by Dan Dillard
..ooOOoo..
GEOMETRY
I always hated math, but I loved geometry.
It’s just a corner.
An edge.
A simple piece of geometry.
It doesn’t do anything but keep straight lines from going straight, and yet, here I sit perplexed by the way today turned out. And there it sits with all of my answers.
Was I paying attention? Yes. I think I was.
I was paying attention. I only ask because it will be the first thing she asks me when she finds me here. It will be something the police will ask as well, but it will be routine for them, maybe the fourth or fifth question down the list. The wife will ask it first thing. I have questions too, some that will never find answers.
I saw the thing scamper off–the scaly thing. None of that makes sense, though. For now it’s just another question in a very long list. Had I done something to cause this? Had I somehow summoned that thing? Why was I the only witness?
It would make me ever happier to have the situation shifted. Of course I want them back more than anything, but given they are gone…given that, I need to know what happened more than anything. I wish I could’ve come home to find them missing instead of having watched them go.
In the past, I came home from work and picked the children up. They cleaned up their mess and said good bye to their next-door buddies. I thanked my neighbor for her trouble and we all made the short happy trek home where familiar and friendly things awaited us.
One hundred times? Five hundred times?
This time, I must’ve stood at said neighbor’s door a moment too long exchanging pleasantries, perhaps making weekend plans for a get-together, who knows? I can’t recall the specifics. Everything prior to now is a blur.
My two girls sprinted from that porch, gleefully stomping boot prints into the fresh snow as I walked the sidewalk route, admittedly longer, but it was shoveled and dry and I was only a few seconds behind them. The abrupt disappearance of their laughter should have clued me in, but maybe a cold breeze across my frozen ears drowned it out.
I walked to my own driveway and looked up to the porch where they would normally wait asking for the keys and calming the barking dog through the front door.
“Shh, buddy. It’s just us,” they would say. Not that day. That day there was silence and stillness. The porch was empty. The big garage door was down. Perhaps I’d left it open when I pulled in prior to walking to the neighbor’s house and they closed it as a joke. Toying with dear old dad. Ha ha.
Using my key in the dead bolt, I pushed my way into the entry and listened—nothing but a dog at my feet wagging his tail, glad for my arrival, hungry for dinner. I ran up the stairs looking and listening for them. I was alone. I burst through the door leading from the kitchen to the garage thinking they are still taking off heavy snow boots and scarves and gloves and waterproof pants and jackets but it was barren, save the vehicle I had driven home only minutes before. Had I picked them up in that car, they would be with me right now.
Opening the large bay door with the wall-mount remote, I went back outside. First I searched to my right, in between the houses, looking for a sign. There were clearly two sets of footprints, proof they ran from the neighbor’s front door through the fresh blanket of snow and toward the safety of home. Those footprints stopped well shy of our porch, and as I looked about, there weren’t any others aside from my own six steps on the concrete walkway.
My shook to match my chattering teeth. Either their leaping ability landed them on the roof, or they would still be standing there in those last four indentations. I moved back to my left. Around the left side of our house, I found the wooden gate that leads into our small backyard. I crept cautiously, looking for any clue to my girls’ whereabouts. Snow crunched below my shoes. I smelled something wild and gamey and then I saw its tail.
The tail poked out between the upright post of the fence and the open gate door, gray and scaly. It looked quite out of place on the snow covered ground. There aren’t many scaly vermin of that size in the whole world–many less, I imagine, that are at home in the snow. The tip wriggled back and forth in a cheerful rhythm like that of a playful cat. It might’ve been four feet long, but I had no way of knowing how far away that tip was from the rest of its body.
Carefully, I approached the gate as not to startle the foreign creature. It was a clumsy thought as it could surely smell the adrenaline laced sweat I was soaking in. I watched as the tail slid into the backyard, pulled by its unknown owner and leaving a trail in the snow.
It was then, with the greatest concern for my children, I collected enough courage to push the wooden door aside, bunching and piling snow behind it, only far enough to slip myself into the backyard.
There were flapping sounds—mighty sounds—as if giant wings were beating, and a flurry of frozen powder clouded my view. I felt its shadow over me as I shielded my eyes from the snow, but when I could look, it was gone. A departure so swift, I never caught a solid glimpse.
It left a strange indentation in the snow. Except for the tail, and a perfectly round stain of the deepest scarlet which punctuated the end of my search, it reminded me of the snow angels my girls frequently made in fresh fallen powder.
Still I sit here and wonder what I could have–should have done differently. I dread the choice I now have to make. Do I confess to murders of my own children and go to jail—murders I didn’t commit? Do I bear years of wasted police work to placate the broken heart of my wife who will never forgive me no matter what the outcome? Why should I lie?
I could tell them of the creature that took them. Of the glimpses I took, the flapping wings and the tail that lay there as it–oh God–as it chewed. Do I show them the spot, the snow angel it left behind? No one would believe a word. Did I really see it?
The longer I sit here in the cold, I wonder. Maybe I did kill them in a forgotten fit of rage, here in our backyard. I don’t think so, but for now, I’ll stare at the red snow and think about the corner that obstructed my view.
..ooOOoo..
INGRATE
I love dogs. Every kid should have one.
It was nothing special to look at. Not showy. A breed so mashed up, if you looked long enough, you could see pieces of just about any dog you wanted to look for. He was quiet and medium sized, good traits for a mutt going to a small yard with small kids. He watched us from his cage, oblivious to the chaos going on around him at the Humane Society, and never made a sound.
Never mind the hordes of children fawning over each animal. Never mind the choosy parents or other dogs losing their barking minds and showing off for a chance to get out, if only for a moment. He was still, patiently taking in the goings-on from his cell.
The pens were about four feet wide, maybe six feet deep and concrete. At the back was a rectangular hole in the wall with a clear plastic flap that looked like a tiny warehouse door. This was his escape to an outside pen, half concrete and half grass, for bathroom duties.
The front of the pen was a chain-link fence, each with a gate for individual access by the volunteer handlers. It looked like jail and I couldn’t help feeling for its inhabitants, wondering if this wouldn’t be the end of the road for many of them.
The tag on this particular cage said simply, Philip. It was a stupid name for a dog, but as many as go through those walls, it’s either reuse and recycle or just go down the list. Looking at the other tags, I saw Peter, Pauline, Perry and Patton, none of which suited their owners any better. I bet there was a book of baby names at the front desk. In it, each name would have a check mark up to ‘Philip’. When they ran out, they’d start over.
I looked back at the quiet dog, the one taking it all in and thought how wise this one must be. Of course he was the one my children chose.
“Look at him. He’s so cute,” they said. “I love him. I want this one, Daddy!”
My first thought was that the animal was sick. Listless, he had no personality and his face w
as somewhat misshapen like he had been kicked in the snout as a pup. There was no other info on his card so I questioned a member of the staff, making sure I was out of the children’s earshot.
“What’s the story with Philip?” I said.
An elderly woman behind the shelter’s counter paused, searching her memory, and then gave me a smile. “That one is precious. He’s quiet, might be a little shy, but he’ll warm up as soon as he’s out of that cage. By the looks of those teeth, he’s about a year old.”
She pulled up a file on her computer screen and read it through.
“He’s had all his shots…and is in fine health. Are you looking for a family dog? I saw your two little darlings,” she said.
“Uh huh,” I said, smiling. “Where’d he come from?”
She adjusted her bifocals and tapped the screen as she read. “It says here he was brought in two weeks ago. He had a collar, but no tags. We chip all our dogs, so he won’t get lost again.”
I nodded and glanced back at my girls, making sure they were still preoccupied and hadn’t snuck after me to eavesdrop. “Sounds good. Anything else I should know?”
“He was found wandering about. Whoever brought him in kept him for a couple weeks to see if an owner would claim him. I guess no one did,” she said.
So Phillip had obviously belonged to someone, an outside pet which ran off and got himself lost, perhaps. “Wonder why they didn’t keep him?”
“It doesn’t say, honey. But we’ve had no trouble out of that one.”
I got lost in thought for a moment when she interrupted.
“Would you like to take him for a walk? You can let the girls play with him for a bit, to see if he’s a good match. He’s a sweetheart.”
I glanced back at the kennel. Both girls were still cooing over him. I nodded at the woman and walked back to where they sat.
“Whatcha doin?” I asked.
They looked up, a wide, hopeful smile on each face. “We’re guarding the door so no one else takes him. Philip is so cute,” the youngest said.
I looked at the old woman and smiled. The choice had been made. “You girls want to take him outside and play for a minute?”
Their shrieks could’ve startled a banshee. Even the other dogs stifled their conversations for just a moment before the barking continued, and with renewed vitality. Phillip stood calmly and wagged his tail as if he understood what was going on.
The volunteer opened the pen and took him out on a lead that was little more than a slipknot in a rope and walked him past all the other barking dogs to a fenced-in area outside. He remained silent and unprovoked. In the play area, the girls chased him and petted him and scratched him and Phillip was charming enough. He spent most of the time sniffing, and showed great patience with their groping hands and startling ways. My girls were infatuated.
He fetched a ball, wagged his tail and licked our hands with gratitude. He was gentle, old enough for some self control, but still with a bit of puppy left. Best of all, he was the right size for our home and backyard.
“Daddy, please?” It was a chorus of unfair aimed at me. The wife, my usual ally, my partner in saying no and meaning it, had waited in the car. When we got to the car with our slightly used, tail-wagging friend, she sighed audibly to again let me know her vote. Smiles and giggles softened her a bit, and I thought she would come around eventually, but it was going to take some time. Secretly, I was happy. All kids should have a dog.
After the adoption fee, a checkup, heartworm pills, flea meds, food, bowls, collar, harness and toys, we were worn out and broke. The kids were beside themselves and wouldn’t let the dog rest.
“I can’t believe we got a puppy,” the little one squealed.
Her older sister stared at him the entire trip. He panted occasionally and watched out the window but never moved from the seat. Because he was still a stranger, I held him in the car. No sense risking him getting loose, or flipping out while the kids held him. Even if he didn’t bite, his nails could leave some nasty scratches.
My wife smiled, but didn’t really want pets, had made that as clear as distilled water. I could hear her thoughts. Great, another damned thing to take care of.
