I wasn’t the first lonely dog who had been tied up here. Ironically, in the loneliest moment of my life so far, I wasn’t alone. I was just one snout among a giant pack of dogs tied up in frantic worry, and I could hear the whining, the whimpering, the anxious barking.
Somewhere deep inside this impotent herd, I found my footing again. Four paws on the ground. My seat behind me. That’s all there was to it. I knew then and there that Mrs. Thorkildsen hadn’t done this to punish me, and that calmed me down a little, but I was far from confident that she’d be coming back to get me. ‘Back’ is a tricky word, truth be told.
When she finally did come back, I was naturally overjoyed, happier than I can ever remember being, and I did everything in my power to make her see it. Jumping and dancing and leaping and grinning. I smiled my friendliest smile as I ran in circles as wide as my leash would allow, then I jumped up on my hind legs and planted my front paws on Mrs. Thorkildsen’s thigh the way I’d sometimes dared to do with the Major. But instead of saying ‘Good boy,’ like the Major would have done, to my surprise and disappointment Mrs. Thorkildsen shouted, ‘Bad boy!’ and pushed me so hard I nearly fell over. I was confused—how else was I supposed to react? And there is a point where people and dogs are frighteningly alike; a confused dog can easily become a dangerous dog.
The Major was a man who didn’t permit confusion. He understood how body language worked. Let me give an example from right after I moved in with the two of them, when I was still what you might generously call a puppy. It was the first time we had a human child visit the house, the three of us. The Major and Mrs. Thorkildsen seemed totally unaffected by the event, but this peculiar being I didn’t know how to relate to made me a little nervous. There was something in the combination of the shit smell and its jerky, sudden movements that confused me, so I thought I should give it a little growl, just to be safe. I’m not talking snarling and teeth-baring, but a low, barely audible, yes, I’d even go so far as to say tentative growl—but before I’d said my piece, I was on my back on the living room floor with the Major above me and it was all over. It was right before he sank his teeth into my exposed throat to silence me once and for all, but as you can tell, he didn’t. Since then, I haven’t growled at a single human child, no matter how tempting and appropriate it may have been. That’s what I call good communication.
Mrs. Thorkildsen, on the other hand, gave me a scolding that was downright embarrassing. Not for me, but for her. It would have been more than enough to say ‘Bad boy!’, her tone told me everything I needed to know, but she wouldn’t let it go. The whole long way back to the house, she kept coming back to the fact that I was a ‘bad’ boy, which I found quite hurtful considering that Mrs. Thorkildsen should be very well aware than I’m not a bad boy in the least. We have a communication barrier, Mrs. Thorkildsen and me.
When the Major was alive, Mrs. Thorkildsen occasionally went to church on Sundays. At least she said she was going to church, but I was never allowed to come, so I can’t guarantee that’s where she went. Perhaps she was going somewhere else altogether. All I know is that I could never identify any special church smell on her clothes when she came home, possibly because I have no idea how a church smells. I stayed at home instead, reading War books with Major Thorkildsen, and as usual when he and I had a rare moment at home alone, he raided the fridge with military precision and power, and it dripped all over me. Those were the good old days.
Now Mrs. Thorkildsen and I are the ones home alone, and the days aren’t so good anymore. After the grotesque scolding and yelling all the way home, I was deeply wounded and discouraged. I was disappointed that Mrs. Thorkildsen hadn’t lived up to her potential as a friend to dog- or humankind but, most of all, I was disappointed in myself for my obvious inability to give her the same feeling of calm and balance the Major had obviously done, even from his sick bed.
Mrs. Thorkildsen wouldn’t have behaved that way towards me if she hadn’t been so dreadfully unhappy. She’s been unhappy for a long time. The evenings, which furnished almost every day with a concluding high point, now sometimes end in disaster. This is how it happens: Mrs. Thorkildsen drinks Dragon Water until she’s unsteady while she talks too long on the phone, then she sits in silence staring out the windows facing west and beyond while she drinks until she’s even more unsteady. Sometimes she trips, sometimes she even falls, and occasionally she sleeps on the bathroom floor for a long time before waking up with a start and crawling to her bed on all fours.
After evenings like these, Mrs. Thorkildsen sleeps for a long time.
6
What’s the matter with Mrs. Thorkildsen? If I were a cat, that worry wouldn’t faze me. Mrs. Thorkildsen fills my bowl with food; I don’t have to turn to the infamous toilet bowl for water; I get hugs and scratches and kind words and two walks a day. I have nothing to complain about. Mrs. Thorkildsen clearly does, but she doesn’t actually complain. Sure, she mentions her loneliness, her arthritic hands, and her reduced hearing to her cousins on the phone, but she doesn’t complain. At least not with her words. If she feels herself nearing a complaint, she soon turns the conversation to someone who’s worse off, according to her.
And so, as Mrs. Thorkildsen would say, the days pass. They pass at a relatively steady pace out there, but often with wobblier steps at home. They pass in the same tempo as the clock on the kitchen wall, the one with the hand that never stands still and never shuts up, but can still make itself invisible and inaudible for a long, long time, only to suddenly assault you with first one tick, then the next tock, then tick, tock, tick, tock until you think the ticking might drive you crazy.
Otherwise, the house has grown far too quiet, and there’s not much I can do about that, other than the little I can contribute. As a guard dog, I’m simply going to have to expand my repertoire. Guard more. So I’ve started to experiment with barking in new situations.
I’ve always barked at the doorbell, but now I decided to bark at the phone, too. And truth be told, there’s not much else to bark at if I’m not going to turn into one of those loudmouth dogs I’ve always despised, who stand on their hind legs and jump at the window towards everything that moves outside.
Mrs. Thorkildsen does not appreciate my efforts. The first time I did it, she was quick to snap ‘bad boy’ at me again, but it seemed half-hearted and, besides, she had to focus on answering. As she lifted the receiver, I growled a little to indicate to whomever was on the other end that Mrs. Thorkildsen was under my protection.
Tonight Mrs. Thorkildsen had time to get quite unsteady before she dozed off in the chair by the windows. The phone rings, and I jump to my feet to bark as loud as I can. She stands up, wobbly and confused. She remains still at her chair for a moment, blinking her eyes like a newborn puppy. Then she suddenly realizes what is going on, comes to her senses and heads for the phone in the hall, while I bark and bark and bark some more. It isn’t an hysterical bark, far from it, but an insistent one. An alarm. Mrs. Thorkildsen staggers over to the phone, lifts the receiver, and answers as she always does: ‘Twenty-eight oh-six oh-seven,’ whatever that means, and then she says: ‘Hello?’ and falls silent. Meanwhile, I have switched from enthusiastic barking to light, sporadic woofing. ‘Hello?’ she says again, and I should have reacted to the sudden sharpness in her voice. Had I heard it, I might have seen the newspaper coming, too, but before I can react Mrs. Thorkildsen smacks me with the morning edition.
I stop the woofing at once, disappointed that gentle, kind Mrs. Thorkildsen has once again turned to violence without warning. It is impossible to sniff out what kind of feelings are rushing through Mrs. Thorkildsen, who is normally so easy to read. The blow is too hard to be playful, but it lacks the rage required to make it truly painful. It is the confusion that makes the whole experience so scary. I stare at her. She stares back. I stare even more intently. I bark. She starts to cry. She slides down the wall in the hall, with her back against the front door, and sobs away as the tears stream down her face, and now I can clearly
smell the fear. I can’t say I am glad to see her unhappy, but I must say I am relieved. Crying and sobbing, I know what to do with those.
‘There, there,’ I say as I nuzzle my nose into her soft neck to assure her that everything is going to be fine, just fine.
Mrs. Thorkildsen looks at me with red eyes:
‘Do you really think so, Tassen? That everything’s going to be all right?’
It takes me a few seconds to realize it is me she is talking to, because she is using another tone of voice. Not the sharp tone that told me I was a bad boy, and not the friendly voice she uses when she is chatting to me as we run errands together. It is the voice I have missed since Major Thorkildsen went away, a voice used only within our little pack.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think it’s going to be all right.’
I say it because I believe it, but I have to admit I’m not sure what ‘it’ is. I’m still not sure.
7
When we come strolling home this afternoon, exhausted from our adventures and ready for the couch, Mrs. Thorkildsen’s Puppy, the Bitch, and the Boy Puppy are there waiting for us. Naturally I do everything I can to make them feel welcome; it is the least I can do. I wag my tail and creep towards them on the carpet, but the Puppy and the Bitch ignore me. The Boy Puppy ignores us all. They’ve been waiting a long time, the Puppy says, and the Bitch follows up, with a smile:
‘Did you forget about us?’
The question hangs in midair, long enough for Mrs. Thorkildsen, who is already surprised, to get restless. I can hear it in her breath. She strides in the direction of the kitchen to put the coffee on, but the Puppy stops her by saying:
‘They called from the bank today.’
Mrs. Thorkildsen stands still for just a moment, then she continues towards the kitchen. Of course she does. What else is she supposed to do? For my part, I have no idea what to do with myself, whether to offer Mrs. Thorkildsen a comforting nuzzle, or whether to try to relieve the uncomfortable tension in the living room that threatens to infest the whole house. Maybe I should get the ball, it could use a renaissance anyway.
I barely have to stick my snout into the kitchen to assure myself that Mrs. Thorkildsen is doing well, or at least well enough. And I should have known. Mrs. Thorkildsen is at her best in the kitchen. That’s where she kneads and cooks and chops and fries happiness out of sorrow and simple ingredients. Or at least she used to. So, I cheerfully plod back to the living room, determined to seize the family’s attention and turn the dark mood of the room upside down, be it for a party or a scandal.
‘You have to tell her!’ the Bitch is hissing as I come into the living room. ‘Now!’ And there’s something about the way she says it that makes me invisible.
The Puppy is standing with his back to her, pretending to study the books on the shelf by the fireplace. The Boy Puppy sits on the couch with the machine in his hands, and wouldn’t look up if a tiger entered the room.
‘We know what she’s going to say,’ the Puppy responds, sounding a little tired. ‘She’s going to say that she plans to live here until her dying breath.’
‘We should have done this while your father was alive. She would have listened to him. Now it’s just a giant godforsaken mausoleum here. Over two thousand square feet for an old lady and her dog—it’s just meaningless.’
She pauses before snarling through clenched teeth:
‘Three-door garage!’
I balk at the notion that a three-door garage should be so much worse than a one-door, but once again the magic of numbers escapes me. The Bitch lets the silence fall again. Still the Puppy says nothing, so she adds:
‘This house is going to be ours.’ The last word.
And then nothing more is said until Mrs. Thorkildsen comes rolling in from the kitchen with her lovely tea trolley.
‘Rather die than go back and forth!’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says each time she uses that tea trolley. ‘The good waiter’s motto!’ She says it this time, too. And when she gets to wait on people, Mrs. Thorkildsen finds fulfillment in her own strange way.
In one swift motion, she clears off the coffee table and gets plates, cups, saucers, spoons, and napkins from the magical tea trolley. Sugar and milk are served, along with what I’ve smelled from a mile away, chocolate with nuts, and cookies as well. And cinnamon rolls. I want to woof with happiness, and have to honestly admit that I might have done so had Mrs. Thorkildsen’s Puppy not been there. Because here we are, and we’re all here together, and there’s food. There are cinnamon rolls! What more could you possibly wish for?
The Puppy stuffs a cinnamon roll into his mouth, and while he’s still chewing, says:
‘Mom, we wanted to talk to you about a couple of practical things.’
‘Well, go ahead,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says. The Bitch takes a deep breath, but as she’s about to take the floor, Mrs. Thorkildsen says with timing worthy of a jazz drummer:
‘But let’s drink the coffee first.’
This sentence is Mrs. Thorkildsen’s proffered line of defense. It’s not coffee they’re going to drink, but the coffee. And it’s going to happen now. It’s a merciless one-man bureaucracy balancing on a Japanese porcelain saucer. And then, as the last cup is poured, comes the death blow, with a little nod towards the boy:
‘How is everything with … ? Is he better? Does he still … at night?’ Silence. The Bitch looks at the Puppy. The Puppy stares out into the room.
Mrs. Thorkildsen takes a tiny sip of her coffee.
‘Oh, well, it’s a good thing they have these computer games to comfort them.’
For the first time, all eyes land on the Boy Puppy. They examine the motionless boy with his rapid thumbs—thumbs!—in silence. Mrs. Thorkildsen is an enigma now; it’s impossible to sniff out her intentions, until she opens her mouth and her voice betrays her. It’s the calm, controlled voice, the one that tells me she’s taken a detour or two via the linen closet while tinkering around in the kitchen.
‘Are you good at that? Hmmm?’ The Boy Puppy does not acknowledge he’s being spoken to. Then Mrs. Thorkildsen speaks directly to the Bitch:
‘He’s always on that thing, isn’t he? In his own little world. But I guess they all are these days, aren’t they?’ Mrs. Thorkildsen chuckles. ‘Let’s have a cognac in honor of your visit,’ she says.
‘We’re driving!’ the Puppy and the Bitch say in unison.
Mrs. Thorkildsen is unfazed. She gets the bottle and pours a glass for each of them.
‘You can decide among yourselves which one of you is driving,’ she says with her cruelest smile.
The Bitch has obviously given up waiting for the Puppy to ‘Say it. Now!’ so as Mrs. Thorkildsen pours her glass, she clears her throat and says it herself:
‘You know we’ve always supported you in your wish to live at home as long as possible,’ she starts as she reeks of nervousness. Fumbles for the next sentence. The Puppy is about to take over, but the Bitch collects herself; I can hear her pulse steadily rising as she speaks:
‘The problem is that “as long as possible”’—she stops for a second to make stupid, catlike scratching motions in thin air—‘might be here soon.’
‘Might actually have been here for a while,’ the Puppy mumbles, and it gets quiet again. Even quieter.
‘So, you want to put me in a home?’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says, calm and ice cold.
‘We just want you settled in a place that’s more suited to your needs,’ the Bitch says. ‘Jean spends quite a lot of time worrying about you, you know. I worry about you. I can understand that you don’t want a cell phone even though it would be very practical for everyone. Dad is the same way—we bought him three different cell phones and he couldn’t get the hang of any of them, but can we at least get you a safety alarm?’
‘Suited,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen repeats as she slowly nods. As I’ve done many times before, I catch myself wasting time and attention on confusing stimuli, so I command myself to settle into a kind of calm under the coffee
table. I’d prefer to lay low, and Mrs. Thorkildsen’s Puppy took the spot in the Major’s old chair without asking anyway, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As soon as I’ve nestled my snout into the carpet, I can sense that sweet Mrs. Thorkildsen is now hiding a seething, white-hot rage under her calm exterior. Had she been a Miniature Schnauzer, I would have backed off at this point, tiptoed away slowly without taking my eyes off the dog. You can’t tell just by looking at Mrs. Thorkildsen that she is furious. No, she’s just sitting there in her chair with her glass and her frozen little smile as she teeters on the edge of murderous wrath, and not a single one of the other humans in the room has any idea of the danger they’re in. As for me, I’m nauseous with excitement. What will Mrs. Thorkildsen do now? Well, what options does she have, really? The Major’s old pump-action shotgun, the one he loved so much, is still lying under their bed. Clearly Mrs. Thorkildsen doesn’t pose a physical threat to any of the three guests on her own, but give her a pump-action shotgun and things might look different. Still, Mrs. Thorkildsen remains seated:
‘Well, I’m here,’ she says with astonishing clarity and poise, ‘and I’m going to stay here for the little time I have left. That’s all there is to it.’
The Bitch sighs. Then Mrs. Thorkildsen adds, bless her:
‘And what about Tassen, anyway?’
I could have shouted a triumphant ‘Ha!’ but I keep it to myself. End of discussion, thank you and goodnight. But no:
‘We can’t let the dog be the deciding factor here,’ the Puppy says.
I can hardly believe my ears. What kind of rule is that?
‘And who’s to say we can’t find a place for you that will allow dogs? We’re not talking about an old folks’ home, Mom. We’re talking about a fully equipped accessible residence. With no stairs. Practical and easy to take care of. Preferably here in the neighborhood.’
‘Yes, preferably,’ the Bitch echoes.
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