The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  She must have missed me. Why would she have texted me and be standing in my living room right now? Is this just an inspection? If it is, then she has thoughts about coming back. She needs to see how I’m doing, how she feels around me. My apartment shone like a model home. She used to love it here when she called it cozy—before it became too small and pathetic.

  No hug as she came in. She set down her purse and sat on the sofa. The things we’d done on that sofa. I sat here at my desk chair. It was too chilly on the couch.

  We chitchatted. I hate that word, but that’s what we did. All headlines, no stories. Work was good. I told her mine was good. (I’d picked up that big web project.) Her family was good. I told her mine was good. She’d just gotten her hair trimmed. I told her I’d recently gotten mine trimmed as well. All I wanted to talk about was us. This was us both talking about I, and in scant, distancing detail—until, that is, I mentioned the dogs.

  It was as if I’d told her I’d just invented ice cream. Her posture lifted, her head notched slightly to the left, and the hard scowl was yanked up by strings of curiosity: “How’d it happen? How is Irene? What are those dogs like?”

  When I got talking about Irene’s apartment, Roxy’s inner Nancy Drew kicked in. She had to see everything for herself.

  “Can we go over there?” she asked.

  Yep, she wants to make this fun. I love her, I thought. “The air isn’t quite clean in there yet. You might need a mask and gloves.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Oh my God! Give them to me, and let’s get over there!”

  Everything about her had suddenly changed into a kid about to explore a cave. All she needed was a flashlight and popcorn to leave a trail.

  It’s turned into us, I thought, as I handed her a mask from the pack. “I hope you’re ready.”

  When we got inside, her head spun around like an owl’s. “Oh my God,” she said, muffled by the mask.

  Even though I’d cleaned the kitchen, the air still metered on this side of rancid. The dogs ran to me, Lauren barking away, but I dismissed them and went to the kitchen to wrap up the dirty newspapers.

  “The dogs like you,” she said with surprise as she pulled at a window to open it. But the window was stuck. I gave her a hand. “They really do.” Her eyes were smiling brightly above the rim of the mask, her eyelashes like petals of midnight hyacinth.

  “They’d better. We’ve been through a lot, the three of us.”

  “Oh my God—look,” she said, and she darted to a bookcase. She pulled a thick binder from a shelf. “Ethics School Workbook—State Bar of California, 1970. She really was a lawyer. Look at all these books.”

  “It’s mostly classics—”

  “But these are all law books—Law and the Family, California Proof of Injury. And here, these—The Decorative Arts and Decorating with Flowers.” She opened one. “The Art and Architecture of China. Oh, her house must have been gorgeous.”

  “I thought these vases might’ve been Chinese,” I said. I was enthralled in her excitement.

  “Look at this,” and she handed me a heavy coffee table book. We both held it. “Art Deco Graphics.” We looked at each other. Neither one of us said IT—we just smiled and began turning the pages.

  Lauren pawed at Roxy’s leg. She stooped down to pet the two of them with a sympathetic, “Awwww.”

  They already like her better than me.

  “Oh, their hair is all caught up in their mouths. This is awful.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m planning to give them baths soon. I bought some shampoo here, but I wanted to get the floors cleaned first, so—”

  She stopped me. “I have to cut this hair off. They can barely see, and they’re going to choke themselves to death. Are there scissors in here?”

  She was on my team. There were scissors in the kitchen drawer.

  “Here you go,” I said.

  She had carte blanche. She knew more about dogs than I did. “If they’re going to choke to death, it’s going to be me that does it to them, not their own hair,” I sort of joked.

  She put them on the newspaper and began chopping hair away. They were incredibly well behaved in her hands. She cut all the long hair from the sides of their mouths, about six inches in length, and everything above their eyes and around their ears. You could see the relief on their faces. She even cut a lot of the body hair that had hung to the floor. They looked good, younger, zippier immediately.

  “Wow, they have faces,” I said. “Their eyes are as big as pancakes.” I was so happy to be with her I was going to bust. I thought about the engagement ring.

  “We need to give them a bath,” she said.

  We—yes, “we.” And we did. They’re so small, they both fit into the sink at once. The first rinse released a toxic cloud of biological decay, but we were laughing like hell at these two tiny dogs, soaking wet and all nervous. I held them as she washed them.

  The woman you love, giving these desperate dogs a bath, speaking in those soothing tones to keep them calm, laughing at their sweet vulnerability—is there anything more wonderful, Sheriff?

  Her hands slid slowly through the soapy water and hair, scratching gently into their scalps and backs and bellies. I could feel it myself, how she used to rub my neck and tug at my hair when we kissed.

  “Nelson, Nelson!” she’d say as she’d put her nose to his, and he’d smile through his soaking hair, his tongue lapping at the water pouring over his head.

  Our hips were touching as we leaned against the sink, our arms and hands working together. We were laughing at every move the dogs made. We’re a team. When we finished the bath, we tied them up outside to let them air dry as we brushed them in the late afternoon sun. Roxy braided the long hair on their heads. They looked very hip. We didn’t talk about much, except about the dogs, training them, etc., and the beauty and the warmth of the sunshine. Three happier dogs you’ve never seen, Sheriff: Nelson, Lauren, and me.

  We took them for a short walk. She chose Nelson. It was then that she told me she was now “dating.” She didn’t say whom, and I didn’t ask. There wouldn’t be any answer that I could take hearing. She said she was happy. It wasn’t convincing enough for me to believe, but it was convincing enough to hurt. The happiness heroin drained away; the shakes growled back. But I had to act happy. It’s the only socially acceptable reaction in this situation.

  “I’m going to get out there soon myself,” I said, half wanting her to know that I’d truly been waiting for her, and half wanting her to feel a pang about the idea of my seeing someone new. Neither seemed of any use.

  And she left. She kissed me on the lips and said, “I’m glad you’re doing well.” Those aren’t even friendship words—that’s complete separation.

  I don’t know what happened today. Can you tell me?

  The apartment looks lonelier when it’s clean.

  February 9, 1:00 PM

  Sorry. Lost weekend. Tough couple days.

  Been walking the dogs though.

  I’ll get back on board.

  February 10, 10:00 AM

  Got a call from Fay. Not much change. When Irene was awake, she asked about the dogs. I told Fay I’d given them a bath. She got all excited and asked if she could come by to take them over for a visit. “Irene has two little doggy carry bags somewhere under her bed, I think they are. I think I can handle them if they’re in those little bags,” she said.

  The phrase “somewhere under her bed” made me shudder. What can I do to avoid going under her bed? I thought.

  “Do they allow animals?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, uh-huh. I saw the cutest little beagle in here on Monday, and I thought of Nelson and Lauren, but I didn’t say anything to Irene because I thought her dogs’d be too dirty,” she said, “but now that they’re bathed, it’ll be fine.”

  I had no choice. Maybe seeing the dogs looking clean and groomed and happier will help motivate Irene to heal more purposefully.

  1:15 PM

&nb
sp; Seeing Austen on our walks has been a big help. He says that there’s some product at the pet store that can help not just eliminate the odors but also de-mark where the dogs have gone so that they don’t go in that same spot again. He also says that I may have to put Nelson in a crate to keep him from going inside.

  “Dogs will not go in their own confined space,” he proclaimed. He said he has a small crate he could loan me.

  I don’t know. Putting a dog in a tiny box, I just don’t know. I’d be leaving him in there overnight with no one around. I just don’t know. Irene would freak out if she found out.

  4:00 PM

  I found that odor eliminator product at Tailwaggers. It’s called Organic Marvel. It says that it’s “guaranteed to eliminate pet musk from unplanned urination incidents or your money back.” Get this: “Dissuades spot resoiling.” Sounds like dog counseling.

  Do you think it’ll work? I don’t know if it’s ever gone up against anything the likes of Nelson. He’s undissuadable. We’ll see.

  8:20 PM

  OK, sprayed the Organic Marvel. Had to leave no newspaper down in that area to see if it works. If neither of them hits that area, then it’s a winner. I should be able to expand that area until I eliminate their desire for any spotting in the kitchen.

  February 11, 2:50 AM

  I found some tequila in my cupboard, or it found me, gave me a couple hours. My family went to a bullfight once in Tijuana when I was seven on a sideline trip during a vacation to Disneyland. It was a horror show—no glory in it, no sport, no fine art—just bloody abuse and terror. When I began this log to you, Sheriff, I might have described myself as the tormented bull, poked and jabbed by the lances of the picadors as Sophie barked away—before the kill. Maybe I’m the clown. No, that’s rodeos where there are clowns. I’m not doing anything to change anything. Like being seven years old and being unable to stop a bullfight. Maybe I can. Get in the ring.

  11:15 AM

  I’m going to have to increase the frequency of the walks. I’ll have to get there very early in the morning, not 10:00 AM anymore. Set an alarm for 7:00 and rush over there before they go on the newspaper. They’ve become immune to the chemical suggestion of the Organic Marvel. I knew those poor enzymes never stood a chance—the Maginot Line of guarantees. I’m going to write them a letter. They need to go back to the lab and bring in some more challenging test dogs. So I’m still cleaning up after them every day. I hate getting up early, but I hate cleaning up after them, especially to start the day.

  If I can get the dogs trained by the time Irene gets home, then her place can stay clean. I don’t care if she’s miserable or depressed. If she comes home to a clean apartment and happy, trained dogs, her spirits will recoup what her “field” had destroyed. Tomorrow, we begin.

  February 12, 11:10 AM

  Alarm went off at 7:00. Just couldn’t do it. Up too late last night watching Papillon on Turner Classic Movies. Steve McQueen is awesome. There’s a man’s man. Papillon tried to escape from a prison on Devil’s Island a bunch of times before finally getting to freedom. I found it inspiring, but it didn’t end until 3:00. I dreamed that I had a tattoo of a Yorkshire terrier on my chest.

  Has anyone ever tried to escape on you? Run? Seems there’s no way to recapture someone without shooting at them or swinging the baton. Ever used it? When I think of you whaling away on someone’s hamstrings, I don’t like it. I’ve never met anyone who could do that. See, I know soldiers, but they fight the enemy. You’re dealing with citizens. I know you guys have to protect yourselves. You either shoot someone if it’s life or death, or subdue and arrest them. I don’t understand the beating and beating someone just about to death part.

  I don’t think I could beat someone, even if I were exploding. Remember that car wreck I mentioned when I was seventeen? Still have scars on my face, neck, and chest from it. I’ve felt enough pain to not want to throw it on someone else. I’d be a terrible partner out there, wouldn’t I. Maybe if I had the right training. I can’t even get myself up at 7:00 AM. I’m going to do it tomorrow. I certainly didn’t like having to clean up this morning, and then the dogs did nothing outside. I’m through with that.

  February 13, 8:00 AM

  The crack of dawn mission isn’t working. Can’t get there early enough before they pee inside. If we were on a farm, the rooster would be woken up each day by the tiny tinkling sprinkling sound of Nelson peeing. His name should be Sunrise.

  I told them, “Today we’re going for a real walk—westward—and we’re not going to stop until you both pee. I swear we’re going to go past Crescent Heights, past La Cienega if we have to. I’ll walk you two through to Beverly Hills, and if that’s not far enough, then we’ll go to Westwood, then West L.A., and, if we get all the way to the Santa Monica Pier without peeing, then the three of us walk into the ocean and we end this whole thing.”

  6:25 PM

  I’ve finally given in to the crate. Austen lent me his. I’ve no other choice. It’s going to be awful. Tonight, after the midnight walk. Hopefully, Nelson’ll take to it and just rock himself to sleep. If he starts going nuts in there, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Austen says he’ll settle into it. I’ve had plenty of guarantees though. Cleaning him up after an accident in that plastic shoebox would be a nightmare—way worse than picking up newspapers.

  Austen said, “I love their hair all trimmed and with the braids—how clean they are.” Everyone we see mentions it.

  11:20 PM

  Did it. Man, oh man, it was painful. The crate. I put one of my kitchen chair cushions in the crate to make it soft for him. He did not want to go in. I spoke in the sweetest voice I had—I pretended to be Roxy. I had to put some treats in there to get him inside. The first break in the Treats for Pee program. He got me. It was 11:00 at night already. His eyes kept asking, “Why? Why?”—as if he didn’t know.

  Lauren was panting with anxiety. I probably was, too. I’d transferred Nelson into solitary. There’s no way that this doesn’t feel like a punishment. Now he is Papillon. As caged as I felt with Sophie’s barking, there’s Nelson the Mute, unable to speak, and now unable to roam. He looked at me with the innocence of a newborn. And when the grated metal door closed, he put his nose up against it as if the air inside were poisoned. I tapped his nose.

  “Goodnight, Nelson, it’s going to be OK, my friend. I’ll be here at sunup. You know I’ll come back. I always do,” I told him. I don’t know if he believed me.

  February 14, 6:40 AM

  Morning one in the crate. I didn’t sleep well, woke up at 4:00 thinking about little Papillon over there in solitary. In the movie, Papillon would pace back and forth in his cell. He measured five steps across, and would quietly count one through five as he shuffled wall to wall, hour upon hour, to keep his body alive. When they released him, he stepped out into the corridor and slowly counted his first few steps of freedom. When he got to number six, he collapsed. I don’t think that Nelson can count, but I’ll understand if he collapses with his first burst of freedom on this morning’s walk.

  The sky offered only a bare hint that another day might be coming. It’d been a chilly night, and I wondered if the dogs’d missed the warmth of each other’s bodies the way that I miss Roxy’s. When I got inside, Nelson was flipping out in the crate as if there were a cockfight going on in there.

  I didn’t know what I’d find. I made him wait while I leashed up Lauren, then knelt down and opened his little cell door. He tried to jump onto my lap but slipped to the floor. I was his jailer, yet, at this moment, he loved me more than anything. Has that ever happened to you, Sheriff ? If you’ve ever wondered what Stockholm syndrome is, this was it. He jumped and jumped like a paranoiac’s electrocardiogram.

  “Don’t do anything yet,” I warned Nelson’s lower digestive tract. I hurried to get the leashes on and hustle them outside. I glanced inside the crate—nothing. Good. We rushed outside—and it worked. It worked! Right away it worked, in fact. Solitary confinement, li
fe inside the crate, gave Nelson a sense of ownership over his territory, an understanding that he wanted an area around himself clean—a field. As bad as I felt last night locking him in there, I was now exuberant to give him his first earned Treats for Pee reward. He snapped and snapped at it, jerking his head from side to side, proudly emphasizing each bite, all the while looking up at me as if to say, I knew I could do it. I’m a grown-up. I’m part of the team.

  It was a great walk after that. The pressure was off. Now we could stride along the sidewalks simply as a way to get a bit of exercise and fresh air to start off the day. We cheerily greeted everyone we met—the super-early dog walkers, the self-disciplined early-riser people with real jobs. The dogs were clean. They looked great, and now they are trained. We graciously accepted many compliments on our improved appearance. When Elise saw us, I wished she’d had some wine in her bag so that we could raise a toast under the trees shading us from the eastern sun around us.

  When I got them home, I mussed their hair, teased them, and let their smiling faces fill me with pleasure. But then—a dilemma: Does Nelson go in the crate during the day now? Lauren can walk around, but Nelson would have to sit in there and watch her? Doesn’t seem right. At nighttime, he’d be sleeping, but during the day, it seems extra cruel. I don’t want to traumatize his whole personality away. That’s why you use solitary, right, Sheriff ? You want to modify a prisoner’s behavior, his personality, his psychological makeup, right? Practically lobotomize the man with the blunt force of his own thoughts day and night. But if I don’t put him in there, he might not remember how he held it during the hours of darkness.