The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  When she comes back from the convalescent home, she’ll be clean, so crawling back onto this bed would be a reversion of tremendous proportion. Her dresser looks antique and very expensive, a leftover from her Beverly Hills days. Unfortunately, the bottom edges and the legs have been destroyed by the dogs, so it’s now worthless. There’s an Art Deco–type acrylic lamp on her nightstand. Could be from the ’40s or ’50s, very cool, though it’s now dull and yellowed from the fetid air through which its light must fight every evening. I don’t know if the lamp can be reclaimed. On a table on the other side of the bed there’s a small TV covered with dust. There’s an out-of-date cable box and remote. Nothing turns on. Obviously, what she does is read. There are books all over the place. The shelves of the bookcase are in disarray. Books are jammed in and double-stacked. The books on the bottom shelf near the floor have seen their last set of eyes because they’ve been peed on. Most likely, all the books need to be thrown out. That sucks because it’s all very good reading, a lot of classics and the best of the twentieth century. Books are piled on the nightstand, on top of the TV, a few even on the windowsill and covering an entire side of the top of her dresser. The dresser mirror is permafogged and cracked all the way down the left, entirely defeated from its demanding life’s work. I stand in front of it, and see my own old age—my father. I shudder and look into the bathroom. Holy cow, that’s going to have to wait for another time.

  I already had my homemade hazmat suit and scrubbing system at the ready, so cleaning the bedroom floor only took a couple of hours. The unmasked hardwood is actually very nice. It’s dark, some kind of mahogany or something. I cleaned up the furniture and organized the books into piles in the front room. We’re going to figure out what to do with those when she gets back.

  February 17, 12:30 PM

  Casino stopped me by my car when I was trying to leave for Ralphs.

  “How’s it going with the dogs?”

  It’s taken me five months of writing to explain it to you, Sheriff, how do I update Casino when I’m in a hurry? Plus, I doubted that he cared because if he did, he would have at some point offered to lend a hand.

  “They’re starting to go outside,” I said. “They seem calmer. I’ve been cleaning Irene’s—”

  “Wow, is that right?” he said. “I would love to check that out. The dogs do seem calmer when I see them with you, all settled down. Maybe I can do something to help out.”

  At least he knows I’m not giving tours for free. We’ll see.

  7:30 PM

  I’m not sure what to do. I took Casino over to Irene’s apartment this afternoon. The dogs freaked out when they saw him.

  “They don’t like my size 13 kicks,” he said. He bent down to pet them, and they settled. “These dogs are just totally different when they’re clean like this. It’s amazing. I always ran to wash my hands whenever I touched them before. Oh, and look at how their hair has the braids! They’re like little Rastafarians.”

  “Roxy did that originally,” I said. “I’ve been trying to maintain it, but I’m not as good at it.”

  “Roxy was here? You didn’t tell me that. That’s great! When was she here?”

  “About a week and a half ago,” I said. “It was nice, but she said she’s dating now, so—”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” he interrupted.

  This gave me hope. “Why not?”

  “She loves you too much to fuck around with that bullshit,” he said. “She’s just messing with you to get you to step up. That’s what you told me she said, right? That part of this was about you having your shit together? Then she’s stopping by to check up on you and is kicking up dust by trying to make you jealous.”

  “The jealousy thing only makes me mad. It doesn’t make me want to run to her.”

  “Doesn’t matter to her. She wants to motivate you, and also protect herself in case she doesn’t get what she wants,” he professored. “Women do this kind of shit all the time. If she didn’t want any part of you, why would she give you any attention at all—especially coming over?”

  “That’s what I thought, initially, but I haven’t heard from her since,” I said. “Except a text. It’s a bunch of games. It’s crazy shit, and I don’t like it.”

  “It’s always crazy shit. You know anybody whose woman doesn’t do crazy shit every once in a while? She wants a certain kind of life. I know she wants it with you, but you’ve got to show her that you can provide that kind of life.”

  Casino’s on his exer-cycle again.

  “Well,” I said, “if she’d just stuck by me—a little bit of faith and devotion, you know? Then it wouldn’t be so painful, instead of pushing me off the bridge like this. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, man. She’ll be back,” he said. “I’ve seen you guys together. There’s nothing like it. You just need to maintain your emotional equilibrium about yourself.”

  “Yeah, OK,” I said, putting as much of an end to the topic as I could inflect.

  “I just can’t believe my eyes—or my nose,” he said, looking around. “I wish you had told me you were doing this. I would have come over to help out.”

  So, so, so much bullshit. But I didn’t care, I was receiving high praise, and I need that so badly these days that I’ll even take a blue ribbon of bullshit.

  We stepped into the bedroom, and he pointed at a framed black and white photo on the wall, “Isn’t that just crazy? I can’t believe that was her.”

  I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe I was too busy looking down, being careful where I stepped. There hung a portrait photograph, matted, in a silver frame, like the old-Hollywood starlet photos that hang above the bar at Formosa. It’s a young, beautiful blonde woman with her hair parted in the middle, done up in a bun on top of her head, in a three-quarter pose not looking at the camera. The skin is like moonlight on a quiet lake. Her eyes are looking slightly upward, filled with confidence, as if she is hearing the call of a bright and welcoming future. How they used to light those photos to make them unapologetically superhuman.

  As I stepped closer to it, Casino said, “That’s Irene. Can you believe it?”

  “I can’t,” I said, and I examined it like Lieutenant Columbo at a murder scene. “The hair, the eyes, and the nose—that’s about all I can connect up, she’s so heavy and sagging now. Plus, this girl looks pleasant and optimistic. I’ve only seen Irene frowning and miserable.”

  “We’ll, she’s lost a lot,” Casino said.

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “When I first moved in, we used to talk some. But when I sensed the hell-o’-crazy, I stepped back. Plus, I never liked the dogs.”

  “I can understand that. Wow, this picture is the icing on the Krimpet. She’s not just a kid who grew up in Beverley Hills. She was beautiful. Maybe her wild stories about her three marriages are true.”

  “She says a lot of things that sound unbelievable,” Casino said, “but she’s had a different kinda run at life. I think there’s some truth underneath there.” Then he noticed the bedspread. “Wow, this is disgusting.”

  “I bet there’s been some truth underneath there, too.”

  “You know what,” he said, “you’ve done so much over here, I’m going to buy her a new comforter and bed stuff. Do you know when she’s coming back?”

  “That’d be great, man,” I said. Sure, Casino can swoop in and spend a little money and have his good deed done in no time, I thought. “I don’t know when she’s coming back. I have a feeling it won’t be too long though.” I said that to hasten the incineration of the bedspread.

  Casino stepped over to the dresser and pointed at the half-open top drawer. “Speaking of crazy shit,” he said. “Look at this.”

  Lying there among the faded handkerchiefs, costume jewelry, and some old official-looking papers and photographs was a handgun.

  “What is she doing with a gun?”

  “Well, she’s an old lady—over
here all alone,” he said.

  “But she can’t see straight. Or drive straight. How could she shoot anything but a wall?”

  “I’m more worried about her,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at this place, and these dogs—well, before you straightened things up,” Casino said. “She’s obviously depressed. Imagine her sitting up here, no TV, staring at this picture of herself from fifty years ago.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  Casino picked up the gun. It is a revolver. He opened up the chamber and then slapped it closed. “It’s a .38, very nice one, too. Three bullets in it. She had that brain tumor and everything. You don’t think she’s been thinking about dying for about twenty years now? What does she have to live for?”

  I looked at the dogs whom I’d set on the bed. Three bullets—one, two, and three, I thought, and I looked at that glamour photograph. I know suicidal thoughts. Why wouldn’t Irene think about it?

  “There’s a bagful of bullets in here, too. Wow.”

  “Does she take antidepressants of any kind?” I asked.

  Casino motioned toward her nightstand with the tip of the gun. There was a field of green and brown and red prescription bottles. “I’m sure. See for yourself.”

  What do I know? I rifled through them. A bottle of Prozac, 80 mg/day, Lexapro, and Ativan. Three bottles of OxyContin.

  “Damn, that’s a lot of pills.”

  Casino came over. “‘Damn’ is right. That’s a lot of money sitting there. Those Kickers are 40 mg. They can go for $50 each, and those bottles are full. That’s $4,500 looking at you right there.”

  Forty-five hundred dollars. “She doesn’t seem to take them.”

  “Sure, but the doctor keeps lining them up every month, though, no problem. That’s what they all do.”

  “How do you know the value of these pills?”

  “How do you not? I’m a DJ. I hear things.”

  “She’s even hoarding these.”

  “Old people are amazing, man.”

  “Forty-five hundred dollars?” I asked, accidentally out loud, the adrenaline of quick money and the risk of street crime popping into my head.

  “Hoarders know every single piece of crap they have. She probably taps each bottle and counts to three every night before she goes to sleep.”

  “Well . . .” I stopped, very close to putting a bottle of Oxy in my pocket. Casino saw it.

  “If you take just that one bottle, that’s fifteen hundred dollars clean. You know, when you think about it, you deserve to get paid. You’ve been doing all this work for her—the dogs, the apartment. You think she’s even going to thank you? What’re you getting out of this? I’ve really been wondering that, because it’s kind of crazy what all you’ve been doing.”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy,” I said, my hand sweating on the plastic bottle.

  “But are you a drug guy? You’d have to be a drug guy and sell to drug dudes, you know.”

  “I’m not a drug guy. I’m not even a drug dude. I don’t know how to sell drugs. I don’t even know how to buy them.”

  “Nathan does. He’d take care of everything. He’s not a real drug dude, he’s just sick and can’t work and getting screwed by the system. You split it with him 60/40. You still come away with like $900.”

  “You should be a businessman.”

  “I’ve been taking business classes at LACC,” he said. “Have to expand my knowledge to expand my empire.”

  “Is Nathan really selling his own prescriptions?”

  “He needs the money more than the relief, you know? You need the money, too, right? Some relief?”

  Relief, I thought. “So I’d be helping him out in a way.”

  “You could give half of your cash from it to Irene. Like a Robin Hood. Surprise her, or take the dogs to the vet for some shots or some shit. They’re her pills, and the cash would do her way better than those things sitting in the bottle waiting on expiration dates. Plus help yourself, too.”

  “Why don’t you do it then?”

  “Not my thing.”

  “How come I can’t just say ‘Not my thing’? Because it’s not my thing either, you know.”

  “Well, when you’re black, a lot of people just assume that it’s your thing, so sometimes you have to point out that it’s not your thing. But you don’t know yet that it’s not your thing, because you’ve never done it. Experience is the greatest teacher. You know, you’re single now, you’re a smart guy—you’re spending all your time on those dogs when this should be the best, freest time of your life. I’m worried about you.”

  “So I should take the ’Contin for myself, or sell it.”

  “I’m not suggesting that at all. I’ve seen the things turn bad real quick on people—good people. Actually, I think you should just leave things as they are for now. You’ve been making it work on your own.”

  “And jail rape feels bad.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  I was more concerned with Irene at that point. Plenty of people on antidepressants kill themselves, I thought. I was now deeper into her personal shit than even when I was on my knees on her kitchen floor.

  “I hope she’s getting help in that home, but Fay says it’s awful, and that she hates it,” I said. Then, pointing at the pistol, which Casino was still admiring, “Should we empty out that gun? Maybe take the bullets away entirely? Or, at least, put it back in the drawer now?”

  Casino put the gun back, saying that he didn’t think we should mess with it. She might only have it here for protection, and “If somebody broke in here like they did your place, and she got hurt because she couldn’t even get it loaded, then I’d feel terrible.”

  “Do you own a gun?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he said. “No one’s taking my shit without getting killed.”

  So, I’m the only one around here who doesn’t own a gun, Sheriff. Should I? I did have a break-in. I suppose if I’d decided to change careers and become a drug dealer tonight, then I’d eventually need one. What should I do about it? Three bullets is just a coincidence, right? Who has a half-loaded gun sitting around and three months’ worth of OxyContin except Kurt Cobain?

  “I hope Irene doesn’t want to shoot me for getting rid of her garbage,” I said, trying to levitate myself out of this somber fog.

  “Ha! She might,” Casino laughed. “No, it’ll be fine. She’s got to be happy about all this.”

  “She was really angry that Roxy trimmed their hair.”

  “Oh, Roxy did that, too?” he said, smiling. “She’s great. I miss her.”

  “Well, Casino, you’re telling me that everything’s going to be fine with both of these women in my life,” I said. “What are the chances that you’ll be correct?”

  “I know women,” he said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing—you being you—and it’ll all work out. No worries.”

  It’s all worries, Sheriff. Me being me? What a terrible plan.

  Casino grabbed one of the prescription bottles and shook out a few pills. “Here, take these. One each day for the next three days, and that’s it. No more. Enjoy yourself and lighten up a bit. It’ll help your knee out, too.”

  “My knee’s been feeling better with all the walking.”

  “But I know you’re in pain in other places. These won’t kill you. Trust me. And Irene wouldn’t kill me for taking three of her pills. She’s offered them to me before when my wrist was bothering me. Three little ones to give yourself a break, maybe to sleep, and that’s it.”

  I brought the whole bottle back with me.

  10:00 PM

  Nelson and this crate—I can’t go in there and pull him out of his own sewage every morning. He wouldn’t be learning anything. He has such a sweet, fun, energetic disposition. He jumps straight up and down for treats. I’ve taught him to stand on his hind legs for them. He smiles at you as he listens to you talk, and his tail flutters like a scolding finger hurrying you along when he’s being
hooked onto his leash for a walk. Sometimes we run. (I can run now a little bit on my knee, feels good.) He wants to take off and feel some wind against his face. His mouth hangs open, and his tiny pink tongue flaps up against his nose. Lauren is never into it at first, but we drag her along, and she strides up. It strikes me that, with Irene, they’ve probably never run before—never run. When she comes back, they might never run again. Nelson will leap forward and pull at the leash, but nothing. I can’t take that. They’ll lose so many things.

  I have to stick with the crate, don’t I? If I don’t believe in him, who will? The answer is later walks at night before he goes in and earlier walks in the morning. We just have to commit.

  Lauren barks less because of the amount of exercise she’s getting. I may have solved that problem.

  February 18, 1:00 PM

  Casino came by with the new bedding for Irene. He un-surreptitiously mentioned that he’d spent nearly $300. I could have gotten it all at Ross for eighty bucks. Smartly, he bought dark brown everything. I didn’t have the heart to tell him how quickly it’ll all be destroyed. It looks way better in there. He threw out all the old stuff. That was nasty work. I give him credit for that.

  The only room left to clean is the front room, the living room or—as it feels—the dying room. All the old person mélange gives it a creepy feel, like the parlor of an unlicensed funeral director. The biggest issue is the rug. I’m sure that, like the blue-and-white vase collection, it’s from her Beverly Hills days. Even in its molded and torn condition, I’m sure she still sees it as a luxury item. She’s kept such a snug grip on her stagnation that any change will likely be traumatic, right? But how do I not do it? How do I stop with what I’ve done and leave it at a half measure?