Taking Care of Wiggles by Mike Miller
The phone wakes me up. My dream shatters, and my brain discards the shards as I attune to reality.
It is Saturday, the most beautiful day. Even at noon there is the full possibility of opportunity. When that is fully squandered, there is still Saturday night, the most glorious of nights. I don’t want to wait for that so I start to go back to sleep. It’ll be there when I wake up. I’m fuckin’ tired.
The phone rings again, and I let it go. It drowns into a buzz from my resurrected Friday night slumberthon. There’s always the hope of continuing my dream, whatever it was.
When the machine picks up, it’s Cindy. I’ll answer that call any groggy Saturday afternoon. I cough up a wad of spit into a nearby cup and test a couple basic sounds to ensure I don’t sound like a hoarse cow. Springing from my crusty bed, I snatch the receiver up while she still waltzes through the basic formalities.
“Cindy,” I say, “how are you doing?” Though the hurt of Saturday courses through my coarse throat, the opportunity to talk to my girlfriend contributes to my enthusiasm. “How’s your trip? You having fun?”
She doesn’t respond to any of my questions, but only says, “Tommy...” My happiness dissipates and disappears with every hanging second of silence. The gravity gets heavier as she sighs deeply. Then sighs even deeper. “There’s a problem,” she finally confesses. “Something’s happened...”
“What? Are you in trouble? Are you okay?” I picture my sweet Cindy making her lone phone call from some French dungeon, while the snooty guards rifle through her purse, or molest her sister, because they got nabbed with a minimal amount of hash. When Cindy begins stifling tears, my imagination mutates the scene into increasingly more horrible visions of inhumane sex and violence. “What is it?” I demand.
“It’s Wiggles,” she cries.
Suddenly the grimy bars of a Parisian jail melt into the red and white collar of Cindy’s dopey brown and white terrier. She keeps crying.
“What happened to Wiggles?” I inquire while stifling a yawn in my armpit.
“He was, I don’t know, like, going out on a walk, or like maybe coming back from one, and he bit up Norman.” Her sobs heavily punctuate her words. When I’m about to ask who the hell Norman is, she answers. “Norman is the kid I hired from next door, to look after Wiggles, you know, feed him, walk him and stuff, and he bit him on the face.”
“Who bit who?” I demand emotionally.
“Wiggles bit Norman, of course, you idiot!” After her screeched outburst, she resumes her sobbing. “He says he needed sixteen stitches on his face!” The final revelation of the full sequence of events eases Cindy’s suffering, and she starts to regain control of her wailing. It softens into a series of controlled sniffling. I listen for any more, but she sounds finished for now.
She continues. “I need you to take Wiggles to the pound. He needs to be put to sleep. Norman said that, like, his parents might sue me or worse if I don’t put him to sleep. Maybe they’ll sue me anyways, shit.” Gasps, sobs. “But can you do that for me, Tommy? Please? I just don’t even want to think about it.”
It’s a short heartbeat before I instinctively agree.
To ease her pain, I ask about the rest of her trip. “Oh, it’s great! Meg and I almost got busted for smoking weed under the Eifel Tower.” She continues on about her otherwise fantastic trip abroad. She says she loves me and thanks me again for taking care of Wiggles. I can hear the tears returning to her eyes when she hangs up.
Phone still in hand, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The white stucco pattern moves and shifts as my mind fades back to sleep.
No. I must get the dog first.
Over at Cindy’s apartment, I get a note on the door. It reads, “The dog is next door,” so I proceed to the next unit. An old man in a robe and slippers answers. His half-bald bedhead has some white hairs drifting upwards in the air-conditioning, like they were trying to flee his scalp.
“I’m Tommy, Cindy’s boyfriend,” and shake his hand.
He says, “I thought the other fellow that brought him over, his name was something like Hector or Victor was her boyfriend.”
“No,” I explain, “That’s just a friend of Norman.”
“Who’s Norman?” he asks.
“He was taking care of Wiggles...” I would explain the history of Cindy’s dogwalker to him, but from the confused look in his spectacled eyes, I decide it’s best to keep it secret. He doesn’t need to know that he was housing a vicious mauler.
When he realizes I’m finished talking, the old man says, “So why weren’t you walking Wiggles if you were his daddy?”
I don’t know. That’s a damn good question. “Uh…”
He gets tired of waiting for a dimwit like me to answer, so he thankfully says, “Well, anyways, I got him in the back.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open to let me inside. “I’ll get the rascal.”
The old man sprightly hops over a foot stool and into a back room. It’s hot outside, but it’s too cold in here. Maybe the man’s youthful exuberance is due to his apartment’s cryogenic temperature.
The back door opens, and Wiggles walks in first. His eyes fix on mine, he lazily licks his lips, he yawns. The old man emerges from behind him.
“You know what he did?” the old man asks. I shrug no. “He did the cutest thing. When the news came on, I think it was something about that bank robbery-- No, about that bill the president signed about bank robberies, and this little guy here just started yippin’ and ruffin’ at the TV. Classic.” He starts chuckling, and we look down at Wiggles’ still blank expression. When the dog sees us staring at him, he hangs his tongue out the side of his mouth and pants for a moment. The old man erupts into full-blown laughter. It’s time to rescue Wiggles and myself from his loneliness web.
We’d leave, but I realize I don’t have a leash. “You don’t have a leash?” the old man asks. “I wouldn’t worry. This little rascal won’t leave your side.”
“I just want to play it safe. Cindy would get mad if he escaped.” My brain scrambles over whether I could use some electrical cord or maybe just carry him. He’s a little enough guy to huff around, and it wouldn’t be too long.
“I got something.” the old man offers. He dashes back to the back, successfully hurtling the foot stool again. I look down at Wiggles in the interim; he continues to stare at the nothing in front of him.
The old man returns with a belt in hand, and trips over the foot stool. He spills all over the ground, and I go to help him up, before he bounces to his feet. “I’m fine.” he says. “Wow.”
He presents the belt to me. “This’ll work,” he guarantees as he fastens it around the dog’s neck. The belt has a golden, topaz-studded cowboy medallion for a buckle, and the old man adjusts it so that the gaudy ornament rests square on Wiggle’s tiny shoulders. “Looks great, huh?” He hands the tail of the belt to me.
“Thanks.” I say.
“Now don’t lose it. I want it back. That’s my favorite belt.” He cautions.
“Maybe I should use another one?”
“I don’t have any other belts,” he shamefully admits.
Walking away from the old man’s chilled tomb, he pats the dog on the back. “I’ll be happy to take care of such a fine gentleman anytime.” He offers. “See you later, Waggles.” I escort the dog down the hallway, sensing the old man’s loving gaze on our backs, sad to see his good buddy go.
I know what kind of monster Wiggles is though. It’s not just the recent biting incident. Every time I’ve visited Cindy, down to even the last time I saw her before the vacation, Wiggles has barked at me continuously. Then when you try to shut him up with a little dog biscuit treat, his brain would blissfully phase out as he wet himself and the ground below. Beyond the ubiquitous annoying behavior, Cindy’s dog was renowned for escaping into the streets, chewing up furniture, and once trying to take a chunk out of Cindy herself.
Still, I can’t help but feel a little bad as I load the bastard into the back seat. His animal innocence is getting to me, or maybe he understands his guilt and has resigned himself to his fate. He calmly sits and watches me flip the seat and enter. I pull a dog biscuit from my jacket and toss it in front of him. He sniffs at it, but lets it sit. “Fine” I say and drive away.
Though I have a task at hand, I stop by Dave’s place. We had planned to hang out today, and his parents’ house was on the way. After his Mom summons him, he slowly gets ready to go out into the world. Dave enters the car and notices Wiggles quietly waiting in the back. “When’d you get a mutt?” he asks.
“It’s Cindy’s,” I explain.
“So it’s a bitch,” Dave responds with a snicker.
“Fuck you.” I respond, and we start to drive away.
“I’d say she’s a bitch, man. She’s pissing all over your seat.” Dave says.
I spin around in my seat and see Wiggles wetting my seat, slowly munching on the biscuit. He defiantly makes eye contact with me to emphasize his proud naughtiness. “Aw, you bitch,” I exclaim.
“Good dog,” Dave whispers.
We roll into the nearest gas station. I wipe down the seat with some paper towels as Dave walks from the quick mart with a pack of bologna. He starts to feed Wiggles when I interrupt. “What are you doing?”
“I’m feeding her some real food. Have you ever tried one of those doggie crackers? They really suck.” He moves the meat closer towards Wiggles, and I slap it from his hand.
“Stop, man! First off, he’s a he, and his name is Wiggles. And feeding him makes him wiz everywhere,” I explain.
“Cindy’s dog takes a piss whenever he eats?” he asks.
“Not every time. Just when you feed him treats. He gets too excited or something.”
“Maybe she should stop feeding him that dry crap?” Dave suggests.
Suddenly Wiggles leaps from the open car door. I start to freak but the dog stops at the bologna on the ground and gently nibbles at it. “See?” Dave says, “He’s not peeing.”
“Because you didn’t give it to him as a treat,” I explain. “And he’s probably all out of piss.”
“That’s dumb.” Dave says, handing another slice to Wiggles.
“You saw him wiz on the backseat.”
“My dog doesn’t pull that shit. Sounds like Cindy needs to learn how to take care of the little guy better.” Dave wears a thin smirk on his face indicating that that was a snide remark.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“Nothing.” Wiggles finishes his fine dining in the gas station parking lot, and the three of us continue our journey to the pound.
“So where are we going?” Dave asks as we cruise through the mid-Saturday traffic while chomping on some bologna.
“We’re dropping him off at the kennel.”
“You couldn’t take care of the guy?” Dave asks. “Cindy didn’t trust you?”
“No, moron. I actually need to put him to sleep.”
“What?” Dave’s sleepiness dissipates into sharp alarm. “What’s wrong, is he sick?”
“Yes. He pisses when he eats, and he tried to eat the dog-walker’s face.”
Dave is plaintively silent for a moment. Then he says, “So Cindy didn’t trust you to walk him?”
“She asked,” I fib in her defense. “But I said no.”
Dave turns back to face Wiggles, who looks emotionlessly out the window. “I should’ve bought some more bologna,” he utters.
Dave’s heavy thinking silences his mouth, and I’m relieved by the reprieve from his barely veiled Cindy-bashing. He finally speaks. “How’d he bite somebody?”
“I don’t know the details. The kid was taking him on a walk, and I guess he did something to spook him, though the mutt gets spooked pretty easily.”
“Where’d he get bit?” Dave continues to study Wiggles as he continues his line of questioning.
“Sixteen stitches on the face,” I reveal.
“Bullshit,” Dave concludes. “There’s no way that happened.”
“Who do you think you are? Ace Ventura?”
“There’s no way Wiggles could get to that guy’s face, unless, and you said it yourself, this stupid kid ‘spooked’ him. Like bent over and got in his face. He’s a tiny dog, Tommy. I don’t buy it. Either Cindy or this kid is lying, and they tricked you into being this poor little doof’s executioner.”
I think about what Dave said. “You are crazy.” I’m relieved the pound is only a few blocks away. “Wiggles went after Cindy once. He’s crazy too.”
“I can understand that,” Dave says. “She was probably fucking with him too. Feeding him those shitty crackers.” Dave reaches back and grabs Wiggles, lifting him to the front passenger seat. “I’ll show you.”
He sits Wiggles square on his lap, the dog’s snout pointed squarely at his own. I secretly hope that Wiggles attacks to prove my point. “Are you a bad doggy? Did you try and hurt somebody? You didn’t ‘cause you’re a good boy, even though your master gave you a bad name. I bet you’d like to be called something tough, like Burt or Kirk.” Wiggles attention eases up as he turns his head towards the window.
“Oh, you like it out there?” Dave cracks the window, and Wiggles jumps up and jams his neck out the sliver. “You do like it out there. Out there it’s free. Have a blast.” Wiggles has his head out the window for a few scant seconds before I roll into the pound parking lot.
I get the belt and fasten it around the dog. “Cool leash, buddy,” not to me, but that’s Dave is addressing Wiggles. He squats down and faces the dog again, their eyes level. “Alright, Wiggles. You’re going to go to a better place, where you can piss all over the damn place, and Jimi Hendrix will just laugh and pet you that much more. ‘Cause you’re a good doggy.”
“He doesn’t understand you.” I interject, but Dave continues his farewell sermon to the dog.
“You were just too hard for this world. They didn’t understand how it is, to be a thug. And I’m confident that having an ignorant dumbass owner didn’t help. And her brain-dead slave sure never cared either.”
I kick Dave on the side, and he topples over off balance. I start walking Wiggles into the pound, eager to end this period in my life and drop Dave back off at home. I’m suddenly very tired again and would rather rest than endure more Dave.
“What are you doing?” Dave asks.
I ignore him and continue. “You can’t kill him, Tommy! You aren’t a murderer. Look, he’s a well-behaved dog. Are you going to murder this innocent soul just because Cindy told you to?”
I stop and the belt chokes Wiggles into a heel. “Shut the hell up, Dave. I can’t believe you’re using this dog to get at Cindy. It’s pathetic.”
“I only rip on your girl because she kidnapped you from your own friends,” he adds.
“What are you talking about? I hung out with you last night, partying it up. And now we’re hanging out again.”
Dave scoffs, “Only because Cindy’s not around.”
In the midst of our argument, a family of four passes us going into the pound and sees Wiggles. The dad says, “That’s a beautiful dog. You aren’t putting him up for adoption, are you?”
I say, “No.”
But Dave says, “Sure. You want him?”
The kids joyfully approach Wiggles with hands eager to pet.
I announce with a sigh, “We’re putting him to sleep because he attacked somebody.”
The mom ushers her children protectively under each arm, and the father says, “That’s a shame.” The family nervously evacuates the area.
“You’re pathetic, Tom.” Dave says. “You can walk this animal to its death without a second thought, because you don’t own a dog, and are completely willing to surrender your will to that ditz. He shouldn’t have to die. We could put him up and hope that somebody else takes him, or maybe just let him run free.” He pleads.
“Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if Cindy came back from her trip, thinking Wiggles was dead, and then he returned and gave her a heart attack?” He laughs to prove how funny it is.
“Dude, and then we tell her it’s a zombie. And we sell the story for beaucoup bucks to the tabloids, and we’re rich. It’s genius.”
“Brilliant,” I deadpan and begin to approach the pound again.
As I approach, I can hear the yelps and howls of the canines inside.
“Wait,” Dave says and squats back down to Wiggles. “I want to say one more thing.” I indulge him as Dave talks to the oblivious Wiggles, whose tongue lazily hangs from his mouth. Dave fights for eye contact but eventually starts up his newest speech anyways. “It’s been short, buddy, and even though Tommy and Cindy don’t care about you, I know you are a good dog. I can see it in your soul. So I will miss you, Wiggles.”
Wiggles lunges at Dave, and he falls back with a hand over his face. I rip back on the makeshift belt, and Wiggles’ small body flips up through the air. His paws come a foot off the ground before he lands on the cement with a hushed thud.
“Oh shit,” exclaims Dave in disbelief. I look down at Wiggles’ motionless carcass, the fur on his neck nearly hiding the massive buckle cutting into his throat. I reach down to loosen it, and he bites me.
In one dexterous gesture, he slides his head from the loop of the belt and makes a mad dash into the street.
I watch Wiggles gallop away. “Get him!” Dave says. “Cindy wants you to get him, man, so go do it!” But I don’t move. I watch a car blast down the street at Wiggles, and it screeches to a halt as the rogue dog heads into the car’s lane. The speeding vehicle stops just inches from Wiggles, who then scampers away out of view.
“You see?” Dave says, getting up from the ground. “You did the right thing. God knew that innocent creature shouldn’t die.” He wipes a thin trickle of blood from his chin.
With the added frustration of blowing the assignment, I am finally fed up with Dave’s nonsense and head back to the car. I get in and make sure Dave’s door is locked. “Hey, open up,” he says. As he pounds on the window, I leave Dave and the pound behind.
I look at my bleeding hand and pad the wound with some leftover paper towels. I see the belt next to me and decide I might as well return it to the old man to cleanly resolve the episode. As I roll down Cindy’s street, I think about how I might as well go home and sleep until Sunday.
When I exit the car I can hear a dog howling. It sounds like it might be the retriever from up stairs that used to accompany Wiggles to the dog park. Its howls continue from the car, all the way up the stairs. With belt in hand, I march forward, trying to ignore the tragic wails of the animal.
Arriving on Cindy’s floor, I notice that her door is open. I peek inside and see a gaggle of teenagers playing video games with their backs to me. I hesitantly creep into the living room, listening to their joking conversation for a moment.
“Norman,” I say.
“What?” says a black-haired youth. He is the last to turn around. His face is flawless. “Who are you?” he asks.
“I thought the dog hurt you,” I ask, wrapping the belt around my fist, the buckle resting firmly on my knuckles.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.
I spring on him and pound his head with my belt-wrapped hand. I wait for sixteen stitches worth of damage before I let his friends pull me off. They try to lay into me, but in one brilliant maneuver, I let the belt unwrap and swing it about me like Indiana Jones. It hits another kid in the face, and they back off as I surrender towards the door.
Norman tenderly cradles his face in his hands and shrieks, “I’m going to sue you!” as I leave. I walk over to the old man’s apartment and knock on the door.
“What’d you do to my belt and your face?” he asks. “And where’s the dog?”
The look of horror on his face makes me smile. My Saturday is now better, and I don’t feel so tired anymore. Maybe I’ll go see if I can find either Dave or the dog.
The phone wakes me up. My dream shatters, and my brain discards the shards as I attune to reality.
It is Saturday, the most beautiful day. Even at noon there is the full possibility of opportunity. When that is fully squandered, there is still Saturday night, the most glorious of nights. I don’t want to wait for that so I start to go back to sleep. It’ll be there when I wake up. I’m fuckin’ tired.
The phone rings again, and I let it go. It drowns into a buzz from my resurrected Friday night slumberthon. There’s always the hope of continuing my dream, whatever it was.
When the machine picks up, it’s Cindy. I’ll answer that call any groggy Saturday afternoon. I cough up a wad of spit into a nearby cup and test a couple basic sounds to ensure I don’t sound like a hoarse cow. Springing from my crusty bed, I snatch the receiver up while she still waltzes through the basic formalities.
“Cindy,” I say, “how are you doing?” Though the hurt of Saturday courses through my coarse throat, the opportunity to talk to my girlfriend contributes to my enthusiasm. “How’s your trip? You having fun?”
She doesn’t respond to any of my questions, but only says, “Tommy...” My happiness dissipates and disappears with every hanging second of silence. The gravity gets heavier as she sighs deeply. Then sighs even deeper. “There’s a problem,” she finally confesses. “Something’s happened...”
“What? Are you in trouble? Are you okay?” I picture my sweet Cindy making her lone phone call from some French dungeon, while the snooty guards rifle through her purse, or molest her sister, because they got nabbed with a minimal amount of hash. When Cindy begins stifling tears, my imagination mutates the scene into increasingly more horrible visions of inhumane sex and violence. “What is it?” I demand.
“It’s Wiggles,” she cries.
Suddenly the grimy bars of a Parisian jail melt into the red and white collar of Cindy’s dopey brown and white terrier. She keeps crying.
“What happened to Wiggles?” I inquire while stifling a yawn in my armpit.
“He was, I don’t know, like, going out on a walk, or like maybe coming back from one, and he bit up Norman.” Her sobs heavily punctuate her words. When I’m about to ask who the hell Norman is, she answers. “Norman is the kid I hired from next door, to look after Wiggles, you know, feed him, walk him and stuff, and he bit him on the face.”
“Who bit who?” I demand emotionally.
“Wiggles bit Norman, of course, you idiot!” After her screeched outburst, she resumes her sobbing. “He says he needed sixteen stitches on his face!” The final revelation of the full sequence of events eases Cindy’s suffering, and she starts to regain control of her wailing. It softens into a series of controlled sniffling. I listen for any more, but she sounds finished for now.
She continues. “I need you to take Wiggles to the pound. He needs to be put to sleep. Norman said that, like, his parents might sue me or worse if I don’t put him to sleep. Maybe they’ll sue me anyways, shit.” Gasps, sobs. “But can you do that for me, Tommy? Please? I just don’t even want to think about it.”
It’s a short heartbeat before I instinctively agree.
To ease her pain, I ask about the rest of her trip. “Oh, it’s great! Meg and I almost got busted for smoking weed under the Eifel Tower.” She continues on about her otherwise fantastic trip abroad. She says she loves me and thanks me again for taking care of Wiggles. I can hear the tears returning to her eyes when she hangs up.
Phone still in hand, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The white stucco pattern moves and shifts as my mind fades back to sleep.
No. I must get the dog first.
Over at Cindy’s apartment, I get a note on the door. It reads, “The dog is next door,” so I proceed to the next unit. An old man in a robe and slippers answers. His half-bald bedhead has some white hairs drifting upwards in the air-conditioning, like they were trying to flee his scalp.
“I’m Tommy, Cindy’s boyfriend,” and shake his hand.
He says, “I thought the other fellow that brought him over, his name was something like Hector or Victor was her boyfriend.”
“No,” I explain, “That’s just a friend of Norman.”
“Who’s Norman?” he asks.
“He was taking care of Wiggles...” I would explain the history of Cindy’s dogwalker to him, but from the confused look in his spectacled eyes, I decide it’s best to keep it secret. He doesn’t need to know that he was housing a vicious mauler.
When he realizes I’m finished talking, the old man says, “So why weren’t you walking Wiggles if you were his daddy?”
I don’t know. That’s a damn good question. “Uh…”
He gets tired of waiting for a dimwit like me to answer, so he thankfully says, “Well, anyways, I got him in the back.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open to let me inside. “I’ll get the rascal.”
The old man sprightly hops over a foot stool and into a back room. It’s hot outside, but it’s too cold in here. Maybe the man’s youthful exuberance is due to his apartment’s cryogenic temperature.
The back door opens, and Wiggles walks in first. His eyes fix on mine, he lazily licks his lips, he yawns. The old man emerges from behind him.
“You know what he did?” the old man asks. I shrug no. “He did the cutest thing. When the news came on, I think it was something about that bank robbery-- No, about that bill the president signed about bank robberies, and this little guy here just started yippin’ and ruffin’ at the TV. Classic.” He starts chuckling, and we look down at Wiggles’ still blank expression. When the dog sees us staring at him, he hangs his tongue out the side of his mouth and pants for a moment. The old man erupts into full-blown laughter. It’s time to rescue Wiggles and myself from his loneliness web.
We’d leave, but I realize I don’t have a leash. “You don’t have a leash?” the old man asks. “I wouldn’t worry. This little rascal won’t leave your side.”
“I just want to play it safe. Cindy would get mad if he escaped.” My brain scrambles over whether I could use some electrical cord or maybe just carry him. He’s a little enough guy to huff around, and it wouldn’t be too long.
“I got something.” the old man offers. He dashes back to the back, successfully hurtling the foot stool again. I look down at Wiggles in the interim; he continues to stare at the nothing in front of him.
The old man returns with a belt in hand, and trips over the foot stool. He spills all over the ground, and I go to help him up, before he bounces to his feet. “I’m fine.” he says. “Wow.”
He presents the belt to me. “This’ll work,” he guarantees as he fastens it around the dog’s neck. The belt has a golden, topaz-studded cowboy medallion for a buckle, and the old man adjusts it so that the gaudy ornament rests square on Wiggle’s tiny shoulders. “Looks great, huh?” He hands the tail of the belt to me.
“Thanks.” I say.
“Now don’t lose it. I want it back. That’s my favorite belt.” He cautions.
“Maybe I should use another one?”
“I don’t have any other belts,” he shamefully admits.
Walking away from the old man’s chilled tomb, he pats the dog on the back. “I’ll be happy to take care of such a fine gentleman anytime.” He offers. “See you later, Waggles.” I escort the dog down the hallway, sensing the old man’s loving gaze on our backs, sad to see his good buddy go.
I know what kind of monster Wiggles is though. It’s not just the recent biting incident. Every time I’ve visited Cindy, down to even the last time I saw her before the vacation, Wiggles has barked at me continuously. Then when you try to shut him up with a little dog biscuit treat, his brain would blissfully phase out as he wet himself and the ground below. Beyond the ubiquitous annoying behavior, Cindy’s dog was renowned for escaping into the streets, chewing up furniture, and once trying to take a chunk out of Cindy herself.
Still, I can’t help but feel a little bad as I load the bastard into the back seat. His animal innocence is getting to me, or maybe he understands his guilt and has resigned himself to his fate. He calmly sits and watches me flip the seat and enter. I pull a dog biscuit from my jacket and toss it in front of him. He sniffs at it, but lets it sit. “Fine” I say and drive away.
Though I have a task at hand, I stop by Dave’s place. We had planned to hang out today, and his parents’ house was on the way. After his Mom summons him, he slowly gets ready to go out into the world. Dave enters the car and notices Wiggles quietly waiting in the back. “When’d you get a mutt?” he asks.
“It’s Cindy’s,” I explain.
“So it’s a bitch,” Dave responds with a snicker.
“Fuck you.” I respond, and we start to drive away.
“I’d say she’s a bitch, man. She’s pissing all over your seat.” Dave says.
I spin around in my seat and see Wiggles wetting my seat, slowly munching on the biscuit. He defiantly makes eye contact with me to emphasize his proud naughtiness. “Aw, you bitch,” I exclaim.
“Good dog,” Dave whispers.
We roll into the nearest gas station. I wipe down the seat with some paper towels as Dave walks from the quick mart with a pack of bologna. He starts to feed Wiggles when I interrupt. “What are you doing?”
“I’m feeding her some real food. Have you ever tried one of those doggie crackers? They really suck.” He moves the meat closer towards Wiggles, and I slap it from his hand.
“Stop, man! First off, he’s a he, and his name is Wiggles. And feeding him makes him wiz everywhere,” I explain.
“Cindy’s dog takes a piss whenever he eats?” he asks.
“Not every time. Just when you feed him treats. He gets too excited or something.”
“Maybe she should stop feeding him that dry crap?” Dave suggests.
Suddenly Wiggles leaps from the open car door. I start to freak but the dog stops at the bologna on the ground and gently nibbles at it. “See?” Dave says, “He’s not peeing.”
“Because you didn’t give it to him as a treat,” I explain. “And he’s probably all out of piss.”
“That’s dumb.” Dave says, handing another slice to Wiggles.
“You saw him wiz on the backseat.”
“My dog doesn’t pull that shit. Sounds like Cindy needs to learn how to take care of the little guy better.” Dave wears a thin smirk on his face indicating that that was a snide remark.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“Nothing.” Wiggles finishes his fine dining in the gas station parking lot, and the three of us continue our journey to the pound.
“So where are we going?” Dave asks as we cruise through the mid-Saturday traffic while chomping on some bologna.
“We’re dropping him off at the kennel.”
“You couldn’t take care of the guy?” Dave asks. “Cindy didn’t trust you?”
“No, moron. I actually need to put him to sleep.”
“What?” Dave’s sleepiness dissipates into sharp alarm. “What’s wrong, is he sick?”
“Yes. He pisses when he eats, and he tried to eat the dog-walker’s face.”
Dave is plaintively silent for a moment. Then he says, “So Cindy didn’t trust you to walk him?”
“She asked,” I fib in her defense. “But I said no.”
Dave turns back to face Wiggles, who looks emotionlessly out the window. “I should’ve bought some more bologna,” he utters.
Dave’s heavy thinking silences his mouth, and I’m relieved by the reprieve from his barely veiled Cindy-bashing. He finally speaks. “How’d he bite somebody?”
“I don’t know the details. The kid was taking him on a walk, and I guess he did something to spook him, though the mutt gets spooked pretty easily.”
“Where’d he get bit?” Dave continues to study Wiggles as he continues his line of questioning.
“Sixteen stitches on the face,” I reveal.
“Bullshit,” Dave concludes. “There’s no way that happened.”
“Who do you think you are? Ace Ventura?”
“There’s no way Wiggles could get to that guy’s face, unless, and you said it yourself, this stupid kid ‘spooked’ him. Like bent over and got in his face. He’s a tiny dog, Tommy. I don’t buy it. Either Cindy or this kid is lying, and they tricked you into being this poor little doof’s executioner.”
I think about what Dave said. “You are crazy.” I’m relieved the pound is only a few blocks away. “Wiggles went after Cindy once. He’s crazy too.”
“I can understand that,” Dave says. “She was probably fucking with him too. Feeding him those shitty crackers.” Dave reaches back and grabs Wiggles, lifting him to the front passenger seat. “I’ll show you.”
He sits Wiggles square on his lap, the dog’s snout pointed squarely at his own. I secretly hope that Wiggles attacks to prove my point. “Are you a bad doggy? Did you try and hurt somebody? You didn’t ‘cause you’re a good boy, even though your master gave you a bad name. I bet you’d like to be called something tough, like Burt or Kirk.” Wiggles attention eases up as he turns his head towards the window.
“Oh, you like it out there?” Dave cracks the window, and Wiggles jumps up and jams his neck out the sliver. “You do like it out there. Out there it’s free. Have a blast.” Wiggles has his head out the window for a few scant seconds before I roll into the pound parking lot.
I get the belt and fasten it around the dog. “Cool leash, buddy,” not to me, but that’s Dave is addressing Wiggles. He squats down and faces the dog again, their eyes level. “Alright, Wiggles. You’re going to go to a better place, where you can piss all over the damn place, and Jimi Hendrix will just laugh and pet you that much more. ‘Cause you’re a good doggy.”
“He doesn’t understand you.” I interject, but Dave continues his farewell sermon to the dog.
“You were just too hard for this world. They didn’t understand how it is, to be a thug. And I’m confident that having an ignorant dumbass owner didn’t help. And her brain-dead slave sure never cared either.”
I kick Dave on the side, and he topples over off balance. I start walking Wiggles into the pound, eager to end this period in my life and drop Dave back off at home. I’m suddenly very tired again and would rather rest than endure more Dave.
“What are you doing?” Dave asks.
I ignore him and continue. “You can’t kill him, Tommy! You aren’t a murderer. Look, he’s a well-behaved dog. Are you going to murder this innocent soul just because Cindy told you to?”
I stop and the belt chokes Wiggles into a heel. “Shut the hell up, Dave. I can’t believe you’re using this dog to get at Cindy. It’s pathetic.”
“I only rip on your girl because she kidnapped you from your own friends,” he adds.
“What are you talking about? I hung out with you last night, partying it up. And now we’re hanging out again.”
Dave scoffs, “Only because Cindy’s not around.”
In the midst of our argument, a family of four passes us going into the pound and sees Wiggles. The dad says, “That’s a beautiful dog. You aren’t putting him up for adoption, are you?”
I say, “No.”
But Dave says, “Sure. You want him?”
The kids joyfully approach Wiggles with hands eager to pet.
I announce with a sigh, “We’re putting him to sleep because he attacked somebody.”
The mom ushers her children protectively under each arm, and the father says, “That’s a shame.” The family nervously evacuates the area.
“You’re pathetic, Tom.” Dave says. “You can walk this animal to its death without a second thought, because you don’t own a dog, and are completely willing to surrender your will to that ditz. He shouldn’t have to die. We could put him up and hope that somebody else takes him, or maybe just let him run free.” He pleads.
“Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if Cindy came back from her trip, thinking Wiggles was dead, and then he returned and gave her a heart attack?” He laughs to prove how funny it is.
“Dude, and then we tell her it’s a zombie. And we sell the story for beaucoup bucks to the tabloids, and we’re rich. It’s genius.”
“Brilliant,” I deadpan and begin to approach the pound again.
As I approach, I can hear the yelps and howls of the canines inside.
“Wait,” Dave says and squats back down to Wiggles. “I want to say one more thing.” I indulge him as Dave talks to the oblivious Wiggles, whose tongue lazily hangs from his mouth. Dave fights for eye contact but eventually starts up his newest speech anyways. “It’s been short, buddy, and even though Tommy and Cindy don’t care about you, I know you are a good dog. I can see it in your soul. So I will miss you, Wiggles.”
Wiggles lunges at Dave, and he falls back with a hand over his face. I rip back on the makeshift belt, and Wiggles’ small body flips up through the air. His paws come a foot off the ground before he lands on the cement with a hushed thud.
“Oh shit,” exclaims Dave in disbelief. I look down at Wiggles’ motionless carcass, the fur on his neck nearly hiding the massive buckle cutting into his throat. I reach down to loosen it, and he bites me.
In one dexterous gesture, he slides his head from the loop of the belt and makes a mad dash into the street.
I watch Wiggles gallop away. “Get him!” Dave says. “Cindy wants you to get him, man, so go do it!” But I don’t move. I watch a car blast down the street at Wiggles, and it screeches to a halt as the rogue dog heads into the car’s lane. The speeding vehicle stops just inches from Wiggles, who then scampers away out of view.
“You see?” Dave says, getting up from the ground. “You did the right thing. God knew that innocent creature shouldn’t die.” He wipes a thin trickle of blood from his chin.
With the added frustration of blowing the assignment, I am finally fed up with Dave’s nonsense and head back to the car. I get in and make sure Dave’s door is locked. “Hey, open up,” he says. As he pounds on the window, I leave Dave and the pound behind.
I look at my bleeding hand and pad the wound with some leftover paper towels. I see the belt next to me and decide I might as well return it to the old man to cleanly resolve the episode. As I roll down Cindy’s street, I think about how I might as well go home and sleep until Sunday.
When I exit the car I can hear a dog howling. It sounds like it might be the retriever from up stairs that used to accompany Wiggles to the dog park. Its howls continue from the car, all the way up the stairs. With belt in hand, I march forward, trying to ignore the tragic wails of the animal.
Arriving on Cindy’s floor, I notice that her door is open. I peek inside and see a gaggle of teenagers playing video games with their backs to me. I hesitantly creep into the living room, listening to their joking conversation for a moment.
“Norman,” I say.
“What?” says a black-haired youth. He is the last to turn around. His face is flawless. “Who are you?” he asks.
“I thought the dog hurt you,” I ask, wrapping the belt around my fist, the buckle resting firmly on my knuckles.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.
I spring on him and pound his head with my belt-wrapped hand. I wait for sixteen stitches worth of damage before I let his friends pull me off. They try to lay into me, but in one brilliant maneuver, I let the belt unwrap and swing it about me like Indiana Jones. It hits another kid in the face, and they back off as I surrender towards the door.
Norman tenderly cradles his face in his hands and shrieks, “I’m going to sue you!” as I leave. I walk over to the old man’s apartment and knock on the door.
“What’d you do to my belt and your face?” he asks. “And where’s the dog?”
The look of horror on his face makes me smile. My Saturday is now better, and I don’t feel so tired anymore. Maybe I’ll go see if I can find either Dave or the dog.
