Jonathan Unleashed

by Meg Rosoff

  He wondered why no one had written a book called How to Be a Person.

  His girlfriend, Julie, was much better at being a person than he was. They met when she was twenty and he was nineteen, and because she was gorgeous and independent and not disorganized and penniless, he held out little hope that she’d ever agree to go out with him. Their first meeting, at a very loud club a few blocks off-campus, went like this:

  JONATHAN:

  AREN’T YOU IN MY THEORIES AND PRACTICE IN GRAPHIC DESIGN CLASS?

  JULIE:

  WHAT?

  JONATHAN:

  AREN’T YOU IN MY THEORIES AND PRACTICE IN GRAPHIC DESIGN CLASS?

  JULIE:

  NO.

  JONATHAN:

  DO YOU WANT A DRINK ANYWAY?

  JULIE:

  OK.

  He knew she was not in his Theories and Practice in Graphic Design class, which consisted of just nine students, but it was the best he could think up on the spot. She looked so perfectly self-possessed, as if she majored in Business Studies (she did) and only dated other business students (she did), which Jonathan considered a colossal waste of two sets of brilliantly organized, highly motivated individuals.

  On their early dates, he dragged her to foreign films and comic stores, all-night art openings and bands his friends played in. Most of it left her bemused, but she liked being in contact with a side of life that didn’t require output graphs and progress reports.

  Julie came from solid Midwestern values, which, while not exactly high church, were definitely christian with a small ‘c’. Her belief system consisted of medium heels, a decent haircut and solid retirement funds more or less from birth. She knew where her life was going and how it would get there.

  Both sets of friends were stymied when they started hanging around together. ‘What do you see in him?’ asked her roommates, who’d only witnessed her attraction to equally small-c guys who wore chinos and polo shirts loose across their broad shoulders and had hair so blond and features so regular it was hard to tell one from another. Most of them would get jobs at Baker & McKenzie, move to moderately expensive suburbs of Any Medium City, USA, buy expensive cars to weather their mid-life crises and die prematurely of heart disease wondering why life hadn’t been more fun.

  Jonathan, on the other hand, had a pale, somewhat nervy quality. His shoulders were a bit narrow, his hair unruly; his eyes rested slightly too long on things of no obvious value. The way he puzzled over perfectly ordinary objects disturbed Julie, who sometimes wondered whether he saw what she saw when he looked at the world. ‘What?’ she would ask when he stopped to gaze at a doorknob or a tree. ‘Oh nothing,’ he’d say, recalling himself and moving back into the stream of life.

  This otherness intrigued her. Perhaps some biological impulse drew her towards genetic diversity, towards a man entirely unlike her father, her uncles, her ex-boyfriends and all the men that destiny determined she would live and breed with, give birth to, attend barbecues with and vote for till the end of time.

  Unlike the men of her tribe, Jonathan’s face didn’t go bronze in the hot Midwest summers or flush rosy in its freezing snowstorms. He didn’t stride in a manly fashion, own a big four-wheel-drive or sit with his legs splayed at the movies.

  Julie’s tidy mind allowed Jonathan’s otherness to sneak up on her. She had no idea what he might do or say next, and this secretly thrilled her. The first time they kissed, he appeared to be thinking of something entirely else, so when he turned to her with a sudden excess of attention she was completely caught off guard. She had blushed and looked away and he’d had to catch her face in his hands and hold it still while he kissed her. His lips felt foreign, febrile. And Julie, who had never fallen very far or very hard in her life, fell very far and very hard for Jonathan. For his part, he recognized that something unexpected had happened between them, that he had charmed a cold-eyed raptor out of a tree, that it now sat calmly and quietly on his fist and that (in the absence of logic) there was some strange magic in their connection.

  In the early days of the relationship, Jonathan sat up at night watching her sleep, while Julie expressed her devotion with expensive sweaters to replace the ancient moth-eaten ones he wore.

  ‘But they’re still perfectly warm,’ Jonathan protested.

  Julie shook her head. ‘It’s unravelling, Jonathan. Try this,’ she’d say, handing him a heavy shopping bag within which a beautiful cashmere sweater lay, tenderly wrapped in tissue paper.

  And because he liked nice things he kept it, and the other things she bought him, and he enjoyed wearing them because the feel of featherweight wool against his skin reminded him of her.

  As graduation loomed, there were long discussions about what to do next. Having grown up in the embarrassing suburbs, Jonathan craved a real New York City experience, but Julie wasn’t so sure. The Midwest was her home, after all, and all her friends lived here. Long conversations ensued till deep into the night, conversations during which they held hands and tried to imagine some kind of future that included each other. In the end, Julie decided to stay put, just for now, while Jonathan moved on ahead, blazing a trail in New York.

  ‘You pave the way,’ she said, with a good deal of private doubt that paving a way was the sort of thing Jonathan would be able to do without guidance.

  He’d been looking forward to starting work – the sense of purpose, the shared endeavour, the whole breathless whirligig thrill of having a career. What he hadn’t counted on was the triviality of office life, the futility of his daily routine, the sort of things you were expected to do in exchange for money. The clients were ducks, quacking nonsense in his ears while nibbling his best ideas to death. But Max had the desk next to his, the other employees were nice enough and, despite a dawning suspicion that the whole work-thing was just a ploy for filling up the time between birth and death, he felt rather proud of his ability to take part in it. He liked the fact that after all those years of writing term papers and taking exams, someone was actually willing to pay him.

  And so for six long months, he and Julie lived separately, agreeing not to spend their first salaries on flights and visits, but skyping late at night and kissing each other across a thousand miles of empty airspace.

  One night, Julie called with great news. ‘I’ve got a new job! In the New York office!’ she said. ‘With more money! Aren’t you excited?’

  Of course he was excited. Who wouldn’t be? He hoped she’d approve of his apartment. And the dogs. Julie knew about the dogs, but hadn’t commented much.

  ‘How long will we have them?’

  ‘Six months. You’ll like them. They’re good dogs.’

  She had changed the subject.

  Secretly he worried that Julie wouldn’t quite see the point of dogs, would mostly view them as a distraction and a tax on their budget and living space. He worried that Julie would want to go places that didn’t take dogs, that he would have to leave them alone during the day while he went to work and then again at night when he and she went out.

  He’d tried skyping her with them sitting beside him so they could start to get to know each other, but it just made everyone sullen.

  ‘Which one is which?’

  ‘This is Dante,’ Jonathan said, pointing to the collie, who remained resolutely off-camera, ‘and this is Sissy.’ He tousled Sissy’s ears and tried to stop her licking the computer screen while Julie recoiled in disgust.

  He mentioned none of this to his brother, who believed that the relationship between dog and human should be an uncomplicated dance of mutual affection – you loved your dogs, took them everywhere and broke up with any girlfriend who didn’t love them as much as you did.

  ‘Anywhere that doesn’t take dogs isn’t the kind of place you want to go,’ he’d told Jonathan.

  Jonathan silently listed movies, restaurants, clubs, concerts, bars, department stores, public transport, work, airplanes and Dubai in his head, which was just the tip of the iceberg and included pretty mu
ch everywhere he was ever likely to want to go.

  4

  Jonathan, dog owner, encountered a whole new segment of society. Like cyclists and comics enthusiasts, dog people were mostly fanatics. And they all seemed to know more about his pets than he did.

  ‘Nice spaniel. From working stock?’

  He didn’t know how to answer that. ‘Um,’ he said, casting about as if hoping the answer might appear to him in a thought bubble. ‘I don’t really know. They belong to my brother.’

  This would earn him disapproving looks, and comments that bypassed him altogether. ‘You’d make a good working dog, wouldn’t you, girl?’

  And then Sissy would gaze at her new friend lovingly and a bond would form, as if Sissy and the stranger would be out together in a field right now wearing expensive British sportswear and flushing grouse if only Jonathan didn’t exist.

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ they’d say about Dante and frown. ‘Not for Manhattan, though.’

  Why did the presence of a dog give everyone permission to opine? ‘It’s OK, he’s happy,’ Jonathan learned to say with casual authority. ‘He’s a City collie.’

  He tried this line tentatively at first, but found it worked. He could see his detractors thinking, Really? A City collie? And then they’d shrug and think, OK, fair dues – like a City collie was a thing. To be honest, even Jonathan could tell that Border collies in general (and Dante in particular) were not terribly well suited to the role of inferior species. Dante, he felt, should really be running a medium-size investment bank.

  The dog run in Tompkins Square consisted of sand and concrete with hardly any grass. Who’d want to pee on sand when a rough barky tree surrounded by composted leaves would be so much nicer? He supposed that in New York the dogs at least got to meet other dogs, but how much fun was it to do your business on concrete with half the Lower East Side as an audience? Jonathan imagined lifting his tail and squatting privately in a deep forest surrounded by the complex aromas of pine and fungi – how much better than traffic fumes and Calvin Klein body spray?

  He found himself dreaming of a life rich in loam. Occasionally he forgot that it was for the dogs and dreamed of his own little patch of well-rotted soil, bursting with bluebells and foxgloves and buttercups and moss. He wanted to roll in it himself, to rub the length of his body through the dark damp earth, disguising his soapy human smell in a cloak of forest greenery.

  In this new chapter of their lives, the dogs had HBO and Netflix, they had organic bones and expensive leather leashes. They had everything New York City could offer in the way of food and shelter, but he wondered if it was what they really wanted. He wondered if they were depressed and unfulfilled. It was difficult to tell with dogs, especially dogs you hadn’t known since birth. But he sensed something was amiss. Perhaps they required professional help.

  He phoned Max.

  ‘Hey, Max.’

  ‘Hey, buddy. I’m with Allegra.’ Max was always with someone.

  ‘Sorry. You don’t know the name of a good vet, do you?’

  ‘Your dogs sick?’

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘Not really. Just a check-up.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He turned away from the phone. ‘Hey, Allegra. My buddy needs the name of a vet. You got one?’

  Jonathan heard mumbling and then Allegra’s voice appeared. ‘I take my cat to the one near the corner of Eleventh and First. That’s not too far from you, is it?’

  ‘No, that’s good. Do they do dogs too?’

  Allegra paused. ‘They’re vets. They do animals. Not sure about large farm animals. Is one of your dogs a cow?’

  Jonathan made a big fat-lipped Allegra face at his phone.

  ‘I’ll text you the number. Ask for Dr Clare. She’s amazing.’

  ‘Dr Clare what?’

  Allegra giggled. ‘Clare de lune.’ She handed Max his phone. ‘Your friend’s a riot.’

  Max was back. ‘You all set, pal?’

  ‘I think so, thanks,’ Jonathan said, but Max had already hung up.

  The next day, he phoned and made an appointment to see Dr Clare de Lune. No, it wasn’t an emergency, he said.

  Not Clare de Lune, the receptionist said. Just Clare. Dr Clare.

  ‘Like Dr Who?’

  ‘Doctor who?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Jonathan struggled back from his parallel universe.

  What was the immediate problem and with which of the two dogs? The receptionist’s voice was high and thin, like a child’s.

  Jonathan hesitated. ‘It’s not something I can really describe over the phone,’ he replied, feeling obscurely dirty-old-mannish.

  ‘OK,’ piped the receptionist. ‘I’ll put you down for a thirty-minute appointment seeing as how it’s your first. See you Tuesday at five.’

  Tuesday at four, Jonathan slipped out of work, flew home on his bike, collected the dogs and set off for the vet. It felt like an adventure. The Vet. He’d never had any reason to visit a vet and he wondered if the waiting room would be filled with exotic animals leading hidden lives behind closed doors. He pictured an elderly white tiger, retired from showbiz in Las Vegas, now living in a musty mansion overlooking Central Park with only his trainer’s ancient widow for company. Or maybe a piranha in a tank on wheels. Or a bad-tempered chinchilla (he tried to picture a chinchilla but could only come up with a grey-striped fur coat) and a Galapagos tortoise, smuggled out of Ecuador in a valise back when Customs didn’t mind people transporting endangered animals in hand luggage.

  The veterinary hospital was housed in a handsome brownstone and they entered through a door on the ground floor. The ten-year-old receptionist (her voice instantly recognizable) turned out to be a young woman the approximate size and shape of a bank vault. She introduced herself as Iris and handed him a clipboard with some forms to fill out, the first of which required his credit-card details.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Um . . . can you tell me what Dr Clare de . . . what Dr Clare charges for a visit?’

  ‘It all depends on what’s required. A basic no-tests half-hour consultation starts at $85.’ She smiled at him in a slightly fixed manner and returned to her laptop.

  They waited ten minutes until a soft buzzer caused Iris to stand up, open one of the three doors that led off the waiting room and point inside. ‘It’s your turn,’ she trilled sweetly, and for a split-second Jonathan imagined a firing squad within, twelve men in uniforms of the French Foreign Legion, rifles poised, a debonair French poodle in a beret smoking a Gitane, waiting to give the signal to fire with a laconic paw.

  Instead, a tall young woman with short choppy hair, no make-up and a serious expression shook his hand.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. Her accent was English. ‘You must be Sissy.’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Jonathan said, momentarily confused by the greeting. He pushed the spaniel forward like a shy child at dancing school.

  ‘If you’ll just put her on the scale.’

  He led Sissy on to the large scale and held her for a moment.

  ‘OK.’ Dr Clare tapped the result into her computer. ‘Let’s get her up on the table.’

  Jonathan lifted her up and the vet listened to Sissy’s heart. ‘Good girl,’ she said, feeling carefully down each leg, stretching the hip joints up and back and the shoulder joints out and forward. ‘OK.’ She bent the ankles, pressed down with expert fingers along either side of Sissy’s spine and looked at her teeth.

  ‘You’re a lovely girl and you look fine. Let’s check your friend.’

  Jonathan led Dante on to the scale, then hoisted him on to the table where the vet repeated the same procedures, checking legs, heart, joints, back and teeth.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, after a minute. ‘You can hop down now.’

  Jonathan set Dante back on to the floor as Dr Clare completed the computer file.

  At last she turned to him. ‘So. They both seem to be in excellent shape. Are you just here for a registration check-up? Or is there a problem?’

  ‘Well,’
Jonathan looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes and no.’

  Dr Clare’s smooth brow creased.

  ‘They seem . . . I don’t know quite how to put this. You see, they’re not my dogs. My brother left them with me for six months. I don’t know much about dogs. But I’m worried that they’re not happy.’

  She looked at him. ‘Are there disturbing behaviours? Tail chasing? Gnawing? Incessant whining? Aggression?’

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘No. None of that.’

  ‘Are they eating?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure they’re getting the same pleasure out of food that they used to.’

  Dr Clare blinked. ‘Pleasure?’

  ‘I know they’re dogs,’ he said, struggling to explain. ‘But I get a feeling they’re dissatisfied. Dante should be herding sheep, at the very least. He’s so intelligent. And Sissy . . . she doesn’t complain, but I often get a sense that she’s missing something. Grouse? I don’t know. They both just seem a bit – off.’ He glanced at Dante, whose face was entirely blank. ‘Look at him. Can you see what I mean? Sometimes I get the feeling that he’s . . . angry.’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘Untapped potential,’ Jonathan said. ‘Sissy, now she’s not the angry type. But even she’s trying incredibly hard to be cheerful. Sometimes I feel she just ends up feeling sad.’

  Jonathan looked at Dr Clare and she looked back at him. He could see the workings of her brain. Idiot, she was thinking. You’re one of those time-wasting American idiots.

  Dr Clare took a deep breath, exhaled and half-shut her eyes. ‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ she said. ‘Your dogs seem fine to me. More than fine, they’re lovely dogs.’ She paused. ‘It’s true that city dogs don’t always get enough exercise or attention. Is there somewhere you can play ball with them? What about day care? Maybe get a dog walker in? Or leave Kongs when you go out. Stuffed with kibble and peanut butter. It can take hours to extract everything from a Kong.’