Canis Major

by Jay Nichols

  * * *

  Mike waited for what seemed like an hour (he couldn’t accurately tell how long Huey had been gone; he didn’t have a watch) and was beginning to think that maybe he should hurl a rock or a hard, green pinecone at the house to get somebody inside to open the stupid door. He was searching the ground for something throwable when he heard his two companions cutting through the underbrush. First, he heard Huey (his breathing was labored now), then he saw him, his squat, square frame materializing out of the dense growth.

  "Where’s Tommy?" he asked, covering the bulldog’s nose and mouth with his hand. "Shhhh. You’re breathing too loud."

  Then the Doberman’s cool, wet nose pressed against the small of Mike’s back. Mike turned around and reached out for the dog. "Where are you?" he asked the darkness, flailing his hands until one struck Tommy’s muscular shoulder. Reaching down, he grabbed a leg and pulled the body into the dim porch and moonlight.

  "There you are," he said. "You’re just about invisible in the dark."

  Tommy leaned forward and licked O’Brien’s face.

  "Not now, boy," Mike said, pushing him away. "I need you to do something for me."

  The tan patches of the Doberman’s eyebrows arched, as if to say I’m listening.

  "I need you to bark for me, but you can only do it once. After that, you gotta stay quiet. Can you do that?"

  Tommy dipped his head down. Mike took it as a nod.

  He led the Doberman to the fence, where he whispered into his ear. Staring at the house, they smelled for the first time the rich aromas seeping from the window above the deck—the one that never closes right. Then, as if ruled by one mind, they both began to drool. Behind them, Huey let out a yelp.

  "Quiet, Huey!" Mike chided. "I know what you’re smellin’—I smell it too—but you gotta be quiet. It’s Tommy’s turn to help."

  Mike resumed whispering into Tommy’s stiff ear, but it was going to take a lot more than talk to get the Doberman to bark. Then an idea occurred to him, an idea so sick he didn’t want to do it. But he had to because it was the only surefire way to make a dog bark.

  "Sorry, Tommy," he said penitently. "But I gotta—"

  Reaching under the dog’s belly, Mike found Tommy’s penis and gave it a hearty twist.

  Tommy let out a booming half-bark/half wail. Mike immediately clamped his muzzle shut with his hand.

  Whispering, he said: "I’m sorry, boy. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean it. I had to do it. It was the only way. I’m so sorry…"

  Five seconds later, Hector threw open the screen door and called out, "Lola?" Then, a little bit louder: "LOLA?" He stepped over the collar and the note pinned underneath it and jumped down the three steps to the lawn. "That you? Are you hurt?"

  He’s coming right at me, O’Brien thought. Then: Oh no, he sees me!

  But Hector didn’t see Mike. He did crouch and walk back and forth through the empty yard, though, calling out Lola’s name over and over again. Mike thought the way Hector walked made him look like a goose, but he didn’t laugh about it. He couldn’t risk getting caught.

  After five minutes, Hector gave up and waddled back to the porch. Upon climbing the steps, he stooped over and picked up the collar. He gave the black circle a cursory glance. Then, seeing the note, he picked that up, read it, and looked at the collar again. Pinching the metal tag, he positioned it under the glow of the porch light.

  Mike wished he could see Hector’s face, but all he saw was his wide back.

  Aww, man—I wanted to watch him change.

  How O’Brien yearned to see Hector’s expression mutate from resigned hope to utter despair and then to stark rage. But he wasn’t granted that vista. Hector, however, did make a low rumbling sound and a hiss—like a snort—before dropping the collar and barging into the house.

  It was so quiet outside and Hector was so raucous inside that Mike heard every word the fat kid uttered—or rather screamed—at his poor, endearing, hapless mother. This time O’Brien did laugh, albeit softly, but only because the fatso was behaving exactly as he had predicted.

  In about thirty seconds, he’s going to burst through that door, jump into his Jeep, and speed off.

  O’Brien counted the seconds in his head. When he got to twenty-five, Hector yanked open the inner door, threw aside the screened one, picked up the collar, jumped the steps, stomped to the gate, opened it, and marched to his Jeep. He then climbed into the Jeep, backed it out of the driveway, and screeched its tires all the way down Pritchard Street.

  "Didja see his face, Tommy? Didja see how red it was? He looked like he was ‘bout to ‘splode!!"

  Mike chuckled softly while swatting gnats away from his face. "Stupid bugs," he muttered.

  The Doberman raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Mike read the look and threw a scabby arm over Tommy’s shoulders. "Don’t worry, boy. He’s coming back. It’s all part of the plan. You’ll see."

  Smelling peanut butter on the human’s breath, Tommy licked Mike’s mouth.

  "Not now, boy," O’Brien said, pushing the dog away. "Listen, when the time comes, you and your friends better be ready. I’m gonna need ya’ll’s help tonight. Ya got that?"

  Tommy growled softly.

  "Good."

  Behind them, but not too far away, Huey wheezed in the obsidian darkness.

  "Shut up, Huey," Mike said. "We don’t need you spoiling our cover, not when we’re so close."

  Huey let out short bark, then returned to his labored breathing.

  Mike ignored the bulldog and turned to stare at the house. A faint tincture of music imbued with the aroma of blueberry pie caressed his ears and nasal cavities, making him salivate and lust for pieces of both. Dauntlessly, he fought the urge to jump the fence, go inside, and take what he desired. But he knew that if he were to go in now, the woman would see him and scream. She might even try to kill him.

  Damn Hector for opening that door and spilling that beautiful smell out into the wild, and damn that woman (Rusty calls her Debbie) for making such beautiful music on that old piano and allowing it to escape under the glass of the window that never shuts right. Don’t they know those things belong indoors?

  O’Brien stuck his nose through one of the wire diamonds. Tommy did the same, except he craned his ears forward—something Mike couldn’t do. They stayed that way for minutes, transfixed by the gorgeous sounds and sweet fragrances floating to them on the heavy, night air. Licking their chops, they watched the backlit, rectangular window from which the blessed music poured. Neither knew which one they craved more. Only Mike knew that eating musical notes was something no man, or animal, could do.

  And they remained there, listening and smelling, behind their six-foot high wire cage. It was hell. To have a feast of the senses so close, yet so far away, was a torture that only the strongest willed could endure.

  "Hold on, boy," Mike slurred, saliva spewing from his mouth, draining down his chin in rivulets. "We’ve got to stay strong. It’s not time yet."

  Tommy whimpered.

  "I know, I know. It’ll be worth the wait. I promise."

  And Tommy believed him, because Mike O’Brien always kept his promises.

  Behind them, careened between the toes of two twisting pine roots, Huey O’Brien breathed as if his life depended on it. Because it did. Each inhale was a battle, and each exhale was an excruciating war of spasms between his heart and guts. His master might not have realized it, but the bulldog was more than aware that he was on the last of his stumpy, little legs.