Gary Owens
It began with the dog. In the middle of August, the outside an oven roast, Penny opened the door trailed by a bushy, chubby, solemn white poodle which trembled and hid in her aura. The dog was no friend to me. There were no nips or growls, but its flattened ears and lowered head told me what I needed to know.
“Give Sam time,” she said, and I knew that was a lie.
When Penny and I first met little stood between us. My jokes evoked coy smiles and after work we enjoyed movies or the company of friends. But a promotion meant longer hours, giving way to late night research and early morning meetings. She evolved to not seeing me out the door in the morning, then not waiting to eat dinner together. Then she bought the dog.
She had a grand time with the thing: long walks, play dates, earnest conversations. She designed a room that Sam could call its own. She devoted herself to the animal, while I visited business partners, addressed stuffy board members, and involved myself in one-nighters. Projects entangled themselves with each other, causing business trips to became more frequent, much longer. At this point, when I came home, she would not brush me away, but she would not rush to me, either; a distance separated us, and in-between, wagging the tail, was the dog, a companion she could never forego. I asked her about quitting and taking another job, if she needed me around more, and she would put her hand on my arm and say, “Of course,” but her eyes revealed other truths.
I left the dog to her, the relationship between me and the thing courteous but short, an interaction designed more for civility than friendship. We both took the high road in front of the one we really wanted.
This lasted for months until she got sick. I took time off and Sam kept its distance. When I came home from the hospital, he watched me open the door, watched me walk by him, watched me do my own things. Days passed before Sam accepted that life had changed, that she may not reappear, and he needed to move on. Understanding this new reality, Sam tried to bridge the gap. When I sat, he laid at my feet. If I got up, he would wag his tail. The devil even chirped as I entered the room. But I dared not touch him. I did not want to befriend him. Food, bedding, a quick walk: nothing more. Harboring feelings would be too much, but something needed to be done, didn’t it?
Only after the third week, her eyes barely open, did Penny finally tell me what I had to do.
“You know him, after I’m gone Sam will be yours. Trust him; he will be yours.”
I agreed to nothing, though her decline grew. At home, Sam ensured I knew of his existence. I thought about taking the animal to the hospital, bringing all three of us together and pretending we were a family. Or I could forget to lock the door, let him roam the streets in search of a better life, and then pass the tragic news along. But these would be lies. So instead I let her family take Sam to her, once, as I took comfort at home. I liked having my home back, even just for an afternoon.
Before she died, there had been two weeks since she had seen him, but she never mentioned the fact. Not once. I felt bad; despite her pain, I knew she could see my inability. I told myself this was a little thing, I was cursing the yipping animal too much, I had to grow up and be a man. But I knew the hidden context when she would turn her head, said I should go home to take a break, and give me that look. Sam was on her mind, and I was right to feel how I did.
At her funeral, her friends asked about him, as did her family. Both wanted to take care of the matter for me. I declined their offers. I knew accepting would have been better for the dog, for me, for Penny, but accepting would have meant admitting defeat. To acknowledge the dog’s existence was a struggle, yet to forego him was worse. There was only so much of her that I could give away, but also only so much that I could still live with. Something the dog seemed to understand.
I hear a pitter patter of paws on tile now, like a whisper, but there is nothing to say. I live in the same room, breathe the same air, and yet I do not exist. When he dies, I know I will grant Sam a place near Penny. A comfort that will be near her heart forever.
But I do not think about that time. The future is a door I am loath to enter. Instead I recall the days when there were no dogs, no vacant acceptances, but only a dream, celebrating my return.