The Big New Yorker Book of Dogs

by The New Yorker Magazine

  He pretended he was going to vomit. He still regretted it.

  He made the gagging sound, and leaned over the side of the bed and let on he was emptying himself. He’d done it before, and she’d always laughed. Not this time.

  He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d thought he was just being funny. She’d said nothing about it.

  He Googled menopause, but he soon gave up. Age of onset, cessation of menses; it was boring. Hot flushes—he had one of them every time he went up the stairs. But he kept an eye on her. He clucked sympathetically when he saw her sweating. He brought her a glass of water and put it beside the bed. She stared at him before she thanked him.

  The chest hair was next. His. He woke up sweating one morning. The room was bright. The sun was already pushing through the curtains. She was leaning right over him, looking straight down at his chest.

  —Gray, she said.

  —What?

  There was something there, a pain—the memory. She’d done something to him while he was asleep.

  —There’s gray in your hair.

  He was sure of it. She’d pulled the hair on his chest. She looked now like she was going to peck him, the way she was hanging there.

  —Did you pull my hair? he said.

  He could hear himself ask the question, almost like he wasn’t the one talking. He wasn’t sure he was awake.

  She didn’t answer.

  —And white, she said.

  —Did you?

  —What?

  —Pull my hair.

  —What? Why would I do that?

  She said it like she was miles away, or on the phone to someone else. Someone she didn’t think much of.

  He got up on one of his elbows. He looked down at his chest; he tried to see it properly. His eyes swam a bit. Her back was to him; she was getting up. She held her nightdress down as she climbed out of the bed.

  —It’s not really something you think about, is it? she said. What happens to you when you get older.

  She was standing now, looking behind the curtain, out the window.

  —It’s a bit horrible, she said.

  —It’s only hair.

  He’d had gray hair for a good while. It had started in his early thirties, on his head. A few at the side, just above his ears. She’d liked it; so she’d said. She’d said it made him look distinguished. A bit like Bill Clinton. You expected the hair on your head to change; you knew it was coming. But not the chest hair, or the pubic stuff. So she was right: it was a bit horrible.

  “I’ve got the bowl, the bone, the big yard. I know I should be happy.”

  He’d examined himself that morning. He’d looked no different. He took his glasses off so he could look at his face properly. He was still there, the same man. It was frightening, though, how little time you got. You became yourself when you were twenty-three or twenty-four. A few years later, you had an old man’s chest hair. It wasn’t worth it. He put his glasses back on.

  He didn’t decide to throw out the statue. One of the saints—he couldn’t remember which one, a woman. A present from one of her aunts. He’d just picked it up, walking past it in the hall. Kept walking, into the kitchen, threw it in the bin. Tied the bag, brought it out to the wheelie, dropped it in. Went back to the kitchen and put a new biodegradable bag into the bin. The mark was there on the table, where the statue had been; the varnish was much darker, like a badge—“Something Used to Be Here.” She’d never asked about it; she’d never said anything. He’d never felt guilty. She’d never tried to cover the mark; she’d never rearranged the crap on the table, and neither had he.

  But she’d thrown out his medal. Not that he gave a fuck. But she had.

  The statue first. They’d both laughed at it, when the aunt was in the taxi, going home, the night she’d given it to them. The big blue eyes, the snakes at the saint’s plaster feet. He’d put it on the table in the hall; he’d made room for it. It was him who’d done it. He’d made a ceremony of it. This was the first Christmas they’d been in the house, two years after the wedding. They’d laughed, and she’d kissed him.

  He just picked it up and threw it in the bin. He didn’t know he was going to do it. He just did. He’d often hoped she’d ask him about it, because he could have told her. It could have been the beginning of something; they’d have talked. But she didn’t, and he didn’t.

  The medal. It was the only one he’d ever won. The Community Games, Football—Under 10s. North Dublin. Runners-up. He remembered the final, losing three-nil, and not caring once he had the medal. And not caring much about the medal, either. His mother had put it away, in the glass cabinet in the front room. She’d given it to him when he’d moved into his own house, along with all his old school reports and his Inter and Leaving Certs and a few photographs: the team in their stripy jerseys, him at the front, smiling and freezing; him and his big sister on the back of a donkey-and-cart, both of them squinting; him in his first suit, the flared trousers, grinning and squinting, the day before his first real job. He could remember his father with the camera. “Smile, smile. Stop bloody squinting.” He’d told his father to fuck off and walked straight out to the street. He could remember the noise of the trouser legs rubbing against each other.

  She hadn’t taken anything else. Just the medal. He hadn’t been looking for it. He’d just noticed it, gone. He’d kept the stuff in the big envelope his mother had put it into, with “Joe” in her shaky writing on it. He’d kept it in a drawer in the bedroom, under socks and T-shirts. Over the years, the shape of the medal had been pressed into the paper of the envelope. Not the little footballer, or the “1969,” or any of the other details. Just the circular shape. He’d been looking for a sock to match another one, and—he didn’t know why—he’d put his finger on the circle and realized there was nothing under it. He took out the envelope and opened it. The medal was gone.

  He searched the drawer. More than once. He took everything out. He shook all the socks. He slid the whole lot out of the envelope, and put it all back, one thing at a time. He tried the other drawers. He pulled the chest of drawers away from the wall and looked behind it. He took all the drawers out to see if the medal had slipped to the side, if it was standing on its edge on one of the plywood slats that held the drawers in place.

  He put everything back.

  He had no doubt at all: she’d done it.

  But then the dog came into the house. They got a dog. She got the dog. A Jack Russell, a thoroughbred, papers and all. A mad little thing. It was there yapping at his heels when he got home from work.

  —What’s this? he said.

  —What’s it look like?

  —A dog.

  —There you go.

  —Whose is it?

  —Ours, she said. Mine.

  —Serious?

  —Yeah.

  He looked down at it.

  —Let go of me fuckin’ trousers, he said.

  But he’d liked it, immediately. He’d had dogs when he was a kid. There’d always been a dog. Dogs were all right.

  She gave it the name. Emma. From a book she liked, and the film, by Jane Austen. But it still ran around the kitchen in circles and knocked its head against the rungs beneath the chairs. It never stopped. It was always charging around the gaff, or asleep, beside its mat at the back door. Never on the mat, always right beside it. It was a great dog. Didn’t shed too much hair, was too small to jump onto the good furniture, learned to scratch at the door and yap when it wanted to get outside. Only shat in the kitchen now and again, and always looked apologetic. So it was grand. But he soon began to realize that they weren’t living with the same animal. She talked to it; she had a special voice she used. She’d buy a bag of jelly babies and share them, one for her, one for the dog. There was a child in the house, before he really understood.

  He got up one morning and she was down there before him, filling the kettle. The dog had taken a dump beside the mat.

  —Emma had an accident, she said.

>   —As long as it wasn’t you, he said.

  She laughed and he bent down, got the dog by the scruff, and pushed its snout into the shite. He unlocked the back door with his free hand and threw the dog outside, lobbed it gently, so it would land on its feet.

  And she exploded. She actually hit him. She smacked him on the back, a loud whack that didn’t hurt but shocked him. She hit him again. More of a thump this time—his shoulder.

  —What was that for?

  —What d’you think you’re doing?

  The two of them breathing hard.

  He didn’t hit her back. He didn’t even think about it, or lift his hand or anything.

  He knew immediately what she meant, and why she was furious. Now that she was. He could see.

  —That’s how you train them, he said.

  —No, it isn’t.

  —It is.

  It was how they’d trained their dogs at home, when he was a kid. Nose in the dirt, out the door. It had always worked.

  —What other way is there?

  He never mentioned the fact that she’d hit him. He never brought it up again, that the only one who’d ever been violent was her.

  She signed them up for training classes. One evening a week, for eight weeks. They brought the dog to a big barn of a place, an actual barn beside an abandoned farmhouse, at the back of the airport. It was a strange, flat landscape. There was the ruin of a castle on one side of the road and the airport runway on the other, just a couple of fields away. He could look straight up at the bellies of the planes. The dog trainers were lovely, three soft-spoken girls who loved the dogs and the racket and the smell. He enjoyed it. They both did. The dog was quick on the uptake, all the sits and the stays, and it was fine with the other dogs. He enjoyed getting there, and coming home. They had to drive through Ballymun and over the M50 motorway. They’d comment on the changes, all the old tower blocks knocked down, the new buildings going up. There was one time, on the road that ran right beside the runway, they saw something ahead—two things—getting clearer and sharper. It was two horses, pulling buggies, racing, on both sides of the road. He drove onto the hard shoulder, and they watched the horses trot past, and two Traveller kids in the buggies—they didn’t even look at the car as they flew by.

  —Jesus.

  —That’s disgraceful.

  —Is it?

  —It’s dangerous.

  —That’s for sure.

  He got out of the car—she did, too—and they watched the buggies till they were too far away, waiting to see if any other cars or trucks came at them. But the road was empty.

  —I wonder who won, she said.

  —Don’t know, he said. A draw. I’d love to do it, myself.

  —Yeah, she said. Not here, though.

  —No.

  “If you lie down with pugs, you wake up with pugs.”

  They got back in and went on to the training center.

  Another time, they drove past a family of Romanians, Gypsies, about seven of them, walking along the same road, beside the runway. It was like they’d just climbed over the perimeter fence and they were making a break for the city. But, really, they were strolling along, and he’d no idea where to. He couldn’t even imagine. There wasn’t a shop or a house.

  —Why would they want to be out here? she asked.

  —Reminds them of home.

  —Stop that.

  —They’re left alone out here, he said. That’s my guess.

  —You’re probably right, she said. It’s like a no man’s land, isn’t it?

  —Yeah, he said. It’s nowhere.

  —It’s sad, though. Isn’t it?

  —I suppose it is.

  Driving back home, after the training, they saw the Romanians again, off the road this time, on the island in the center of the M50 roundabout; there were kids going into the bushes. He realized it slowly, and so did she. The car was off the roundabout and going through Ballymun before she spoke.

  —They live in there, she said.

  —What?

  —The Romanians, she said. They’re living in the roundabout.

  —It looked like it, all right.

  —In the bushes.

  —Yeah.

  —Jesus.

  —Yeah.

  They brought the dog to the barn every Wednesday night, for the eight weeks. The dog could walk, stop, sit, stay, and shit, and there were no more rows or misunderstandings. She fed the dog. He picked the shit up off the grass in the back garden. And he brought the dog down to Dollymount Strand for a run, on the mornings when he didn’t have an early start. And those mornings were the best thing about having the dog. He’d park the car and walk toward the wooden bridge, with the docks and the city behind it, and Dun Laoghaire to the left, across the bay, and the mountains. He saw herons one morning, two of them, standing still in the water. He’d never seen herons before; he hadn’t even known that there were herons in Ireland. They didn’t budge when the dog ran at them, until the last second. Then they were up together, and they flew off slowly, dragging their legs behind them, and they settled again, in the shallow water farther down the beach. It thrilled him to see that. He loved the whole thing. Even when it rained—when the rain came at him sideways, straight off the sea, and he was soaking before he’d really started—he loved it. But he’d never have done it on his own. He’d never have been comfortable by himself, walking along the empty beach in the morning. He’d have felt strange. What was he doing there, all by himself? But with the dog it was fine. He didn’t have to explain anything, to himself or to anyone else. He was walking the dog. Throwing a ball. Both of them getting their exercise.

  Then the dog went missing.

  He came home, and Mary was already there. Her eyes were huge and angry and terrified.

  —You left the gate open.

  —I didn’t, he said. What gate?

  —The side gate.

  —I didn’t.

  —It was open.

  —I didn’t touch it, he said. Oh fuck, the dog.

  He’d forgotten about the dog.

  —I went out, she said. I couldn’t find her.

  —She’ll be grand, he said. Hang on.

  He went out to his car and came back with the street atlas. He divided the neighborhood; he stayed calm. They’d get into their cars. She’d go right, he’d go left.

  —She can’t be gone too far.

  He didn’t believe that. He was already thinking about the next dog.

  —D’you want a cup of tea before we go? he asked her.

  He thought he was handling it well. She was crying. He wanted to hug her, but it was a long time since they’d done that. He knew she was angry. He’d look—he’d genuinely look for the dog. He’d stay out all night. He’d search everywhere. And he’d be delighted if he found it—he could feel it in his chest. But they’d been away all day. Nine hours. He’d left first—he remembered shouting “Seeyeh” up the stairs, just before he’d closed the front door. But he hadn’t been outside, in the back garden. He’d let the dog out—he remembered that. He’d been first down to the kitchen. The dog had stood up and stretched. He’d gone straight over to the door, to let it out. He’d had his coffee and his banana, and he’d gone. But the gate. He hadn’t opened it. The night before? No. He couldn’t remember touching the gate. It hadn’t happened.

  They went out to the cars together.

  —What if she comes back when we’re gone?

  —It’s not likely, is it?

  —I just thought—

  —I know, but she’s never been out on her own before.

  —I know.

  —Let’s stick to Plan A, he said. What d’you think?

  —O.K., she said.

  He was looking at the side gate now, open.

  —Would you prefer to stay here? he said. In case.

  —No, she said. It’s better if we both do it.

  —Grand.

  They didn’t find the dog. He stayed out till after m
idnight. He drove past the house, twice, until he saw her car parked outside. Then he parked his own and went in.

  —No luck?

  —No, she said.

  She didn’t look at him. She was sitting at the kitchen table. Then she looked, and stopped.

  —The bloody gate, she said.

  —It wasn’t me, he said. I don’t think it was. It isn’t bin day.

  —Bin day?

  —Yeah. Bin day. The day in the week when I put out the bin. When I open the side gate. Every fuckin’ week for the last twenty fuckin’ years. Sorry.

  He sat. He stood up. She looked at him.

  —I’m sorry, too, she said.

  He sat.

  —What’ll we do?

  —I don’t know.

  They went up to bed together and fell asleep, more or less, together. He was first out again in the morning. He didn’t shout “Seeyeh” up the stairs. He couldn’t.

  He hadn’t opened the gate.

  He looked at it before be started the car. It was still open. He got out of the car and shut it.

  It was open again when he got home.

  —In case Emma comes back, she told him.

  —Oh, he said. Fair enough.

  They were out again that night, putting up little posters she’d designed and photocopied, in the shops and on lampposts. “Missing,” and a photo of the dog, then “Emma—Beloved Pet.” And their phone number and her mobile number. He went left, she went right. He was home first. He fell asleep on the couch. She was in bed when he went up. She wasn’t asleep—he knew—but she didn’t move or say anything.

  They got a few calls.

  —I seen your dog.

  —How much is the reward?

  —I ate Emma.

  Kids mostly, messing. And a couple of weird ones. Three in the morning.

  —Hello? Are you Emma’s dad?

  —Emma’s a dog.

  —Yes.

  He was putting the phone down. He could hear the woman at the other end still talking. He put it back to his ear.