Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  Holding up her iPad for all to see, she speaks with clear authority.

  “He did do it! It’s right here on YouTube! He stole that puppy from an old lady in Queens and brought it here to kill it!”

  On screen, I see a long shot of me and Aunt May playing tug-of-war with Benny.

  “No! That’s a totally different puppy! Benny was a Maltese. Mr. Snuffles is a Labrador!”

  Even though I know the truth, I somehow still feel like a slimy politician confronted with the selfies of his privates that he sent his underage intern.

  “How many puppies have you killed?”

  “None! And that video is out of context. If I was going to kill a puppy, you think I’d drag it all the way here from Queens?”

  Thought I had them with that one, but lovely Rita the meter maid knows better: “Then you admit you’ve thought about killing puppies.”

  “Who hasn’t thought about it? But that’s not the point. Mr. Snuffles was a noble creature. Sure, he had the potential to become a rampaging beast that would eat you all, but I did my best to protect him! I just couldn’t do it, okay?” My throat clenches. My voice cracks. “I…failed. I just…failed.”

  Someone in the back calls out, “That’s as bad as if you killed him yourself!”

  “Is not! It’s totally different.”

  But they start chanting: “Just as bad…just as bad.”

  I manage to get all indignant. “Wake up, you knee-jerks! Between food, vets, and grooming, the U.S. spends $56 billion a year on pets. All that money could’ve been spent building girls’ schools in the Middle East, or on domestic-surveillance drones right here at home!”

  St. Francis the bike messenger doesn’t skip a beat. “Dogs are people, too!”

  The one-percenter with the Wall Street Journal hmphs. “That’s corporations, you hippie!”

  The meter maid gets all school-marmy. “Pets remind us of the innocent, natural part of ourselves, so we care for them. What’s wrong with that?”

  I bet she’s an Internet troll. “You call keeping a predator in a Manhattan studio apartment ‘natural’? You call taking control over the fate of a living thing that doesn’t have a choice about it an ‘expression of caring’?”

  Who knew you thought about this stuff?

  Please. He’s just biding his time until he can heal.

  Yep. And I’m just getting started. “Ever been to a puppy farm? It’s not like they plant puppy seeds that grow into puppy trees! They’re raised in cages smaller than the ones used for chickens. After suffering through that, do you know how many get abandoned every year?”

  My strength is returning. I get to my feet.

  The crowd gasps. “He can walk!”

  “He was only pretending to be handicapped!”

  “We’ve got to do something!”

  “Get him!”

  They’re coming for me, but I won’t go down easy. I grab the nearest weapon, which happens to be Mr. Snuffles. What? He loved me. I’m sure he’d still want to help me out—like the way the stump in The Giving Tree helps that kid.

  I swing Snuffles like a cudgel. The crowd backs off—if not in fear, then in disgust. But I know in my heart that deep down, some of them are wondering: What would it feel like to get hit by a puppy?

  As it turns out, miracles do happen now and then. When I pull back for a second swipe, what we all thought was a lifeless corpse twitches, inhales, and barks. The bike messenger’s coat falls away. Two dark, watery eyes look up at me. His tail wags as he pants. It’s my turn to gasp.

  “Mr. Snuffles?”

  “Yip!”

  Maybe the Hulk petted all the air out of him, knocking him out for a while. Maybe Labrador pups have a survival mechanism that makes them go dormant when confronted by gamma-irradiated scientists. Or maybe—somewhere in this crazy, messed-up world— someone made a wish that just happened to come true.

  But what does any of that matter? The sonofabitch is alive, I tell you, ALIVE!

  “Mr. Snuffles!”

  The crowd cheers. Teary-eyed, we all hug. The rich hug the poor, the old hug the young, and best of all, no charges are pressed.

  Then I pull my guns, fire a few shots in the air, and they all go running.

  But not Mr. Snuffles. He stands at my feet, barking like he chased them off all by himself. Does it get any cuter?

  WHEW! After that emotional roller coaster, I’m a little sick of the monster-dog thing, so I ’port myself and Mr. Snuffles to Cancun for a little mercenary me-time. The beach is busy, but once I swap the ol’ work suit for an asymmetric man-thong, I don’t have to fire a shot. The whole place clears out.

  Mr. Snuffles doesn’t mind what I wear. He just likes the sun.

  It’s a beautiful afternoon. I’m sitting in a beach chair with a fancy umbrella drink, watching the warm waves lick the fine white sand way up into the cracks and crevices of my scarred toes.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m totally into getting to the bottom of the whole Dick-and-Jane thing. But no matter how much you love something, your palms are gonna get sweaty if you hold hands with it for too long. Better to let it all go every now and then, step back and recharge, then go back in with your best game.

  Right, Mr. Snuffles?

  Wow. I’d almost forgotten what silence was like. Sure, there’s the sound of the steady surf, some birds, and the breeze rattling the fabric in my beach umbrella, but none of it is as loud as the quiet. Perfect place to kick back, watch a puppy chew on driftwood, and stop thinking for a while.

  Why can’t you just admit you like him?

  That you want a dog of your own?

  Hush up. You two are spoiling my buzz. Just…ahhh! Lemme finish this drink, and let the sun and sand work out the kinks in my back.

  Why did you pretend you didn’t care when you thought he was dead?

  Because I didn’t care, and I don’t, okay?

  Then why get all weepy when it turned out he was alive?

  Eh, I was swept up in the moment.

  You’ve bonded before, you know.

  Yeah, but that’s almost always about sex, with a lady—like that MMFF, Jane. And that sort of pleasure only feels like it’s forever. Eventually it goes away.

  Is that how you felt about Sophie watching you at the game?

  No. Yes. Maybe… I mean…

  Oh, great. I’m trying to take a break here, and now even Mr. Snuffles is looking at me like I’m crazy because I’m sitting here arguing with myself.

  Hold your cell phone to your ear.

  That way it’ll look like you’re chatting with someone.

  This is not the time for self-contemplation, okay? I’ve got a drink and a chair and a beach to myself! Can’t you both make like white noise for a little while?

  Like Radiohead?

  But we love you!

  (Because we are you!)

  Ooo. The parentheses are new!

  Parentheses? For the love of…how many of you are in there?

  Relax, Wade. We’ve got lots of tricks.

  Huh. What’s that new typeface? Bodoni? Never mind. Don’t want to know.

  The real question is why we’re here.

  (Is it because you’re crazy…)

  …or just because you need someone to talk to?

  Crap. Don’t mind me! I’ll just sit here, sip my drink, and count the waves.

  It used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder. Now it’s Dissociative Identity Disorder.

  (Technically, it’s not even DID, since we don’t take over his body.)

  Ah! So we’re not so much different personas as the same one reflected over and over.

  One Wade Wilson warped in a hundred funhouse mirrors.

  Not listening! Don’t care! Can’t hear you. Can’t hear any of you at all. La-la-la-la. Not Boldface or Italics, Parenthesis or whatever. Chatter your typefaces off all you want. I’m alone and happy on a gorgeous stretch of sand. La-la-la. Look, Mr. Snuffles, is that a dolphin out there?

  So
basically, he’s pointing out things he knows he should pay attention to, but doesn’t want to, because it’s either outside his immediate focus or too painful to face.

  (Like…did we have a dog once?)

  Did we?

  Yeah, did we?

  Not all dogs who wander are lost.

  Oh, is Arial supposed to impress me when Bodoni couldn’t? And don’t think for a second you can bait me with a Tolkien reference. Sure, the road goes ever on, but so do some of his passages.

  (Can you remember if you had a dog?)

  What difference does it make? I remember all kinds of crap. When push comes to shove, I have no idea whether any of it’s true. Can’t do anything about it, so why not keep on keeping on?

  We cross our dogs as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke and the presumption that once our eyes watered.

  Is that another reference?

  Yeah. Tom Stoppard, translated into Dog.

  As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled sleep, he discovered he’d transformed in his bed into a large schnauzer.

  (That was Kafka. Could you try to remember, Wade?)

  Gaze long into a doggie, and the doggie also gazes into you.

  That one even I know. Nietzsche. Nietzsche is peachy, but liquor’s quicker. How about we compromise, fellas? I’ll stick my tongue in a light socket for a day, and you’ll all leave me alone for an hour.

  He who does not remember the dog is condemned to clean up after it.

  I keep telling you, my memory’s useless! Whenever I get whacked upside the head, skull-cracked, brain-traumatized, or whatnot, the little gray cells grow back differently—sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.

  Dog present and dog past are perhaps both present in dog future.

  So what? Even when I hang on to a thread for a little while, eventually my own head gives me a personal retcon. Why bother?

  So you can have a story.

  Any story is better than none.

  If I gave two frigs whether I had a story, I wouldn’t be hanging out in Cancun, would I?

  Yet story is the basic mode in which we communicate self to ourselves and others. It can be defined by a basic structure of character, conflict, and closure. Some feel conflict isn’t necessary, but clearly some sort of desire is required to propel any narrative. Even waiting for an elevator is a type of a conflict. Likewise, the desire not to remember is as much a conflict as the desire to remember, and hence part of your story. It is inescapable.

  Think you’re so smart just because you have that fancy dollop at the end of your lower case f, don’t you, Bodoni? I went to elementary school, pal. Block letters can spell all the big words, too.

  You just said you can’t trust your memory.

  So how can you be sure you went to school at all?

  All dogs, except one, grow up.

  Look, even if this is part of my story, can’t it be a part where I just chillax? What’s wrong with letting go and winging it?

  Some writers make things up as they go along, surprising themselves or letting the characters take over. While the end justifies the means, strategically this is like being a magician who doesn’t want to know how his tricks work. When building castles in the sky, isn’t it better to know where the bricks came from so the castle can be built again, if need be?

  No, because IT DOESN’T MATTER. Really. I know I’m in a fictional reality. While that might freak out most folks, it makes me feel better. It means that even if the Hulk had killed Mr. Snuffles, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt, since he doesn’t exist. On the other hand, it means there’s hope for the real world, wherever it may be.

  Either way, IT DOESN’T MATTER.

  The most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the canine mind to correlate all its contents.

  Thank you, Arial! Exactly. So what’s the point of getting connected?

  Because stories not only exist, they hold everything else together.

  We are such stuff as dogs are made of, and our little life is rounded with a woof.

  Oh, for the love of… Fine! Listen up! Want to know what I remember? I remember losing my mother to cancer.

  All happy doggies are alike; each unhappy doggie is unhappy in its own way.

  I remember Dad hitting me as often as he hit the floor. I remember, even as a kid, feeling crowded into my own skin and wanting to punch my way out. I remember really, really liking to take things apart.

  (Garçon! Can we get a drink here?)

  Shh! He’s sharing.

  It was the best of dogs, it was the worst of dogs.

  I remember him calling it tough love, the way the righteous wield a sword of justice. I remember being okay with the justice, but more interested in the sword—in fighting back. I remember, by the time I left high school, having a bunch of angry psychos as friends—a gang of punk Dads. I remember one of them shooting real Dad with his own handgun.

  And the dog said, “Nevermore.”

  And, okay, yeah, sure, I think I remember a dog somewhere along the line, in middle school—before things went really crazy. Something that loved me without talking back, or hitting me, or asking anything at all, except maybe for food and a walk.

  What a piece of work is dog. How noble in duck-hunting. How infinite in stick-fetching. In action how like a squirrel.

  Real or not, I remember wishing it could last forever. It didn’t, but I did. I lasted forever. Even when I’m supposed to die, I keep coming back. And that’s all I’ve got on that! Happy?

  Because I could not stop for dog, it kindly stopped to pee.

  Did I have a dog? For real? Or do I just feel like I should’ve?

  All dogs happen, more or less.

  But I also remember, just as clearly, being the richest man in the world. Having lived to a ripe old age, I lie in an expensive bed surrounded by countless treasures, clutching a framed photo of a boy and his puppy. Before I pass into the great beyond, the frame slips from my feeble fingers, cracking against the floor as I whisper my final word: “Rosebud.”

  That’s Citizen Kane.

  Exactly! Half the time I remember being Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. I don’t want to explain myself because I can’t, not really, not ever. So I just want me to shut up. I just want…

  The dog died today. Or maybe yesterday. I can’t be sure.

  Come on, guys, can’t you see he’s hurting?

  This is freakier than seeing the Hulk cry.

  (We’re sorry, Wade. Go on, take your break.)

  Yeah, we’ll be quiet for at least a chapter. Promise.

  No! Y’know what? Too freaking late! Come on, Mr. Snuffles. I’m dropping you off with Preston. Then it’s time to get back to work.

  CHAPTER 18

  IN THE 1950s, New York’s SoHo was called Hell’s Hundred Acres. It was all sweatshops, factories, and warehouses—packed with underpaid labor by day, empty by night. By the 1960s, the businesses were gone. A bunch of bohemian artists saw all those tall-windowed buildings and said, “Oooo! Natural lighting!” In the 1980s, Yuppies saw all the Bohemians living there and said, “Oooo! A justification for our conspicuous consumption!” These days, the converted lofts are mostly up to code. The few genuine townhouses in the area go for between three million and why-would-one-person-ever-have-that-much-money?

  I can’t imagine that the next address on the list would go for anywhere near that kind of cash. A worn-brick Federal with a red door painted black, it looks less like a crib for the rich and famous and more the sort of rundown haunted house you’d expect to be inhabited by a 1970s-horror-comic host. The owner’s name, Cruston Withers, matches the ambience nicely.

  I’d assume Cruston Withers is an alias, but I live in a world where people have names like von Doom. Here’s the really weird thing— and you’ve gotta use the word weird loosely in this book—Cruston Withers didn’t receive just one suspect puppy, or two, or ten.

  He got thirty.r />
  Meaning we may not be talking pets in the traditional sense.

  Oh, I could burst in, katana swinging, and let God sort out the guilty. But oddly enough, I’m feeling mellow (A.K.A. psychologically drained) after my beach break. Could be more fun trying to guess what the hell he’s up to in there first—make up a story myself for a change.

  Going with the horror-comic theme, I picture a lonely old guy sitting in a chair by a roaring fire, regaling his dogs with terror tales to blow their minds, like “The Lurking Fear at Shadow House” (for you Steranko fans!).

  Or…

  He could be a male variation on Cruella de Vil, planning to use the dogs for a bathrobe.

  Nah. The pups are different breeds. Skins wouldn’t match.

  Maybe he’s a recent immigrant who misses the old country, and he’s preparing a stew to remind himself of home. They still eat dog in lots of countries: China, Indonesia, Korea, Mexico, the Philippines, Polynesia, Taiwan, and Vietnam. Hell, a few hundred thousand folks in Switzerland like to chow down on Tabby and Spot around Christmas time. No lie.

  Does Withers sound Swiss? No idea.

  Besides, thirty pups would feed a lot of people, and this place does not look crowded.

  Let’s try the needlessly optimistic route. Cruston might be a stand-up guy, misunderstood because his name is as freaky as his house. He may be planning to give all those puppies to disadvantaged kids.

  No, no, no. I’ve got it. Check this out:

  Sick of humankind and its cruelties, the lonely Cruston Withers wants to be a dog himself. He gets a bunch as puppies so they’ll be more likely to accept him as one of their own. Then he dresses himself up in a dog costume and… Feh. Bored now. May as well walk up and ask. I can always start shooting later if I feel like it.

  The place has one of those old-style manual doorbells. Real old style—no electricity needed. You twist the knob, and an actual bell actually rings. So I do that a few times.

  I wait. I hum a little. I look at my feet, up at the sky. Then I twist it again.

  It’s not very loud. He might not hear it if he’s on the can or watching TV, or breathing. If he’s an older coot with failing ears, he may never hear it. But there I go again, making assumptions. Just because his last name is Withers doesn’t mean he’s old. He could be in his twenties for all I know. Besides, we already did the seniorcitizen thing with Aunt May.