The more I get to know humans,
The more I love my dog.
The more I love my dog.
Animals by Patrick Cooper
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I’ve been waiting maybe
twenty minutes already. My watch says 5:15, but I swear I’ve been hampered down
in this backseat longer than that. I have a pretty good sense of time too. My
internal clock is fine-tuned from running this caper so much.
The past two days, I’ve watched her get in her car and drive home. Always a couple minutes after
five, like clockwork. What’s taking her so long today?
This part, the
wait, used to get me sprung. Now it’s just part of the routine. Like the straights
who get up at seven, get to work by nine, and punch out at five, just like she
does. Where is she?
Past two days, right
at five, she practically sprints from the building like it’s on fire. I don’t
blame her. I used to have a nine to five. Didn’t take though.
Where is she? My
bladder is swelling to the size of a small child’s, but I push that sensation
to the back of my mind. The pressure won’t bother me because I won’t let it. It’s
a Zen thing I read about one time.
Boredom kicks in
and I sit up to stretch my neck and shoulders. I should do yoga. It would make
the time spent folded up in backseats easier. Yoga, that’s the ticket. How much
is a yoga class though? Probably expensive.
Through the
windshield, I can see the parking garage is pretty vacant. Christ, the
fluorescent lighting in these parking garages are hell on the eyes.
A picture of her
holding an obscenely adorable boxer puppy dangles from the visor. I had a boxer
once named Joey. He came down with cardiomyopathy – an irregular heartbeat that
eventually led to death. I miss that goofy dog everyday.
I hoist myself up
and open the center console out of sheer boredom: eye drops. Yeah, I thought I
smelled traces of weed in here. Some earrings, nothing fancy. A travel bottle
of mouthwash. Here’s the dime bag. Right on. I sniff it. It’s cheap. Pushed
down to the bottom of the console is a folded-up envelope. The return address
is some bank. Maybe it has her account balance inside, which will be useful
when we stop at an ATM later.
There’s no account
statement, but it says she’s a couple months behind on her student loans. The
letter has OVERDUE stamped on it in furious red. It threatens action if she
falls further behind. The vultures are circling.
Inside the glove
box, I find an insurance card and registration in the name of a Katherine Newman;
a compact, some perfume, and another envelope. Inside, there’s a sonogram
photo. Judging by the blurry bulge between the legs, I’d say it’s a boy.
Mazel tov,
Katherine.
The elevator doors
ding open and Katherine walks out slowly like she has weights around her
ankles. I put my hood up and fold back into my cramped position down between
the backseats. Her footsteps get closer, echoing in the garage.
She walks to her
car and leans against the hood. What’s that sound? My ears perk up. She’s
crying.
Through the windshield,
I can see her shoulders bounce up and down like pistons as she weeps into her
hands. She tries to compose herself. Wiping
snot off on her blouse, she unlocks the front door, and slides into the
driver’s seat.
I brace myself.
Her cellphone
rings.
“Hello? Paul? Hi.”
Damn. Wait it out.
Breathe slow.
“Absolutely not,”
she says. “You’re not taking Denny. He’s my dog, Paul! I’ve had him since he
was a month old! I take care of him! You only want him to hurt me. I know what
you’re doing! He’s all I’ve got, Paul! And don’t think for a second that…hello?
Paul, Paul?!”
Katherine tosses
the cellphone in the backseat. I don’t move. Close your door, Katherine. I
never pounce until they close the damn door. Close it.
She takes the
picture off the visor, stares at it, and resumes crying. What’s that sensation
down in my gut? It’s not my bladder. It’s a pang of sadness and sympathy. Christ,
Joey. I miss that stupid dog. It’s not fair they die so young and we continue
living our shitty, selfish lives. Joey, goddammit.
Katherine places
the photo back on the visor and exits the car. She heads back in the elevator
and leaves me there, thinking about Joey and some guy named Paul who’s taking her
dog away. Screw it. Where’s that registration card?
###
I wait for
Katherine again the next day. This time, I’m standing next to her car and not
concealed in the backseat. A little after five, the doors ding open and out she
comes, looking as despondent as the day before. Then she sees us and her eyes
light up.
I unhook Denny’s
leash from the harness and the little boxer runs up to Katherine. The pup’s
little ass shakes the whole way, his tail wagging so wildly he can’t run
straight. He wiggles into Katherine’s arms.
When the initial
shock is over, she looks at me uncertainly.
I say, “I visited
Paul last night. I explained to him that it wasn’t right he takes Denny. He
belongs with you.”
“But what…who are
you?”
I squeeze my hands
together. The knuckles are swollen, still throbbing from my visit with Paul. Thick
skull on that guy. “I’m just a guy
who used to have a dog once.”
