandchildren. As long as Bernard’s life will never get any more complicated than what it is right now, I expect he’s going to die a happy man.
Hopefully that won’t be for a long time, though.
“Would you like a plate of it now?” I ask as I set the casserole dish on the counter.
He follows in behind me and sits down at the table. “You know I do. Will you join me?”
I shoot a quick smile to him. “Of course I’ll join you. It’s always better to eat with company.”
I know exactly which cupboards holds Bernard’s dinnerware. He has a cheap plastic four-piece service set that he bought at Walmart when he first moved in. Not that he would actually have four people over for dinner at any one time, but it’s there if he needs it.
I dish up the casserole onto two plates, grateful it’s still quite warm. Bernard doesn’t have a microwave. I snag two forks from one of the drawers, and then set the plates on the table. Bernard doesn’t even wait for me to sit down before he digs in, but I go to his fridge and pull out two Pabst Blue Ribbon beers. When I settle back down, I open the cans and slide one over to Bernard. He swallows a mouthful of tuna fish casserole and picks his beer up, holding it up for me to tap mine against his.
We give a silent toast and take sips of our cheap brew.
“How come you didn’t bring Atticus with you?” Bernard asks.
I wrinkle my nose and grimace. “The little turd wasn’t invited. I’m mad at him.”
Bernard rolls his eyes because even if I was mad at him before I left Oley’s, I wouldn’t still be mad. I just can’t hold any enmity toward my pup.
“What did he do?” he asks.
“Little shit figured out how to open my upper cabinets,” I say with disgust. “He’s figured out he’s just tall enough now on his back legs that he can grab the handle with his mouth. He ate an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies I had up there.”
“Oh, my God,” Bernard chortles, banging his fist on the table. He chokes on his laughter, then has to chug his beer to clear his throat. “That dog.”
“Yeah, that dog scared the shit out of me. Chocolate can be toxic to dogs.”
“Assuming Oley checked him out?” Bernard asks, punching his fork back down into the casserole.
I nod. “He’s fine. Said that given the amount of chocolate compared to his weight, it wasn’t enough to worry about.”
“That’s good.”
“Actually, I did invite Atticus to come, but he was content to stay with Oley. Was laying on the couch, pretending he was interested in the news while Oley was watching it, which is ridiculous.”
“I wouldn’t put it past your dog to be interested in the news,” Bernard remarks as he points his fork at me. “He’s smart, that one. Like deviously smart. Sometimes I find myself watching what I say around him so as not to be a bad influence.”
That makes me burst out laughing, not only because it’s ridiculous but because sometimes I’ve thought that myself.
“I think it was more due to the fact he’d just eaten an entire bag of cookies, and he wanted to take a nap.”
“Your dog is getting lazy,” Bernard says with a laugh.
That’s part of it for sure. But he’s also getting older and losing some of his energy. I don’t say this to Bernard because I don’t want to incite a discussion about it. This is a part of my dog’s life I’d like to blissfully ignore as long as I can.
Atticus is going to be four and a half years old in July. It may not seem like a lot of years, but it can be for large breed dogs. Bernese Mountain Dogs have an average life expectancy of only six to eight years, which means Atticus has lived most of his life already.
My eyes actually prick with tears. It always happens when I think about my dog dying, so I do what I usually do and think of something else.
“Atticus actually has a paying gig this weekend,” I say.
He’s chewing on a huge mouthful of food, so he just nods at me to continue.
“Some TV producer called about a show they are filming in Wilmington. They want some dog extras, and they saw Atticus on Instagram.”
Bernard nods more effusively and with understanding. Atticus has become somewhat of an Instagram star over the last few years. That account I had started back when he was a puppy gained an intense following after I started posting about his crazy antics.
Atticus tears into a feather pillow…
Did I c
hastise him?
No. I grabbed my phone and videoed him lying in the middle of a cloud of feathers. I posted it for the world to see and as expected, most people were charmed and amused by his lack of contrition. He would stare into the camera after doing something bad, and people would fall for that absolutely unrepentant expression on his face that said he regretted nothing.
Astoundingly, he has over two hundred thousand followers. That kind of attention gets the notice of retailers and various companies specializing in dog friendly products have contacted me over the years. Atticus has actually been offered money and free stuff if he will endorse them. It basically means I take a picture with whatever the product is, and then I post it to his huge Instagram following. It’s usually just a couple of hundred bucks here and there, or a huge supply of whatever product he’s endorsing. Nothing that’s ever going to make my dog rich, but it’s a lot of fun.
“So you’re going to take the boy to Wilmington to be a movie star?” Bernard says with a chuckle after he washes his food down with another long pull of his beer.
“It’s a TV show, not a movie, and they only want him as an audience extra, whatever that means. I seriously doubt he’s going to become a star.”
Bernard snorts. “That boy already is a star.”
True enough.
“What are your big plans for the weekend?” I ask.
Bernard shrugs. “Tyrone is taking the family down to Georgia to see his Carina’s family. I was thinking about seeing if Oley wanted to do something.”
I keep my smirk to myself. Those two men hanging out on the weekend means either watching sports or old Western movies. Maybe I’ll make a nice pot roast for dinner for all of us since I’d much rather be hanging out with these two old guys and cuddling my dog than anything else.
CHAPTER 42
Hazel
I’m not quite sure what I was expecting for the filming of a TV show, but it wasn’t this. I had thought it would perhaps be in a studio—the type that has a stage and stadium seating for the audience like on the Ellen DeGeneres Show or Saturday Night Live.