This Is Not Your City

by Caitlin Horrocks

  “My wife and I wanted to get the jump on the Sunday ads. We’ve been looking for a dog and we were interested in poodles, so when we saw your ad—”

  “She’s purebred, from a breeder near Kansas City. I’ve got the American Kennel Association papers. She’s been taken good care of. Shots, and spayed, although I think she’s past puppies by now.”

  “What’s her name?” Leo asked, scratching around the dog’s ears until she started to wag so hard her whole butt waggled. Leo’s awfully good with dogs. Good with people, too; he asked all the right questions, about health conditions, about how much exercise old Muffy needed, whether she could be let off a leash. “We have a nice piece,” he said. “In the country outside of Neosho. She’d have room to run around.”

  “It sounds lovely,” Mrs. Sidore said. “Honestly I was worried, with the dog being old, that she’d be hard to place. I don’t suppose families with kids would want her, knowing she’ll die and having to explain it.”

  “It’s just my wife and I right now,” Leo said. “And we don’t have time to train a puppy.”

  “Well, Mr. Tillet, the ad was Free to a Good Home and you seem a good home and she’s still free. I’ll grab her papers, if you’re decided, and a box of her things.”

  Our house is full of dog bowls, and Muffy wouldn’t need toys, but Leo let Mrs. Sidore get them. I held the dog on my lap as we drove away. On the next block we stopped and Leo unlocked the back of the van. He has kennel space for six dogs back there. We locked Muffy into a cage with a dish of water and one of the toys from her box, and Leo checked the next house on his list against his map.

  Leo’s lucky we’ve got a good neighbor, by which I mean we never see each other, and never give each other any trouble. His house is on the far end of his property, and even on a clear night the sound from our yard doesn’t travel. If we actually wanted to let Muffy roam free, he wouldn’t say boo about it. Mouse and I, our neighbor growing up was Mr. Martin, who had a house just like ours except that ours was yellow and his was green. One summer he decided to have a big yard sale, and got all his buddies to bring over every piece of old furniture they could find, either on consignment or just to save them a trip to the dump. Offer the customers a wide selection, he kept saying, lining couches up along his driveway and across his front yard until his entire property was covered over like a furniture store, chairs in one corner, desks in another, big appliances, like an old fridge with a bright chrome handle, back by his garage. He seemed to do okay. People came and hauled some stuff away, or shook on something and promised to be back later for it. The next weekend, though, he still had half a Goodwill store spread out over his lawn. That weekend it rained, and in the morning all the furniture was soaking. Mouse and I balanced on the backs of the couches, knocking each other off onto the cushions and listening to the squelch. Pools of water rose up in perfect footprints where we stepped, and the beginnings of a smell, damp and lush, curled from the upholstery. Mr. Martin chased us off that morning, and stood for a while on his lawn, reaching his right arm over his head to scratch at the back of his neck. Mouse and I stared at the hair growing in his armpit and wondered what he’d do.

  Of course, the easiest thing to do with a yard full of soaking furniture is nothing at all, and for years that’s what Mr. Martin seemed settled on doing. He gave up trying to run us off, and in winter we made snow forts out of the sofas, pelted each other with secret stores of snowballs hidden under chairs and in desk drawers. After the first winter’s snow melted, the smell had taken hold. The furniture was wet and moldering, the wood splitting with rot, the cushions mildewing. A pair of raccoons had started a den underneath a loveseat, and a skunk had a nest of babies under a recliner. Mouse and I would jump onto the loveseat, both together, on the count of three. When our feet pounded the springs the raccoons would shriek and shoot out. We played hide and seek and once Mouse accidentally locked herself in the old fridge, but I found her and let her out.

  One family Leo and I visited that Sunday had already placed their dog. A few more were playing coy, taking our information and giving us the third degree. The fat guy with the Akita had a long list of names on a yellow legal pad, but the lady with the Bichon Frisé just wrote Leo’s name and number at the top of a blank page. “I’ve had a few people show some interest. I’ll let you know,” she said, and you could tell she hadn’t, but she was mighty suspicious of why a guy like Leo would want a dog like a Bichon. We picked up a chocolate Labrador from a couple who was moving to a one bedroom apartment in Kansas City in a week. An English terrier from an old woman whose family was putting her in a nursing home. She tried to serve us tea and tiny little shortbread cookies, but she dropped the cookies into the tea and didn’t seem to notice. The tea was in these white china cups, and you could look down inside and see the cookie dissolving, settling in a thick layer across the bottom. The dog was skinny, with long nails, like the woman couldn’t remember how to take care of it. She kissed Leo on the cheek when he took the terrier into his arms.

  The summer Mouse locked herself in the fridge was the summer Mr. Martin started locking himself out of his garage. The first time it happened, Mouse was alone, playing at Boat, trying to hop as far across his yard as she could without touching the ground, which was really water and full of sharks. She’d asked me to play and I’d refused, just because I was five years older and I could, even though when we stood on chairs and rocked back and forth we moved in rhythm, without even trying, because we could feel the same waves.

  “Hey, Mouse,” Mr. Martin said. “I seem to have a problem.” The neighborhood was quiet and I was on our front porch, reading, so I could hear as he explained how he’d locked himself out of his garage, and how there was a small window, tiny, around the back, that he didn’t think he’d fit through, but Mouse surely would, and I remember hearing her agree, and it follows that I must have heard the garage door grind open and then fall shut again, but I don’t remember noticing. I remember that she was gone a long time, and that I got impatient, because I’d decided I wanted to play Boat after all, and I wanted to hear what Mr. Martin’s garage looked like on the inside, and then I remember being annoyed because when Mouse finally came back to our house she wouldn’t play Boat, and she wouldn’t tell me about Mr. Martin’s garage. She wouldn’t tell me anything. She just shrugged and went to her room, and it was a long time before I could make her come out.

  It was late afternoon, and we thought people might be sitting down to Sunday dinner, so Leo swung by the Neosho County Animal Impoundment Facility. It’s not a real pound, like in an old cartoon, but where the cops put the dogs who’ve been seized, taken from abusive homes, or the really messed-up strays. Nobody cares what happens to them anymore; the cops aren’t like the Humane Society, checking you out to see if you can provide your Time and Love and A Little Piece of Yourself to every adoptee. The cops just want the crazy dogs out of their hair, so they don’t ask too many questions. Leo pulled the van right up to the gates, the back outfitted with his cages and kennels, the poodle and the lab and terrier in there already yelping at each other. Should have raised everybody’s eyebrows, and instead they’re all like, how convenient. You came prepared. Leo picked out two, a boxer mix and a pinscher mix. The cops had already had the dogs’ toenails cut down, and Leo was wearing gloves, so he got them muzzled and in the back all right. Once the van started up, though, the new dogs howled and barked and rattled around. “Listen to that racket back there,” Leo said. “Good riddance, am I right?”

  The summer Mouse locked herself in the fridge I’d find her with popsicles, the kind that pull apart, and I’d ask her for halves, but she’d refuse to share. I spied on her, and found out that she got them from Mr. Martin, as thanks for unlocking his garage door from the inside, which she seemed to have to do a lot those days, and I wondered if Mr. Martin was much older than he looked, and was getting to be the forgetful kind of crazy that old people got to be. I asked her if the next time Mr. Martin locked himself out I could
open the door for him, and get a popsicle, and when she looked at me and shook her head, I called her selfish.

  We were driving back through Webb City to get on the highway, head home for the day, when I saw the FOUND DOG sign. We were stopped at a red light, and I put my finger on the car window where the sign was, so if you squinted my index finger was petting the Dalmatian’s head. “That’s a gorgeous dog,” I said. “The owner must be freaking out.”

  Leo looked over where I was pointing, and instead of going straight on green he turned right, pulled over, hopped out and tore the flyer off the pole. “Truman Street,” he said. “You know where that is?”

  “I can look at the map,” I said, and I did, without even asking him why he wanted to know. I didn’t think we’d go there; that’s how dumb I am, sometimes.

  “What do you think?” Leo asked. “Should we give it a shot?”

  “Give what a shot?”

  He held the flyer up next to his face, like he was asking if I thought there was a resemblance.

  “It’s not for taking,” I said. “They’re just looking for the owner.”

  “They been looking for a while,” Leo said, shaking the paper. The flyer was stiff and rumpled, like it had gotten rained on and had time to dry.

  “It rained yesterday. We don’t know how long that’s been up.”

  “Let me just find out then. Let me call and see if they’ve still got the dog.”

  I didn’t see the harm in that, maybe because I don’t see a lot of things I ought to. The dog hadn’t been picked up, and when Leo made a sound in his throat like joy, like relief, when he thanked the person on the phone for making up those flyers, I knew we were locked into going.

  “You don’t even know the dog’s name,” I said on the way over, trying to protest and navigate at the same time, which didn’t work out so well because the whole time I was giving reasons not to go, I was interrupting myself with the turns he had to make to get there.

  “I can do this,” he said.

  “The dog belongs to someone. It probably ran away and some poor family is tearing their hair out looking for it.”

  “Since when do you care about that?”

  “Since always. You bunch unwanted dogs. This is a Wanted Dog.”

  “I want it.”

  “It’s Wanted by someone who isn’t just going to sell it on in a week for a little cash.”

  “Not a little. A lot of cash. Jorgen told me at the market in Lamar that Parke-Davis needs Dalmatians. They want to test an eye medication. Something to do with all the genetic blindness in the breed. They’re paying top dollar.”

  “To Jorgen. Not to you.”

  “He’ll give a fair cut.”

  I studied the picture on the flyer. “I don’t think this one’s blind.”

  “Doesn’t need to be. They want sighted ones, too. Controls, or maybe they drug them and then blind them or something.”

  “You’re a jerk,” I said, but Leo didn’t think I meant it.

  When I found Mouse in the fridge, I called her stupid. “Stupid stupid stupid,” I said. “You stuck yourself in a refrigerator.” I pronounced all five syllables of the word, because maybe I didn’t get to open garage doors and eat double-sized popsicles, but I was her big sister, and Mouse had better learn it.

  “I’m hiding,” Mouse said, and I noticed that she’d been crying but didn’t seem scared, not of running out of air or being trapped forever with her feet in a crisper drawer.

  “Fine,” I said, because I’d expected her to be grateful to me for finding her and letting her out, and instead I was learning that she wasn’t scared of any of the things I’d be scared of, and I didn’t understand anymore what did scare her. “Hide, then.” I shut the door on her, and when I finally opened it she tried to bolt past me, like the raccoons when we startled them, but she was all folded up from being squeezed in the fridge, and she fell out on her knees. I laughed at her as she picked herself up and walked across the yard into our house. She felt very far away then, and I followed to catch up, but even when we were in the same room after that the feeling stayed, like I’d stretched one of her hair ties too far and made it useless as a string, all the elastic gone out of it.

  Leo went up the front walk of 1206 Truman Street with a leash slung over his shoulder, a pink nylon collar dangling down his back. The flyer had said “she,” so Leo took the collar off Muffy, the dead woman’s poodle, and attached a lead. He left Muffy’s tags in the driver’s side drink holder.

  He rang the doorbell, which set a dog to barking somewhere inside. The man who answered the door was bald on top, round about the middle, with a polo shirt and a nice smile. Leo was still shaking his hand, saying “Hello, Mr. Minton. Dale, if that’s all right,” when the Dalmatian came up behind the man and pressed its head between his legs, barking at Leo. Not aggressive, but curious, just checking out what’s what. Leo knelt down and caught the dog’s collar, leaning over her so all Dale Minton could see was the top of Leo’s head, his shiny hair, pulled back neat. I could see Leo reaching for the collar, catching the tags between his fingers for a quick glance. “Perdita,” he said. “Oh, Honey. I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Perdita. Like the Disney movie,” I said. “101 Dalmations.”

  Leo glared, because I wasn’t helping.

  “Yeah,” Dale said. “My kids loved the name. They have the movie on video.”

  “Is that right?” Leo said, admiringly.

  “So this is your dog, then?”

  “Sure is. Where’d you find her?”

  “Out in the street. We worried she’d get hit.”

  “My wife thinks she left the gate open, and Perdita’s got a wandering streak.” Leo let his hands roam over Perdita’s head, behind her flapping ears, under them, down her neck and under her muzzle. He reached for her belly and stroked her sides. He found a place on her stomach that made her sigh, and pulled back to let Dale see. “She always seems to have an itch right about here,” Leo said, and drove his fingers in until the dog whuffed and turned her head up to lick Leo’s face. “Bit tricky to find, but scratch it and she’s yours forever.”

  “Is there a Pongo?”

  “Like the movie? We’d like to, someday. A Pongo and some puppies, Rolly and Dopey and Dancer and Vixen, or whatever they were.”

  “Dopey’s a dwarf,” I said. “And the other two were reindeer.”

  “Then I’ll let you do the naming, Honey,” Leo said, and the voice he used with me was a lot sharper than the one he used with the dog.

  After that things went fast. Leo was gearing up for more questions, where we lived, how long we’d had the dog, but Dale seemed satisfied. Perdita was in heaven, and Leo looked in love, bending his face down so her long, flat, tongue could lick his cheek. Dale called the kids into the front hall to say their goodbyes, and Leo offered him some reward money. Dale shook his head. He seemed like an upstanding kind of guy. When we pulled away I had Perdita in my lap. I assumed Leo would pull over in a couple of streets to move her to the back, but he never did. We drove the forty-five minutes home that way, with the dog cradled in my lap, her head out the window, tongue hanging out, drooling for joy.

  At home Leo got the dogs settled in the kennels out back. It was a good haul, he said, all hale and healthy, serum dogs for sure. That’s not saying all that much. A dog only needs to look like it’ll last seven days to be a serum dog. After that it’s a question of degree. Acute dogs look likely to drop dead in twenty-four hours or less. The laboratories don’t have much use for them. They’re sold lot rate, in bulk, like coffee beans at the supermarket. Leo doesn’t have the USDA license to sell direct, but Jorgen does. There are lots of regulars, all Class B Dealer licensed. They show up at the Pick-n-Trades, the flea markets, all over Neosho County. After the dogs are out of Leo’s hands, they’re on their way to a lab. Pharmaceuticals, or cosmetics, biology departments or medical schools. Leo bunches regular and knows what he’s doing: good breeds, good animals, healthy enough to bri
ng serum price. He’ll come home with as much in his pocket as a week at National Beef.

  The first night Perdita was caged out back she howled for hours. The moon was almost full, soft and yellow like an egg yolk. I tried to sleep, pressed my head down into the pillow, into the curve of Leo’s shoulder, which is bony but still nice to sleep on. I tried to wedge my hands against my ears, but I couldn’t not-hear the way I’m used to. I got out of bed and went outside. Some of the dogs were sleeping, the old hands, the slow breathing inmates who didn’t pay Perdita any mind. The dogs from today, the poodle, the terrier, the chocolate lab, the boxer and the pinscher, were all anxious. Perdita stopped howling for a moment to look at me, then just tilted her head back up and screamed. The moon was bright and her white coat glowed, with the spots standing out like little patches of night, spreading, eating away at her like Leo’s gangrene, until there’d be no glowing left. Her teeth were shiny and the light made her eyes look bright and flat. There was a breeze that whipped between my knees and under the long T-shirt I wear to bed, but there was no one to be modest for except the dogs. I stepped closer to the kennels and the grass under my feet went to dirt, packed hard and scrabbled by dog toes. I put my hand on the latch to Perdita’s cage. I stood there, just like that, thinking about all the useless things that might happen if I let her go. The way she might be hit by a truck on the highway trying to scent her way cross-county, or how Leo’d be angry but mostly just confused, at why I’d do a thing like that, take money out of his pocket and bread off our table. How Leo’d always been decent to me, but I’d seen the unkindness in him, and I didn’t want to see it again pointed in my direction. How if Perdita had managed to get lost in Webb City, she’d probably never find home from way out here. How if I let her out, not much good would come of it for anyone. She’d stopped howling while I stood there, looking at me with eyes that were probably supposed to be pleading, but in the night were flat and fierce and reflective. “Sorry, Honey,” I said, and stepped away from the cage, and the dog started up again, piercing and pathetic. She howled every night for the week before Joplin, until Leo came home without her and I slept a little better.