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In the Doghouse: A Couple’s Breakup from Their Dog’s Point of View
by Teri Case
Dedication
In loving memory of Marie, Mama Cat, Dickie Bird, and Kimo
Chapter 1
Skip
A Dog’s Life
Whoever thinks a dog’s life is easy has no idea what they’re talking about, and they certainly don’t understand a thing about unconditional love.
My Lucy is crying again but with noise this time. Her pain hurts my ears and twists my guts, but her silent tears seemed louder and more
I’m sure the downstairs neighbors can hear her wails through the floor, but they must be used to it after four days. Normally, the teenage boy, Thomas, who lives with his mom, gets upset at loud noises and shouts, “Too loud! Too loud! Too loud!” Maybe crying doesn’t count because I haven’t heard him complain.
It’s eating me up inside that it’s my fault John left us. Even if I could find the words, I’d never be able to tell her how sorry I am. And that I’m scared too. Lucy’s not the only one John has left behind. She’s not the only one praying he’ll change his mind and come back to us or wondering what the heck we’re going to do without him.
Her blond hair is wet and plastered against the side of her face, where she’s been brushing her torrential downpour of tears. I lean forward to lick the tears from her salty cheeks, but she turns me away.
“Not now, Skip,” she says.
Even now, she’s beautiful to me. I know it’s not right to say so when her face is red and her eyes are puffy from too much grief, but it’s true. With her face clear of makeup, and her damp hair and rumpled clothes, she reminds me of the many times we’ve been caught walking in the San Francisco rain. Only then, she laughs. Smiles. She has the best smile in the world.
A walk was the first thing we did together when she and John brought me home seven years ago, and if it hadn’t been so late and if the next day hadn’t been a workday, I think we could’ve walked all night long. That was the first time she sat next to me, leaned her forehead against mine, and whispered, “You’re perfect for me.” I get teary thinking about it. She’s been perfect for me too.
Pacing seems to help. Checking her phone, though? Not so much. Because it’s not bleeping or dinging, and that silence means no John. I hate those phones and how people are always looking down at them. My paws have been stepped on more than once by a hunched-over human not paying attention to where they are going. But I digress.
A long walk would do us some good. We could both use some fresh air and activity. We need to burn off some of this pent-up negative energy. And I need to urinate. Heck, we haven’t been on a proper walk since John left. Lucy has been opening the back door so I can relieve myself in the complex’s backyard. To get there I have to head down four flights of dark, narrow, and steep servant-stairs typical of old San Francisco’s apartment-converted Victorian homes. We share the stairs with our top-floor neighbor, “Hoarding Manny.” That’s what John and Lucy call him. The nickname makes Manny sound older and less handsome than he really is, though. I’m guessing he’s about Lucy’s age, thirty-two-ish, and he has a strong, confident walk.
Our shared back door steps are riddled with Manny’s stacks of dirty terra-cotta pots and bags of potting soil he insists he’s going to use someday. That’s what he tells the offsite property manager every time John and Lucy complain about his “hot mess all over the place.” Right now, the only one using the pots and soil is the damn stray cat that sprays all over them. Pisses John off. No pun intended. Or I guess I should say, pissed John off. Still no pun intended.
I’m tired of winding my way down four creaking flights to reach the yard, but I think Lucy feels self-conscious and doesn’t want to run into anyone we know at the dog park and answer a bunch of questions, like, “Where’s John today?” or “How are the wedding plans going?”
She asks me, “How could he leave us? What will I tell people?”
It’s one of the few times I’ve been glad I can’t speak human, so I don’t have to answer. Mostly, I’d love to talk a human’s ears off. I’m a dog with a lot to say. But just now, I don’t need to add lying to my list of how I’ve been an unfaithful companion.
I’ve lost count of how many times she’s said, “He’ll be back,” to me, herself, and the empty spot on the couch where John always sat. But she says it more like a question: He’ll be
My natural order of senses is first smell, then sight, and last is sound. Tasting and smelling at once is one of my canine superpowers and usually a good thing. If something smells good about a person, I want to take a deep breath, stick out my tongue, and savor their scent and vibe. If they’ll let me, I’ll shove my nose deep between their legs and take a good long whiff, but most humans aren’t comfortable with such public interest. Plus, humans are backward. They operate in the order of sight, sound, smell. They don’t know what they’re missing. They really don’t.
Sigh.
When someone smells bad or needy or vulnerable, it makes me anxious, like I have to be in charge. Like I’m supposed to do something, only I have no idea what I should do. The pressure makes me defensive, and my white fur will stand up all along my spine. I feel responsible, protective . . . and torn. I’m kind of a two-sided dog. I have the looks and instincts for survival of my Timber Wolf mother but the calm, submissive demeanor of my Labrador father. Mama was a natural leader. My dad was a natural follower. How they met, I have no idea.
I may look like Mama, but I take after my father’s side of the family. I’m a cuddler at heart. John was the boss, and I was cool with our arrangement. I’m not alpha-material, but I’m afraid that Lucy is even less alpha-ish than I am. She’s not eating. She’s not sleeping. And we all know what it means when humans stop eating: she can’t take care of herself. A few times, she has reminded me of Soft Voice, my owner when I was born, who had a house and a gigantic yard with Strong Voice. When I was one month old, Soft Voice gave me, Mama, and my brothers and sisters to the pound after Strong Voice “went on to greener pastures” and she couldn’t take care of us on her own. That I’m even thinking about Soft Voice and losing my first family is the perfect example of how John’s leaving is messing with my head too.
I’m a dog. I’m wired to live in the now. I’ve got NOW DNA. I’m not supposed to think about the past or the future, but that’s all I’ve been able to do these past four days. Dwelling on yesterday and hoping for tomorrow is something humans love to do, but it’s no way for a dog to live. No, sir.
Focus on the now, Skip. Focus.
I’ve been mentally coaching myself to take the lead in John’s, hopefully temporary, absence. The idea came to me instinctively; not because I want to lead, but I’m a pack animal, and when I see a need, I have to fill it whether I like it or not. It’s compulsory. I once heard that females in a wolf pack will all start producing milk when another female has a litter. They do this just in case something happens to the mama or the mama’s milk. Amazing, right? They are all for one and one for all.
Lucy’s not getting her exercise. We’re not getting our exercise. I’ve got to suck it up and do something.
All for one and one for all.
I pick up my leash and carry it to her. Time to take her on a walk. She needs to clear her head and prepare for the workweek to come. Tomorrow is Monday and she starts her new job as the head geriatrics nurse and wellness director at a retirement home. Sure, the timing isn’t ideal with John leaving, but she’s been waiting to transfer from trauma to geriatrics for a few years. Somehow, I have to help her pull herself together.
“I’ll open the back door for you,” she says and blows her nose.
Nope. No more backyard. We’re going for a walk.
I yip and drag my leash to the front door, the clip scraping annoyingly against the hardwood floor. When I reach the door, I get my bark on. I’m annoying enough that after a few attempts, she stands up and says, “Okay, give me a minute.”
The bathroom door closes behind her. I drop my leash, confident she is getting ready to go out with me. I’m not letting her off the hook. Through the door, I hear her sniffle and open the medicine cabinet. The distinct rattle of pills catches my attention. She always says, “Nothing gets past you.” Nope it doesn’t, not when it comes to sound anyway.
I’ll just get her fleece and put it by the door for her. As I return to the hallway with her favorite pullover, I hear her turn the knob. Unfortunately, at the same time I hear the key sliding into the front door lock.
Just as Lucy steps into the hall, John opens the front door.
Chapter 2
Skip
Unpacked
We all freeze. At first, Lucy and John don’t say anything and have eyes only for each other. It reminds me of their silent exchange at the pound when I first met them and when they could read each other’s minds. The contrast is startling because they might be staring at each other now, but they’re not communicating a darn thing. Zilch. They’re acting more like wary strangers. It’s like they are sizing each other up, the same way I do whenever a new dog shows up at my dog park and I’m not sure if he’s a friend or a foe.
And me? I’m standing between them, smack dab in the middle. Unfortunately, it’s a place I’ve been a lot over the past several weeks, polarized by Lucy’s hopeful expression and John’s scent-de-Cecilia’s biscuits, which tells me he hasn’t been alone.
Cecilia. Our ruination.
Lucy and I wait together, uncertain if John is coming home or if he’s just taking the last of his things and leaving us behind like unwanted leftovers or a forgotten doggy bag.
I know. I know. I sound bitter and hurt, but that’s because I am bitter and hurt.
John breaks the silence. “I should’ve knocked. Sorry, old habit. Skip, come here, buddy.”
I wish he would’ve said Lucy’s name first, but the three of us have been this way ever since John’s mood changed a few months ago, and it became easier for him to interact with Lucy about me rather than discuss their upcoming wedding and honeymoon or our pack’s future together. In the past, John and Lucy have said how sad it is that their married friends who’ve become parents only talk about their babies. Many times, Lucy has said, “When we have children, we’re not going to forget our relationship exists too.” And John always said, “That’s a deal.”
I guess the deal didn’t include dogs.
Should I go to him?
I’m mad at him for leaving us and putting me in this horrible predicament, but he’s making his irresistible cute kissy noises. His thick light-brown bangs slide forward over his forehead as he pats his knee, beckoning me. I’m confused because I’ve always done what John has told me to do, so I look up at Lucy. Tell me what to do, I implore her with my eyes. Lead me, I beg.
“Come here, Skip,” John says again. “Or are you mad at me too?”
Lucy reaches over and pats my head. “Stay.” Only I can’t tell if she is telling me to stay or entreating John not to go.
“I’m not mad, John,” she says. “I’m confused and hurt.”
John clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is deep and rough. “Lucy—”
She interrupts. “Have you changed your mind?” The hope in her voice is so heavy I close my eyes, and my long flat tongue goes dry. You know how I feel about negative smells. Her desperation is oozing from her pores. John remains silent. He doesn’t know it, but he smells her desperation too. Humans don’t like it either. To me, it smells like dried sticky syrup that can get stuck in your fur for days and adheres to the floor when you’re napping. Hurts like a son of a bitch when you jump to your feet and lose some hair in the process.
John closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose. He does this whenever he doesn’t want to sneeze or cry. I used to catch him doing this during sad movies. Sometimes, he’d bury his face in my fur, pretending to hug me, but he was really using me as a Kleenex. I never minded. He was the top dog of our pack, and he needed to hide his weaknesses.
“No,” he says, “I just need to know you’re going to be okay.” He takes a step closer.
I stand on all fours, not sure what will happen next when Lucy’s energy shifts a bit, but I stay at her side, where I’ve been for the past four days.
Lucy purses her lips, shakes her head, and puts her hand up, palm forward. She does the same to me whenever she wants me to immediately stop what I’m doing. John knows the signal, so he stops too.
“Why?” she growls. “So you’ll feel better?” She says it like a question, but she isn’t really asking.
If I could talk, I’d warn John: Back off before she bites you.
“It’s not like that,” he says.
“It’s exactly like that. You came over here to get meto reassure youthat everything is going to be okay. Well, guess what?” Her arm is shaking as she leans on my head like one of those sticks that old people don’t throw but take on walks with them. They’re actually called canes, but people like to sound hip and healthy, so they call them sticks. “It’s not okay. I feel stupid, like a fool. I have no idea what has happened between us or why you’ve changed your mind about us,” she says. “Feel better now?”
He leans forward, “You’re not a fool. You’re amazing. I just need to be alone. I don’t want to end up like my parents.”
“Your parents? We’re nothing like your parents.”
John shakes his head. “It’s not you. This is my problem.”
“Your problem?” Lucy lifts her chin. “Believe me, it’s my problem too. What about the past ten years? What about everything we’ve worked for? Do those years mean so little? So little that ‘being alone’ sounds better?”
I’m surprised by how strong, clear, and angry her voice is all of a sudden. The kind of angry that makes me tuck my tail, hang my head in shame, and run for another room when it’s aimed at me after chewing something I shouldn’t have chewed. (Not that I ever do this, mind you. At least not since I was a pup.) If not for Lucy’s inflamed face, I’d have a hard time convincing anyone of how fragile she’s been.
“What am I missing? What happened?” she asks. “I need a better explanation than you ‘want to be alone.’ I deserve one. We’re supposed to be getting married in five months. Our honeymoon is planned . . .” She lets her sentence trail off as if hoping John will offer a positive ending to it. I hope she doesn’t hold her breath for one because John and I know what “wants to be alone” really means.
“Don’t you love me anymore?” she asks.
Instead of looking at Lucy, John looks long and hard at me.
Oh shit.
I can read his mind. I can read his slumping shoulders, slack jaw, and heavy lids. They all add up to defeat and his desperate need to confess and be guilt-free.
The hackles on the back of my shoulders and neck rise in alarm.
People think confessing something bad is the right thing to do, but it’s not. It’s selfish. A confession just helps the person in the wrong feel better while it makes the innocent person feel like a piece of crap. No good comes of confessions. The truth might set John free, but it will destroy my life permanently. He’s going to tell Lucy about Cecilia, she-who-Lucy-knows-nothing-about, and Lucy will hate us both forever. There will be no second chance for our pack. No possibility of reconciliation even if he changes his mind. And she’ll take me to the pound for my betrayal, for being the one who introduced him to his new woman.
When John releases a long, slow breath as if he is gearing up for a dogfight, I know what I have to do. I need to make him leave. Now. Before he spills the beans and blows our pack and our lives to smithereens.
I start barking like a rabid dog. The more they tell me to be quiet, the louder and faster I bark. I howl until they can’t hear themselves think, much less hear each other speak, and I’m not going to stop. I don’t even stop when I hear Thomas yell from downstairs, “Too loud! Too loud! Too loud!”
It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I drive John out the door. Our secret is safe.
Copyright © 2019 by Teri Case
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