The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  “A couple of shakes as soon as she barks,” he’d explained. “It jolts their attention away from what they were barking at.”

  She hates it but is already associating it. I’m making a note to give the penny can to Irene. It will be her welcome home gift. Hopefully one of her arms will be strong enough to shake it. I may have solved the barking without you, Sheriff. What do you think of that?

  Speaking of giving Irene things, am I supposed to have flowers for her or something?

  11:45 PM

  Only a few days left, I guess. At night now, I pull the Dignity Box into the bedroom. They’ve spent enough nights on their own after all these weeks. It’s always tough to corral them into it because they want to get up on the bed so badly. They reach up to the bed with their arms, which I guess are legs, but they seem more like arms, with the pleading in the eyes and the whole act.

  When I finally do get them into their camper, Nelson curls up, but Lauren sits there staring at me through the mesh door like a little Emily Dickinson, writing poems about death and immortality. She winces in tiny whispers as she reads one aloud. She’s brilliant. Sometimes she pants to notch up the tension. If Nelson wakes during the night, he gently paws at the mesh as if to point out to me that it’s in the way. Their eyes reflect a glint of the bare, dark streetlight that cheats into the room and beam it at me, so much so that I can feel it even when my eyes are closed. Sometimes it’s an entire hour that they’ll both sit there looking at me, hoping to get in the bed, absolutely confident that I’ll change my mind about the separation.

  It’s tough to stay disciplined. I’m lonelier than they are.

  February 26, 10:20 AM

  This chart is amazing, Sheriff. It really tells the tale. I feel like Jane Goodall. I hope Irene takes to it.

  Speaking of, I suppose I should take them in and help Irene with the walker practice.

  4:00 PM

  OK, I did it. Nursing homes are so difficult to walk through. All I could think about was my mom and dad. Those poor old folks in there, and a couple young ones, too, soldiers I assume. One man with just one limb, his right arm, sat in a wheelchair in the hallway watching people go by. He wore a stocking cap and had a robe tucked around himself. He had thick brown hair, a mustache and beard, maybe twenty-six years old. He seemed so strong, still a bear of a man. I don’t know why they would have him there surrounded by so many endings-in-progress and overt dementia. I carried the dogs in my arms both facing forward, their heads bobbing slowly against my chest as they looked left and right, smiling at everyone. Those who were sentient gave them a big smile back and lots of waves. The soldier grinned and chuckled as we stopped and said hello.

  Irene was tickled to see the dum-dums, though she managed to throw in plenty of shots about their shorter hair. “I can barely look at Nelson without his special whiskers.” They aren’t whiskers, that’s hair.

  The Nazi was gone, and her bed was empty. Irene said they had to move her to a more secure room. On the third bed was an aged woman, lying still, her blanket pulled up to her chin, staring up at the corner where the walls met the ceiling.

  “Martha is ninety-six,” Irene said. “She goes in and out, but when she’s with it, she’s very nice. Too bad her daughter isn’t here, you’d like her. She’s pretty.”

  “Did Martha happen to have her when she was sixty-six years old, by any chance?”

  I set Nelson up onto Irene’s chest, and they kissed like lost lovers. Irene stretched her leg to pet Lauren with her bare foot at the end of the bed, but I kept shifting the poor thing away from Irene’s hospital feet.

  Irene had a hard time getting out of the bed. She has no strength in her right arm, and not much anywhere else, plus still lots of soreness. Apparently, there were cracked ribs as well, but they do nothing for those. She was very shaky once she stood. When we got into the hallway, I saw no walker.

  “Oh, I can’t use that contraption and still walk the dogs.”

  “But that’s what you told me we were going to practice.”

  “I just want to show them that I can do it so that they’ll let me go home.”

  She decided in that moment that we were at our starting line in the middle of the hallway. No one seemed to care that the four of us were about to launch and crash. I handed her the leashes, and she immediately complained: “I don’t know how I’m going to walk them with these things. Where are mine?”

  “How can the leashes matter? These’re good ones,” I said, now in concert with all the other visitors who were there in the home, busily deciphering nonsense with their delusionary loved ones.

  We started forward, the dogs in different directions, and their leashes wrapped right around Irene’s ankles. She went on, oblivious.

  “Stop. Stop,” I said in a panic. “Where are the nurses or the aides? This is nuts. I can’t guide you or keep you from falling here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not. This is crazy. You’re not strong enough for this, or balanced. The dogs are going to pull you right down, and you’re going to end up here for another seven weeks.”

  An aide deciphered my raised voice from the babel of the regular patients and came fast-paced to us. But instead of talking sense to Irene, she crouched down to adore the dogs. Then two more aides came, and two more, and two more, and the dogs were swarmed. Against my objections, our group eventually began shuffling down the hallway all together like pallbearers for the pope. It looked like a walking group hug. It didn’t last ten feet.

  “You can’t do this,” an aide name-tagged Marisa said. “It’s too crazy.” Then she motioned toward me. “Can’t your son take care of the dogs for a while?”

  Irene and I simultaneously protested: “I’m not her son.” / “He’s not my son.”

  “Irene,” Marisa said, “why are you doing this? You know this is too much.”

  “It’s the leashes—”

  “It’s not the leashes,” I said.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” Marisa suggested, and we made our way to two chairs in the hallway. Irene and I sat down. I took back control of the dogs. Marisa and what was probably the entire staff left us there to work it out.

  “How do you think that went, Irene?” I started.

  “It was fine. Lauren is a little jumpy. I think she’s forgotten me.”

  “Everything about that whole snafu was jumpy. I’m glad your arm is healing, but you didn’t fall because of your arm. You’re still having balance issues, I think, and you need to take your time. You should be trying one of those rolling chair walkers or a cane. My father used one of those with the four-pronged bottom.”

  “I can’t. My hands aren’t strong enough to use the brakes or even to lean on a cane.”

  Old people don’t like to be juxtaposed with dead people.

  “We’ll—”

  “Can you put Nelson on my lap, please? I miss him so much, I’m ready to crack.”

  I did, and then we sat in a prolonged silence among the clouds of the home’s normal bedlam. Occasionally staff or patients would wheel or walker by and coo over the dogs. Irene would mention that their hair is “supposed to be long,” but that they look great. Nelson’s tongue hanging out was spreading lots of joy. I eventually excused myself because we weren’t going to silently contemplate until a resolution was reached.

  I carried the dogs out. We stopped when we saw the soldier. He laughed at Nelson and petted Lauren on the chest. “Hi, little girl.” We nodded at one another, and I said, “Take care.”

  6:00 PM

  Launderland is the saddest place in the world. You know the one, the Laundromat in the small strip mall up on Santa Monica Boulevard at Hayworth, next to the 7-Eleven and Los Tacos. Roxy loved doing laundry. You couldn’t keep her away from a fresh pile of warm clothing to fold and put away. I took bags over to her place most of the time, and she’d dive on it. Launderland used to be only for emergencies or for when she was out of town.

  Roxy has a few quirky aller
gies and sensitivities. One of them is dyes and perfumes in laundry detergent. The day when I knew I was in love with her was when I bagged up all of my clothing, all of my bedding—sheet sets, pillows, blankets, comforter—every towel and washcloth in my apartment—and hauled the lot of it to Launderland to wash fragrance- and dye-free in case Roxy started staying over at my place, and maybe grabbing something of my clothes to wear, which I wanted so badly. I pictured her in my T-shirts, my dress shirts, my pajamas. I couldn’t wait. I took up twenty-two washers that afternoon. Likely a record. The locals were in awe. One woman said that it was the most romantic gesture she’d ever seen. It took me over two hours to fold everything and put it all away. Roxy teared up and kissed me when I told her. It was like a massive bouquet of unscented flowers. Our first overnight here was amazing.

  That makes Launderland all that more difficult. KRTH, the radio station they play there, is always dialing up sad songs. That, along with the dull, lonely hum of the machines, like wounded soldiers moaning on a battlefield, and the grinding gloominess in the cacophony of chemical perfumes, remind me that I still use fragrance-free Tide in hopes that Roxy and her allergies will one day be back.

  There was an indecently cute girl there today. Straight brown hair to her shoulders, tied back for chores, thin with a well-bought chest, long legs, nice and athletic looking. She was wearing a white T-shirt, black yoga pants, little blue cross-trainers, white-rimmed sunglasses perched on her head—perfect L.A. laundry-day cute. So perfect, in fact, that I found it difficult to fathom that her clothes ever actually do get dirty. Where did she come from? How is it possible she’s alone? Then I recognized her as the yoga pants girl I’d embarrassed myself to during a dog walk. She’s brilliantly forceful in her use of those yoga pants, and thank God for it. She had her fluffy white Larry Tate dog with her, tied to a bench.

  Ally keeps telling me to move on, so I thought I’d see what I could do. Our washes were on opposite ends of the cycle—my dryers finishing as she was putting her clothes into her washers. I decided to take my time and wait out the twenty-six minutes until her final spin. I sat down with my book. I’m reading Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov. I should have been reading something more upbeat. Chekhov’s world is as cold and gray as laundry water before the rinse. Not right for love at Launderland.

  I should have told myself that the fragrances from the detergents were from flowers breezing in a garden, a perfect place for this young lady and me to find each other, but I didn’t. I just sat there pretending to read Chekhov. My dryers finished spinning. I got up and checked them and pretended to be perturbed that my clothes weren’t dry enough yet, and then plunked in quarter after quarter, risking the shrinking of my clothes down to G.I. Joe doll size.

  Turned out that I was better at waiting for her to come over than at trying to talk to her. Waiting is all I do. Truth is, I’m still waiting for Roxy—I want to be finishing her dryers—and I don’t even want to talk to another woman until I finally find out if there’s going to be a second chance. Looking at this girl felt like cheating. What if I did get a date with her? I’d lose interest as soon as Roxy called, if she calls. Is this sad? What opportunities am I letting pass by?

  Anyhow . . . it’s not like I have my shit together yet or anything. I’d only be presenting the same lost, miserable, problem child to Yoga Pants, or any other girl, until something changes for me. And yes, of course I’m scared of rejection. Might as well take care of that on my own before anyone else has to bother doing it.

  9:00 PM

  Remember the story of Jonah and the whale? The Bible thing? Well, fish—Jonah and the fish. Everybody has a version of it—Judaism, Islam, Christianity. It was Jonah and the great fish or “huge fish” originally, but after tripping through several languages, “huge fish” got translated into “whale,” which, ironically, is a swimming mammal and not a “huge fish.” But it was huge enough to swallow a man whole (a lucky man, unlike Captain Quint in Jaws). Of all the stories about miracles, Jonah was the one as a kid that made me doubt the whole “testament” aspect behind Bible writing. I think writing a Bible these days would be much more challenging. But Jonah, inside the body of a whale, with little else to do or even room to move around much, prayed to God to get the whale to let him go, not eat him, as it were, pause its digestive enzymes long enough to get bored with his prey, perhaps desire to yawn and thereby allowing Jonah freedom to escape back into the sea, where presumably he’d be rescued by an animal-skin-wearing early Baywatch crew.

  I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a giant Yorkie. Well, a giant Yorkie would actually just be the size of a regular dog, so let’s say a gigantic giant Yorkie. And it smells inside. And I have no room to move or think, just lie awake, sleepless, and to talk to you. Think about talking to you, pretend that I am. And think that I can talk to Roxy. Think-talk through so many pretend conversations, until I’m swallowed up or spit out—onto the street or to whatever point upon this vast sea on which we’ve drifted.

  9:40 PM

  Roxy texted just now, just a little “how r u?” line. It turned into a quick texting conversation. She said she wants to get together to talk—tomorrow. What should I do? I don’t want to sit with her and have her tell me how happy she is now, if she is, and that she wants to forge a friendship with me.

  I can’t handle being friends with her just yet. What do friends talk about? Relationships, who they’re dating, getting laid? I don’t want that. I suppose she just wants to peek in again. But what for? Maybe she doesn’t even know.

  February 27, 4:00 PM

  Thank God I have these dogs to walk to burn off some energy. Meeting Roxy tonight. We still haven’t come down on a place to meet up. Been cleaning my place, hunting down any dog smell.

  February 28, 5:45 PM

  Roxy spent the night.

  We met for drinks at the Village Idiot on Melrose, which is closer to my place than hers, which I found interesting to begin with. She was dressed casually—jeans, low boots, and a blouse—nothing forcefully alluring, yet tight enough around her breasts with three buttons undone so I could see the beginning of the trail toward everything I’d lost. She did have her “evening out” makeup on, however, unlike the day we broke up, or the time I saw her after. And she smelled like night jasmine after a breezy rain. She ordered her pinot noir and teased me about the way that I always ask the bartender for a beer recommendation because I never know what I want. But it wasn’t the eye-rolling, exasperated teasing of our last months together. She joked with a refreshed smile, the one that used to get such a kick out of my quirks. In fact, I was the one struggling to be comfortable. What’s happening? Am I just the object of her rejection? Am I an injured mouse to a house cat? I didn’t know what to say, when I should be forcing a smile, or even how to sit and look natural on a barstool. I ordered a Manhattan.

  I wanted no talking. I wanted her on my lap. I wanted a long kiss to ford the icy river. I wanted her breasts in my hands, her warm thighs on mine, our bodies together to speak for all the apologies. Words were negotiation. She held control because she’d broken up with me. She was either moving on or coming back. She was judging me. I didn’t have the fortitude to reciprocate. It was too intoxicating to be near her to have any judgment or reason. Her eyes were my blue planet again.

  I shouldn’t have wanted to kiss her, or talk, or even be there. But I knew that if I could laugh and make her laugh, I’d seem fine—a simple trick to life I’d learned to get by when I was a kid. And it wasn’t very difficult. I joked about the dogs, the Dignity Box, and Lauren’s late-night tragic poems. After a couple glasses of wine, she asked if she could see the dogs again.

  Last time she was here, she gave lots of attention to the dogs but turned me into a pillar of salt when she told me that she was dating.

  As we got ready to leave the bar, I thought, How dare she do this? How can she be around me and have surgically eliminated all romantic and sexual feelings? And to stick this friendship attitude in my face?
As I signed the check, my hand shook like it was tapping out Morse code from the signal room on the Titanic. Every cell in my body was jumping with sexual energy, battling to be first to be touched by her again, but my bones were chilled with insecurities, and my heart was screaming like a Stuka dive bomber. Everything was subtracting up in my head. Nothing in my life has changed for the better. I have nothing to impress her with. I haven’t even painted a room, or gotten new sheets, or a shower curtain, or something. And I certainly don’t have anything that might make her jealous. All I’ve done this whole time was to sit, paralyzed like my stroked-out father, waiting for her or death, and complaining to you about the dogs, who very possibly might have both shit in their Dignity Box by the time we get back.

  It turned out they were fine. They were ecstatic to see me, like villagers greeting Jesus after he’d raised Lazarus from the grave, and likely they were surprised to see another human being entering our dungeon.

  Roxy immediately picked up Nelson and practically cuddled the sacs out of his lungs. I don’t know what it is about Nelson that captures women’s hearts so. It was even the same when he was still grubby. The tongue. Maybe it’s because he’s a male who can’t talk. Actually, I do think that’s what it is. He’s had to learn to communicate solely with his eyes, and it speaks across species.

  I warned her that this was typically a crisis moment in the needing-a-walk schedule, so the four of us leashed up and stepped out in the quiet and cool night air. God, we felt like the perfect nuclear family. How can she not feel it?

  As angry as I am about the breakup, and as resentful as I am with my thoughts of abandonment, judgment, and jealousy, I couldn’t help but feel warm and safe out there. I watched her ass wiggle as Nelson took her darting ahead. Maybe it was just wine-wonderful, I don’t know, but Roxy has a way about her that when she stops and remarks about the stars, you can’t help but wonder if the stars aren’t saying the same things about her.