You are an oxymoron, a bully and a coward both. You are the unabashed hypocrite, saying one thing, meaning another, and expecting to be understood. You are the cad who seeks to justify the absence of devotion in the name of love. You live on the kindness of others and show none in return. You are the pauper king, the tragic clown, the devil in paradise. You admire the best and inspire the worst. You're a friend who's not.
I had a dog once. Couldn't get rid of him. He always bit me when I fed him. Wouldn't come out from under the bed. Loved to eat vomit. He even ate shit, which was easier to come by, every time he got the chance. As much as I can love a dog, this one was tough. Never came to me when I called, always pissed on the rug, smelled foul, hated water.
He got the mange. His fur was falling out in clumps. He wouldn't let me near him with the medicine. And he kept trying to mount all the other dogs whenever we went out for a walk. His condition seemed to give him a constant hard on. The other dogs would run and their owners scream as my mangy, shit-smelling companion tried to fuck them from behind.
My dog was starting to reflect on me. Everybody told me, get rid of the dog. But I somehow felt honor bound to keep him. Should a man stick by his dog? Is it a question of honor? Or is honor just a consideration between men? In any case, the dog and I parted company.
But I didn't have the heart to kill the dog. I just turned him out. I eventually saw the cruelty in that, because a dead dog is better than a mangy one without a master. So, I called him home. This was the beginning of a terrible pattern. In, out, in, out. The poor dog didn't know if it was coming or going.
Now, I live in a small town. Everybody's got a dog, and everybody's an expert. Some said to call the vet, others said to do it myself. But, I don't own a gun. So what could I do? Write my dog a letter? I hated the idea of calling the vet. I hate getting on the phone with somebody to talk about a sick dog and how to get rid of it. Setting a date seemed impossible. I was stuck, so I left town.
People said that was the cruelest thing I could do. Face the dog, they said. Pet it and love it. Kiss it behind its ear and feed it steak. And then, when it's in its ecstasy, blow its head off.
I tried to imagine loving my dog, kissing the hairy scabs behind its reeking ears. I thought I could actually smell it, when I realized that the dog had followed me to my new town. So I threw him a steak and borrowed a gun. But this was one smart dog. He didn't touch the steak. I never fired a shot.
I stopped feeding him, stopped leaving food outside my door, looking for him outside the window. He came anyway. I began to feel that he would outlive me. And then, suddenly, he disappeared.
I heard that an old lady across Broad St. was feeding him. A big bowl of kibbles twice a day. They said that she loved him and that she even let him sleep in her bed, though I found that hard to believe.
When I finally saw my dog again, he looked great. Coat, eyes, and teeth all shining. I saw him first at a distance, frolicking. When he spotted me he came close and sniffed my hand. He had a new collar. His nose was cold and wet. His breath was sweet. I was glad to see him. And then, a horrible thing happened. When I turned to go, he followed me home.
What do you expect? people said, he's your dog. But I'm no good for him, I said. He doesn't know any better, they answered, he's a dog. I did try to find the lady who loved him, but I heard that she left town, her heart broken.
When my dog finally died, he was in the hands of the authorities. They took him away when he started foaming at the mouth. It took them forever to catch him but in the end, he just keeled over. He caught me with a baleful eye as they loaded him into the back of a van. That was the last time I saw him. But sometimes, just as I'm sitting down to dinner, I seem to hear a faint scratching at the door. I want to get up, to peek outside.
