The Mad and the MacAbre (4 page)

The dog closed its eyes.

Charlie watched it for several minutes until
he was sure that the dog was asleep. Then he returned to bed.

* * *

Charlie woke up and glanced over at the
alarm clock. 4:29 AM.

Woof!

Stupid dog.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Charlie got out of bed and
stormed into the living room. The dog stopped barking and started
panting happily. At least it
looked
happy--it was just a dog, so he couldn't tell for
certain.

"What?" Charlie asked. "What do you
want?"

A horrifying thought occurred to him. He
quickly rushed over and peeked out the front window to make sure
the dog wasn't trying to alert him to potential danger.

No police car was waiting outside.
Apparently no watchdog duties were being performed. He returned his
attention to the animal.

"What the hell is your problem?" he
asked.

The dog continued to pant happily.

"I have to sleep! I have to get up early to
go to work! You can't bark like that!"

Then he noticed that the dog had somehow
worked the bandages off its legs. There were a few small blood
spots on his couch. Charlie cursed again, setting a personal
profanity record.

"You had your chance, but you blew it," he
said, picking up the dog. "That's the way the cookie crumbles."

He carried it into the kitchen, shifted the
dog in his arms so he could open the basement door while still
holding it, gasped as he nearly dropped the dog, regained control,
then got the basement door open and placed the dog on the top
step.

"It's your own fault," he said, closing the
door.

He didn't know if it would start scratching
again, but he could sleep through that a lot more easily than the
barking. He'd be okay for work if he got in a couple more hours of
rest before the alarm went off. Charlie was perfectly fine with not
getting much sleep on a night when he had a plaything in the
basement, but he was much less fine with the idea of losing sleep
over an idiot dog.

* * *

Charlie woke up to the
alarm at 6:30. He had a banana and a piece of toast for breakfast,
then opened the door to the basement. The dog bounded up the stairs
toward him as he walked down, nearly tripping him as it nipped at
his feet. He braced himself against the wall and told the dog to
knock it off. It had a
lot
more energy now than when he'd first found it,
that was for sure.

He reached the bottom without falling and
breaking his neck and then refilled the dog's food and water bowls.
By now it had lost its torso bandages completely, so he took a few
minutes to redress its wounds. The dog licked his hand, and he
wiped the slobber off on its fur. He didn't see the point in
explaining to the dog that it would be spending the entire day in
the basement while he went to work, so he simply went back upstairs
to shower and get dressed.

* * *

As Charlie drove to work, it occurred to him
that he should have taken the dog for a walk before he left. Oh
well. It was far from the first mess he'd have to clean up in that
basement.

- 4 -

During his 10:45 AM break, Charlie called
his home voice mail to check if there were any messages. He had to
think for several moments to recall his password--he wasn't used to
having any reason to access his voice mail.

Two messages. The first was
from an old-sounding man who described a white poodle. No need to
call him back. The second was a woman who didn't say what kind of
dog she was missing, just that she hoped he had her beloved
Rhinestone. Charlie didn't think the dog looked like a
Rhinestone--he didn't think
any
dog looked like a Rhinestone--and it didn't sound
like the kind of name a wealthy person would give a dog, but he
called the woman anyway.

"I'm returning your call," he said, when the
woman answered with an annoying, sing-songy "Hello."

"My call about...?"

"The dog."

"Oh, yes, of course. Rhiney came home this
morning. Sorry to waste your time!"

"Okay." Charlie hung up.

There were no messages at lunch or at his
3:15 break. Charlie was surprised. He would have expected more
people to lose dogs than that.

There were no new messages waiting for him
when he got home. Charlie opened the door to the basement and the
dog rushed out. It stampeded over to the front door, whining and
twitching. Charlie realized that he didn't have a leash. He had
plenty of rope and other things that he could fashion into a leash
without too much effort, but the dog seemed to be in a state of
emergency and what was the worst thing that could happen? The dog
might run away. So what? Charlie wouldn't be any worse off.

He opened the door and let the dog race
outside. It ran a few feet out onto his lawn and then immediately
squatted. Charlie watched it for a moment, then questioned why he
was watching this particular activity in progress and averted his
eyes. The dog finished and ran back inside the house. It was
definitely well trained.

Charlie went down into the basement, and was
surprised and pleased to note that there weren't any messes to
clean up. The dog held out better than some of the humans he kept
down here.

He filled its food and water bowls once
again, then walked upstairs. The dog was back on his couch.

"Get down," he said.

The dog rolled onto its side.

"I'm not going to pet you," he told it. "Get
off my couch."

The dog woofed at him--not quite a bark.

Charlie sighed. "You can stay, but you'd
better not shed on it."

Interesting. Now he was not only speaking to
the dog as if it could understand human speech, but he was acting
as if the dog could control its own shedding. Bring on the men in
white jackets.

If nobody claimed the dog by the time he was
out of food (a couple of days, probably) he'd take it to the
pound.

Charlie changed out of his work clothes into
jeans and a sweater, then microwaved a frozen pizza. He sat down
next to the dog and turned on the television.

The dog licked its chops.

"No," he said. "It's mine." He took a bite
of pizza and winced. Way too hot. He opened his mouth and fanned
his hand in front of his tongue.

The dog inched closer to him.

"Don't even think about it."

The dog whimpered.

"No. My pizza. You've got dog chow." Charlie
blew on the slice of pizza to cool it down then took a big bite.
The dog watched him carefully. "I'll take you to the pound right
now if you don't quit staring at me," he informed it. "I mean
it."

The dog didn't whimper again, but silently
watched him as he ate the first piece of pizza. Charlie didn't like
the crust anyway, so he pinched it between his thumb and index
finger and offered it to the dog. "Here."

The dog snapped at the treat, biting his
fingers.

"Ow!" Charlie slapped the dog in the face as
hard as he could. It let out a loud yip, jumped off the couch, and
ran into the kitchen.

Rotten mutt.

It was lucky he didn't shove its food bowl
down its throat. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd slice that cur's neck
open with an electric carving knife and see if he could get the
bowl all the way in there.

He examined his fingers. They stung a bit,
but the dog's teeth hadn't broken the skin.

Rotten, lousy, ungrateful mutt.

Wretched, mindless, bitey cur.

Then again...

What was the dog
supposed
to do when he
offered it a piece of food that way, pinched between his fingers?
His flesh was in the way of the pizza crust. He couldn't have
expected the dog to carefully nibble around his skin--it was just
an animal, living through instinct. He should've placed the
offering on his palm or set it on the couch cushion. He'd been
wrong.

Oh well. Charlie wasn't going to get bent
out of shape over hitting a dog without just cause. It was still
lucky he hadn't left it to freeze to death in the park, and if he
took it to the pound, it might end up euthanized anyway, in which
case the slap was the least of its problems.

He watched television and ate the other
three pieces of pizza. He almost ate the crusts just to convince
himself that he wasn't saving them as a peace offering for the dog,
but decided that would be silly. He didn't like crust. Why eat
something he didn't like just to fool himself into believing that
he wasn't trying to make up for hitting a dumb animal?

He carried his plate into the kitchen, where
the dog was huddled in the corner. Charlie set the plate with the
pizza crusts down on the floor. The dog looked tentatively at it
but didn't move.

"It's food," Charlie said, impatiently. "Eat
it."

He could see the dog's nose twitching, but
it remained in the corner. Charlie shrugged. It wasn't his job to
force the dog to eat. He went back into the living room, and before
he even had a chance to sit down on the couch he heard the scrape
of the dog's feet as it ran across the tile floor. He listened to
it eating. Good. At least the pizza crusts wouldn't go to
waste.

About twenty minutes later, Charlie realized
he was sitting through a rerun and hadn't even noticed. He switched
channels. Nothing looked interesting. He shut off the television
and sat there for a moment.

Why did he feel guilty? It was a mindless
animal. It was like having guilt over slapping a mosquito.

He looked toward the entrance to the
kitchen. There'd been no sound for a while. He wondered if the dog
had gone to sleep.

Charlie got up off the couch, feeling
stupid. He walked into the kitchen, still feeling stupid. He looked
at the dog, which lay curled up next to the basement door, and then
cleared his throat, continuing to feel stupid. The dog raised its
head and perked up its ears.

"I'm sorry I hit you," he said.

Charlie stood there for a long moment, as if
waiting for the dog to acknowledge his apology. It did not.

He returned to the couch and turned the
television back on. A few minutes later, the dog bounded into the
living room and jumped up onto the cushion next to him. It sat next
to him until bedtime.

* * *

"Surfing the net on company time?"

Charlie glared at Alicia over his shoulder.
"I'm on my lunch break. We're allowed."

"I was just kidding," said Alicia. "Wow, you
take everything personally, don't you? We need to figure out a way
to make you a little less serious."

"I'm fine."

"You're a powder keg of repressed rage. If
you don't lighten up, you're going to run somebody over with your
car."

"Okay."

"Looking for a new dog?" she asked, nodding
at his monitor. Charlie was in the middle of a Google search for
animal shelters in the area.

Charlie shook his head. "Getting rid of
one."

"Oh, no! What did it do?"

"Nothing. I found it."

"Well, make sure you take it to a 'no kill'
shelter."

"They have those?"

"Yeah, they'll keep it until they find it a
home. What kind of dog is it?"

"Boston terrier."

"Oh, I love those!" said Alicia. "They're so
cute! Did you name it?"

Charlie shrugged. Why would he name a dog
that he was taking to the pound? And why wouldn't she leave him
alone? She knew he was on his lunch break--why couldn't she respect
that and let him enjoy it?

"I guess if you named it, it might be hard
to let it go," Alicia admitted.

"Yeah."

"But it was nice of you to take in the dog
and give it a home for now. Where did you find it?"

"In a park."

"I can't believe the owner hasn't claimed it
yet."

"Do you want it?" Charlie asked.

"Can't. I've already got three cats. If I
didn't, I'd take it in a second. I think you should keep it,
though--a dog would be good for you."

"Why?" Charlie was surprised to discover
that he actually cared about her answer to his question.

"Unconditional love. A dog doesn't care if
you're in a bad mood or if you cheated on your taxes; they love you
no matter what."

Charlie frowned. Was she accusing him of
cheating on his taxes?

"I don't have time to take care of a dog,"
Charlie said, knowing that he had plenty of time, even if he kept
up his current schedule of television viewing.

"That's fair," said Alicia. "I'm not trying
to get into your business. But promise me that you'll take it to a
'no kill' shelter, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll even look one up for you and give you
the address. Then you can enjoy the rest of your lunch break."

It took Charlie several seconds to figure
out how to respond to that. "Thanks."

"No problem at all. I'm
happy to do it." She smiled. "Did you notice that it's not
that
painful to have a
friendly conversation with a co-worker?"

Charlie didn't necessarily agree with Alicia
about the level of pain the conversation created, but he nodded and
forced himself to smile.

* * *

By the end of the day, still nobody had
called about the dog. Maybe his signs just weren't very good. He
supposed that if he asked Alicia, she'd help him make better
ones--he'd seen the sign she made for a bake sale last week that he
didn't participate in, and it was colorful and eye-catching. Of
course, making new signs would be a waste of time, since he'd be
taking the dog to the address of the animal shelter she'd given him
right before he left.

Still, it would be a major disappointment if
he turned the dog over to the shelter and then the rich owner
claimed it that same day. Or even a few days later. The dog wasn't
exactly eating up a large percentage of his income; maybe Charlie
should hang on to it for a few more days, just in case. Also, he
didn't want to deal with the awkward phone conversation if the
elated owner called him to reclaim his or her pet, and Charlie had
to explain that he'd taken it to the pound, where it might have
been given to somebody else. At least he wouldn't have to tell the
owner that the dog had been gassed. He didn't like hearing people
cry outside of his basement.