The Mad and the MacAbre

by Jeff Strand

  After he finished making the twentieth sign, he questioned his judgment in putting "Boston Terrier" on there. If those were valuable dogs, people might try to falsely claim the one in his basement. Though he could certainly figure out a way to make potential owners prove that the dog truly belonged to them, he didn't want to be bothered with scam artists.

  He crumpled up all twenty signs and began the process again, writing simply "Found Dog" and his phone number. Then, armed with his signs and some scotch tape, he walked around the area for about half an hour, taping the signs to streetlamps, mailboxes, and newspaper boxes, as well as on the park bench where he'd found the dog. He returned home, turned up the heat, and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Charlie woke up out of a sound sleep and glanced over at the alarm clock. 1:21 AM.

  There was a strange noise in the house. He listened carefully for a moment, and then figured out what he was hearing: scratching.

  Why was that stupid dog scratching on the basement door? What could it possibly want at this time of night?

  He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the scratching didn't stop. The dog had food and it had water--did it just have an attitude problem? Charlie was a big believer in the merits of a good night's sleep, and if this dog didn't knock off the scratching, he'd kick it in the face.

  He counted slowly to five hundred. The scratching continued. With all the soundproofing, scratching on the door was pretty much the only sound he would hear from the basement. Figured.

  Charlie cursed, got out of bed, then walked in his underwear through the kitchen over to the basement door. He opened it and glared at the dog, which sat on the top step.

  "Don't do that," he said.

  The dog barked.

  "Don't do that, either," he told it.

  The dog pushed past his leg and ran into the kitchen. Charlie cursed again and went after it. If that dog wrecked any of his things, he was going to withdraw his objections to torturing a dumb animal. With Charlie in hot pursuit, the dog ran into the living room and jumped up on the couch.

  Charlie pointed to the floor. "Get down."

  The dog lay down in the crevice between the two couch cushions.

  "Get down," Charlie repeated, more sternly.

  Charlie realized that he'd left the basement door open. It wasn't as if he had a victim down there who might escape or be discovered, but still, he liked to keep the door closed at all times.

  "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you," he said out loud, closing the basement door and causing a waft of cool air to brush against his face.

  It was pretty cold down there, he supposed. He couldn't blame the dog for wanting to come upstairs where it was warmer. The basement was surely a lot better than being outside in the park, but if the dog was used to a warm home with a rich master...

  Charlie poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, rinsed out the glass, and then returned to the living room.

  "Hey," he said to the dog. It looked like it was about to fall asleep. "You can stay up here, but if you..." He trailed off. Why in the world was he trying to speak a complete sentence to a dog? He was losing his mind. Many of his victims had claimed that he was insane, and now he was trying to prove them right!

  The dog closed its eyes.

  Charlie watched it for several minutes until he was sure that the dog was asleep. Then he returned to bed.

  * * *

  Charlie woke up and glanced over at the alarm clock. 4:29 AM.

  Woof!

  Stupid dog.

  Woof! Woof! Woof!

  Charlie got out of bed and stormed into the living room. The dog stopped barking and started panting happily. At least it looked happy--it was just a dog, so he couldn't tell for certain.

  "What?" Charlie asked. "What do you want?"

  A horrifying thought occurred to him. He quickly rushed over and peeked out the front window to make sure the dog wasn't trying to alert him to potential danger.

  No police car was waiting outside. Apparently no watchdog duties were being performed. He returned his attention to the animal.

  "What the hell is your problem?" he asked.

  The dog continued to pant happily.

  "I have to sleep! I have to get up early to go to work! You can't bark like that!"

  Then he noticed that the dog had somehow worked the bandages off its legs. There were a few small blood spots on his couch. Charlie cursed again, setting a personal profanity record.

  "You had your chance, but you blew it," he said, picking up the dog. "That's the way the cookie crumbles."

  He carried it into the kitchen, shifted the dog in his arms so he could open the basement door while still holding it, gasped as he nearly dropped the dog, regained control, then got the basement door open and placed the dog on the top step.

  "It's your own fault," he said, closing the door.

  He didn't know if it would start scratching again, but he could sleep through that a lot more easily than the barking. He'd be okay for work if he got in a couple more hours of rest before the alarm went off. Charlie was perfectly fine with not getting much sleep on a night when he had a plaything in the basement, but he was much less fine with the idea of losing sleep over an idiot dog.

  * * *

  Charlie woke up to the alarm at 6:30. He had a banana and a piece of toast for breakfast, then opened the door to the basement. The dog bounded up the stairs toward him as he walked down, nearly tripping him as it nipped at his feet. He braced himself against the wall and told the dog to knock it off. It had a lot more energy now than when he'd first found it, that was for sure.

  He reached the bottom without falling and breaking his neck and then refilled the dog's food and water bowls. By now it had lost its torso bandages completely, so he took a few minutes to redress its wounds. The dog licked his hand, and he wiped the slobber off on its fur. He didn't see the point in explaining to the dog that it would be spending the entire day in the basement while he went to work, so he simply went back upstairs to shower and get dressed.

  * * *

  As Charlie drove to work, it occurred to him that he should have taken the dog for a walk before he left. Oh well. It was far from the first mess he'd have to clean up in that basement.

  - 4 -

  During his 10:45 AM break, Charlie called his home voice mail to check if there were any messages. He had to think for several moments to recall his password--he wasn't used to having any reason to access his voice mail.

  Two messages. The first was from an old-sounding man who described a white poodle. No need to call him back. The second was a woman who didn't say what kind of dog she was missing, just that she hoped he had her beloved Rhinestone. Charlie didn't think the dog looked like a Rhinestone--he didn't think any dog looked like a Rhinestone--and it didn't sound like the kind of name a wealthy person would give a dog, but he called the woman anyway.

  "I'm returning your call," he said, when the woman answered with an annoying, sing-songy "Hello."

  "My call about...?"

  "The dog."

  "Oh, yes, of course. Rhiney came home this morning. Sorry to waste your time!"

  "Okay." Charlie hung up.

  There were no messages at lunch or at his 3:15 break. Charlie was surprised. He would have expected more people to lose dogs than that.

  There were no new messages waiting for him when he got home. Charlie opened the door to the basement and the dog rushed out. It stampeded over to the front door, whining and twitching. Charlie realized that he didn't have a leash. He had plenty of rope and other things that he could fashion into a leash without too much effort, but the dog seemed to be in a state of emergency and what was the worst thing that could happen? The dog might run away. So what? Charlie wouldn't be any worse off.

  He opened the door and let the dog race outside. It ran a few feet out onto his lawn and then immediately squatted. Charlie watched it for a moment, then questioned why he was watchi
ng this particular activity in progress and averted his eyes. The dog finished and ran back inside the house. It was definitely well trained.

  Charlie went down into the basement, and was surprised and pleased to note that there weren't any messes to clean up. The dog held out better than some of the humans he kept down here.

  He filled its food and water bowls once again, then walked upstairs. The dog was back on his couch.

  "Get down," he said.

  The dog rolled onto its side.

  "I'm not going to pet you," he told it. "Get off my couch."

  The dog woofed at him--not quite a bark.

  Charlie sighed. "You can stay, but you'd better not shed on it."

  Interesting. Now he was not only speaking to the dog as if it could understand human speech, but he was acting as if the dog could control its own shedding. Bring on the men in white jackets.

  If nobody claimed the dog by the time he was out of food (a couple of days, probably) he'd take it to the pound.

  Charlie changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a sweater, then microwaved a frozen pizza. He sat down next to the dog and turned on the television.

  The dog licked its chops.

  "No," he said. "It's mine." He took a bite of pizza and winced. Way too hot. He opened his mouth and fanned his hand in front of his tongue.

  The dog inched closer to him.

  "Don't even think about it."

  The dog whimpered.

  "No. My pizza. You've got dog chow." Charlie blew on the slice of pizza to cool it down then took a big bite. The dog watched him carefully. "I'll take you to the pound right now if you don't quit staring at me," he informed it. "I mean it."

  The dog didn't whimper again, but silently watched him as he ate the first piece of pizza. Charlie didn't like the crust anyway, so he pinched it between his thumb and index finger and offered it to the dog. "Here."

  The dog snapped at the treat, biting his fingers.

  "Ow!" Charlie slapped the dog in the face as hard as he could. It let out a loud yip, jumped off the couch, and ran into the kitchen.

  Rotten mutt.

  It was lucky he didn't shove its food bowl down its throat. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd slice that cur's neck open with an electric carving knife and see if he could get the bowl all the way in there.

  He examined his fingers. They stung a bit, but the dog's teeth hadn't broken the skin.

  Rotten, lousy, ungrateful mutt.

  Wretched, mindless, bitey cur.

  Then again...

  What was the dog supposed to do when he offered it a piece of food that way, pinched between his fingers? His flesh was in the way of the pizza crust. He couldn't have expected the dog to carefully nibble around his skin--it was just an animal, living through instinct. He should've placed the offering on his palm or set it on the couch cushion. He'd been wrong.

  Oh well. Charlie wasn't going to get bent out of shape over hitting a dog without just cause. It was still lucky he hadn't left it to freeze to death in the park, and if he took it to the pound, it might end up euthanized anyway, in which case the slap was the least of its problems.

  He watched television and ate the other three pieces of pizza. He almost ate the crusts just to convince himself that he wasn't saving them as a peace offering for the dog, but decided that would be silly. He didn't like crust. Why eat something he didn't like just to fool himself into believing that he wasn't trying to make up for hitting a dumb animal?

  He carried his plate into the kitchen, where the dog was huddled in the corner. Charlie set the plate with the pizza crusts down on the floor. The dog looked tentatively at it but didn't move.

  "It's food," Charlie said, impatiently. "Eat it."

  He could see the dog's nose twitching, but it remained in the corner. Charlie shrugged. It wasn't his job to force the dog to eat. He went back into the living room, and before he even had a chance to sit down on the couch he heard the scrape of the dog's feet as it ran across the tile floor. He listened to it eating. Good. At least the pizza crusts wouldn't go to waste.

  About twenty minutes later, Charlie realized he was sitting through a rerun and hadn't even noticed. He switched channels. Nothing looked interesting. He shut off the television and sat there for a moment.

  Why did he feel guilty? It was a mindless animal. It was like having guilt over slapping a mosquito.

  He looked toward the entrance to the kitchen. There'd been no sound for a while. He wondered if the dog had gone to sleep.

  Charlie got up off the couch, feeling stupid. He walked into the kitchen, still feeling stupid. He looked at the dog, which lay curled up next to the basement door, and then cleared his throat, continuing to feel stupid. The dog raised its head and perked up its ears.

  "I'm sorry I hit you," he said.

  Charlie stood there for a long moment, as if waiting for the dog to acknowledge his apology. It did not.

  He returned to the couch and turned the television back on. A few minutes later, the dog bounded into the living room and jumped up onto the cushion next to him. It sat next to him until bedtime.

  * * *

  "Surfing the net on company time?"

  Charlie glared at Alicia over his shoulder. "I'm on my lunch break. We're allowed."

  "I was just kidding," said Alicia. "Wow, you take everything personally, don't you? We need to figure out a way to make you a little less serious."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're a powder keg of repressed rage. If you don't lighten up, you're going to run somebody over with your car."

  "Okay."

  "Looking for a new dog?" she asked, nodding at his monitor. Charlie was in the middle of a Google search for animal shelters in the area.

  Charlie shook his head. "Getting rid of one."

  "Oh, no! What did it do?"

  "Nothing. I found it."

  "Well, make sure you take it to a 'no kill' shelter."

  "They have those?"

  "Yeah, they'll keep it until they find it a home. What kind of dog is it?"

  "Boston terrier."

  "Oh, I love those!" said Alicia. "They're so cute! Did you name it?"

  Charlie shrugged. Why would he name a dog that he was taking to the pound? And why wouldn't she leave him alone? She knew he was on his lunch break--why couldn't she respect that and let him enjoy it?

  "I guess if you named it, it might be hard to let it go," Alicia admitted.

  "Yeah."

  "But it was nice of you to take in the dog and give it a home for now. Where did you find it?"

  "In a park."

  "I can't believe the owner hasn't claimed it yet."

  "Do you want it?" Charlie asked.

  "Can't. I've already got three cats. If I didn't, I'd take it in a second. I think you should keep it, though--a dog would be good for you."

  "Why?" Charlie was surprised to discover that he actually cared about her answer to his question.

  "Unconditional love. A dog doesn't care if you're in a bad mood or if you cheated on your taxes; they love you no matter what."

  Charlie frowned. Was she accusing him of cheating on his taxes?

  "I don't have time to take care of a dog," Charlie said, knowing that he had plenty of time, even if he kept up his current schedule of television viewing.

  "That's fair," said Alicia. "I'm not trying to get into your business. But promise me that you'll take it to a 'no kill' shelter, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "I'll even look one up for you and give you the address. Then you can enjoy the rest of your lunch break."

  It took Charlie several seconds to figure out how to respond to that. "Thanks."

  "No problem at all. I'm happy to do it." She smiled. "Did you notice that it's not that painful to have a friendly conversation with a co-worker?"

  Charlie didn't necessarily agree with Alicia about the level of pain the conversation created, but he nodded and forced himself to smile.

  * * *

  By the en
d of the day, still nobody had called about the dog. Maybe his signs just weren't very good. He supposed that if he asked Alicia, she'd help him make better ones--he'd seen the sign she made for a bake sale last week that he didn't participate in, and it was colorful and eye-catching. Of course, making new signs would be a waste of time, since he'd be taking the dog to the address of the animal shelter she'd given him right before he left.

  Still, it would be a major disappointment if he turned the dog over to the shelter and then the rich owner claimed it that same day. Or even a few days later. The dog wasn't exactly eating up a large percentage of his income; maybe Charlie should hang on to it for a few more days, just in case. Also, he didn't want to deal with the awkward phone conversation if the elated owner called him to reclaim his or her pet, and Charlie had to explain that he'd taken it to the pound, where it might have been given to somebody else. At least he wouldn't have to tell the owner that the dog had been gassed. He didn't like hearing people cry outside of his basement.

  He decided to stop at the pet store on the way home.

  * * *

  "Don't get used to this," said Charlie, waving the red rubber squeak bone at the dog. "I'm not buying you a toy every time I go out. This is all you get." He squeaked the bone and the dog ran in a joyous little circle on the basement floor. "If you lose it, it's not being replaced, so be careful."

  He tossed the bone to the dog. It caught it in its mouth and then dropped onto its stomach, chewing vigorously on the toy, which squeaked and squeaked and squeaked.

  Charlie leaned against his metal table and watched the dog. It seemed to be having a lot of fun. Why? It was just a rubber bone. Was the dog imagining that the squeaks were screams of agony? They didn't seem comparable.

  He observed it for several minutes, wondering what possible pleasure the dog could be getting out of this, besides the opportunity to exercise its jaws. Why did people like Alicia think that dogs were so great? Who cared about unconditional love? Love should be given out on an "as deserved" basis.