Chapter 13
Nick fought the urge to skip as he led Bernie to his F-150 on a leash Shauna loaned him with the promise to return it tomorrow morning at obedience training. It had been a long time since Nick harbored such optimism concerning a potential relationship. Of course, Bernie appeared oblivious to the whole thing. Oh to be a big, dumb, furry beast Nick thought. He considered changing Bernie’s name to cupid, but decided explaining that to Shauna would surely shoot his plans in the foot. Right now his pressing concern was getting this oversized, four-legged canine inside the cab of the truck.
Nick went to the passenger side and opened the door. Bernie lifted his nose and sniffed the seat controls. He turned his head, looked back at Nick, and let out a deep woof.
“Jump up, Bernie,” Nick instructed. Bernie turned his head back toward the truck’s interior and promptly sat on his hind haunches. “Seriously?” Nick asked Bernie. Nick reached into the complimentary bag of dog treats Melvin provided. Nick tossed a hard dog biscuit onto the front passenger seat. Bernie raised his head and sniffed the air. Suddenly interested in the front cab of the pickup, Bernie placed his front paws on the truck’s running board.
“You’re halfway there,” Nick coaxed. “Let your stomach be your master, so we can get out of here and I can stop having conversations with dumb animals.”
Nick bent down to help lift Bernie’s rear end when the St. Bernard leapt with amazing agility into the front seat without any assistance. Nick was still bent over as he heard Bernie hungrily chomping on the dog biscuit.
“Oh, I see how it’s going to be,” Nick said as he shut the passenger door and made his way around the rear of the truck.
“Whatever you say, ole’ biscuit boy.”
Nick froze in his tracks, fully aware he and Bernie were alone in the parking lot. Regardless, Nick spun on his heels and perused his surroundings. A slight breeze brushed Nick’s cheeks, the sun radiated off the pavement, three vehicles sat quietly motionless in their stalls, and not another human soul stood anywhere nearby. Nick knew he heard the voice, but where it came from was completely inexplicable. His gaze shifted from the outside surroundings to the only other option sitting inside his truck. Bernie crawled into the back seat and sat with his nose planted firmly against the sliding rear window. Their eyes locked on each other and Nick knew instantly that the voice came from Bernie.
Nick grabbed the edge of the tailgate to steady himself. He felt faint, and he quickly realized he had not taken a breath for the last several seconds. He quickly looked down at the pavement and took a few deep inhalations and exhalations as he prepared to come to grips with his current state of insanity. I have a talking dog, and I’m not living in a cartoon world or hugging a six foot water bong named Fred. Yep, I’m freaking crazy.
Nick panicked, worried that this first step in to this new surreal world of irrationality and disembodied voices would lead downhill for certain. Good lord he thought, I hope he doesn’t convince me to assassinate the president. I mean, after all, I voted for him. Maybe the vice president or some other innocuous person holding prominent public positions would suffice. Oh crap, oh, holy crap I’m formulating assassination plots, he thought. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll just become some eccentric hermit who lives alone, completely off the grid and off my rocker.
Bernie let out a deep bark that snapped Nick’s attention back to his current reality, whatever that meant. Nick looked at his supernatural pooch and tried to convince himself that the last several seconds never happened. After a few uneventful ticks of his watch, Nick walked around to the driver side door, uncertain if his quivering legs would deliver him safely to the driver’s seat. Bernie crawled over the middle console and settled into the front passenger seat. Nick swung the driver door open and stared at Bernie who seemed more preoccupied with the seatbelt clip than anything else. Nick hopped in the front seat and fired the truck engine to life, never taking his eyes off his seemingly oblivious fury companion.
“I’ve heard of speaking in tongues, but I don’t think God included anything in the Bible about using canine prophesying,” Nick stated to Bernie. His comment was met with a much appreciated non-response from the dog. After a minute or two of complete disinterest from Bernie, Nick threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking space.
He originally planned to make a stop by the Slippery Beaver and pick up a paycheck, but now he focused on driving as fast as he could through the Pine Valley streets to his humble abode and unloading Bernie before he heard his dog speak to him again. The trip home was a quiet one, outside of Nick’s pounding chest and squealing tires as he sped through every turn and curve on the road. Nick feared speaking, certain Bernie would reply in his head, furthering the insanity case. Nick hit his gravel driveway faster than normal and slid to a cockeyed stop alongside his house. He put the truck in park and sat hunched over the steering wheel, anticipating something to echo in his mind, knowing full well that it would be a message from Bernie. After several minutes of nothing he looked over at Bernie. Bernie had gotten up and was leaning up against the windshield, mesmerized by two squirrels playing in the large oak that sat between his yard and Mr. Lubner’s house.
Nick couldn’t prove it, but he was certain that those two squirrels were responsible for tearing a small hole in a lower portion of his shed’s back wall and eating the majority of a twenty-five pound bag of Wild Bird birdfeed. They were the fattest squirrels in all of Pine Valley, probably the whole state. Now they pranced around like a couple of gluttonous rodents, mocking Nick and flocks of hungry, food deprived, flying, feathered friends.
“If you ever get the chance, a little squirrel sushi might be good for you,” Nick said trying to gain a better sense of composure. Nick had never been a big fan of squirrels, but now he had a definite loathing for the creatures. Mr. Lubner’s yard was littered with squirrel feeders. Old man Lubner nearly had a heart attack when Nick announced his intentions of borrowing a pellet gun and shooting the bushy tailed perpetrators of the birdfeed theft. He furthered his dismay with Nick by citing city ordinance violations that could be imposed by the local authorities if Nick pursued armed retribution against the squirrels. Nick first thought the old man was anti-gun until he learned the guy was a retired Marine. Mr. Lubner was a combat veteran of Korea and three tours in Vietnam. Definitely not the NRA hating type. Still, Nick realized Mr. Lubner was serious about protecting the squirrels. With this in mind, Nick attached the leash to Bernie’s collar and maneuvered him out the driver side door.
“Any snacking on those beasts will have to occur late at night, under cover of darkness,” Nick explained to Bernie who kept turning his head to investigate what the squirrels were up to. “I don’t think we want to draw first blood on Lubner or his hungry yard rats. He’d most likely go all Rambo on us.”
Nick fumbled for his house key and slid it into the lock. With a grin he unlocked the front door and let it swing open. Bernie inched his neck forward and peered into the dark front room.
“Welcome to your new home, boy. It’s not the Taj Mahal, but it works.” Nick reached down and removed the leash from the collar. Bernie took a few tentative steps inside, testing everything with his nose. Bernie loped to the middle of the room, looking unsure where to go, until his eyes adjusted to the diminished sunlight and he saw the leather chair and ottoman in the corner of the room, next to the fireplace. This was Nick’s chair. Many nights Nick fell asleep in this chair, nestle into the worn brown leather with his feet propped up on the equally beaten ottoman, a book precariously dangling from his sleep deprived fingers, on the verge of rolling off his lap onto the dark brown hardwood floor. Nobody ever sat here except Nick, and it had been that way since he bought the chair back in college. It was the only piece of real furniture in his first college apartment, unless a guy counts an air mattress as furniture. He wrote there, pontificated there, read there, slept there, nursed hangovers there, ate there,
but most certainly never shared this space. It was his own special domain, until now.
As if sensing the close of an era, Bernie broke into a full run and bounded into the chair’s seat. He quickly oriented himself to the seat, spinning a quarter turn before flopping down and resting his head on the chair’s arm. Nick stared in disbelief as Bernie gave him the best nonchalant gaze a dog could muster.
“I don’t suppose you understand that you’re on holy ground? Sandy didn’t even sit in that chair.” Nick tossed his keys on an end table and threw the leash on a couch at the opposite end of the room. “Don’t make yourself too comfortable. I’ll get you a dog bed soon because that sure ain’t your chair, buddy boy.” Nick gave Bernie a last look, convinced none of his words connected with the dog. As he made his way into the kitchen he clearly heard the voice again.
“If you want this chair, then sit your ass down and start writing.”
The Bernie Factor Page 13