Puppy Love by Roy Coughlin
PUPPY LOVE
I have to admit, it's a sorry looking dog. And it smells bad. She stares at it with the kind of look you might give to a picture of the floor, then looks at me without moving her head, a quick jab of the eyes up and left. I smile hopefully. She turns and walks out of the kitchen.
From the hallway she yells, “What are we going to do with a dog?”
“Take it for walks,” I holler back.
“What?”
“I thought it would be nice to have something to walk! Walk around with.”
My girlfriend is going to leave me. I became certain of this on the bus ride home from work. She hasn't bought any bacon this week. On Sunday we always have pancakes and bacon. I sat on the bus and pictured the bare wire of the top refrigerator rack where, by at least Wednesday, the bacon always sits. It's Thursday. When I got off at my stop, I nearly tripped over this dog rummaging its nose through a paper bag on the sidewalk. A dog suddenly seemed like a good idea. People bonded over dogs. I had an image in my mind of the two of us one day crying at its death. We'd be gray-haired and wrinkly, probably in sweaters, my arm around her. I grabbed its collar and led it away from the bus stop toward home. It followed absently, snuffling at things on the ground. A block from the house I bent down and read its tags: Muffy clearly belonged to someone with a phone number. I pulled the name tag off and put it in my pocket, leaving the rabies vaccination tag hanging from its dirty collar. I told her I'd adopted it, paid for its shots and everything. “Surprise!” I said.
From the bedroom she yells, “What the hell are you going to feed it? It looks hungry.”
“It'd probably like some bacon,” I holler back.
“I bet it would!”
It's a Border Collie or Australian Shepherd or something. Or maybe just a mutt. It's short and shaggy, the hair on its belly matted with small dark clumps. There's a burr hanging off its ass. It's not a Doberman or a Dachshund, I'm pretty sure. It does look hungry. As if reading my thoughts, the dog raises its head and stares at me. I open the fridge and pull out a plastic pack of sliced ham, peel off a couple pieces and fling them. They slap on the the floor. It tries to lick them up but can't break the suction of thin wet meat on linoleum. The lapping sound is obscene and loud.
From the bathroom she yells, “Don't give that thing my lunch meat.”
“I'm not,” I holler back.
I kick the slabs of ham with my toe into a lump that the dog can get its teeth into. It chokes them down and sniffs and licks at the wet spot on the floor. My girlfriend scurries back into the room, gives me a fast look that says, I'm serious, and touches my arm briefly before grabbing her purse and keys and heading out the front door.
From the porch she yells, “I'm working late tonight. That smelly fucker better not be in my bed when I get home.”
“Our bed,” I holler back.
“What?”
But she's already down the walk and to the street. “Our bed,” I say to the dog. It's still licking the floor where the ham was and doesn't look up. I look at my hands, slap them together and rub them dryly for a few seconds. I sigh and shuffle down the hall to the bathroom, close the door behind me, turn the ancient lock, and flick the light switch. Forty watts of damp light coat the small room. There is the faint smell of urine and perfume. I put my hands on either side of the free-standing sink and lean into the mirror, looking down at the faucet. I rock up on my toes and back down. I stare at the sink and its wide sides littered with her toiletries. I run my palm over the bristles of a hairbrush.
When I say I think my girlfriend is going to leave me, I mean she's going to kick me out of her house. When she asked me to move in I didn't hesitate to put my handful of clothes in a bag, give my dying television to my roommate, leave my bed at the curb. My first night in the house I wore her shirt to sleep. The next day she told me not to do that again because it weirded her out. I like the scent of her on everything. I like seeing my meager things mixed in with the bulk of hers. She encourages me to buy new stuff for the house, new things of my own. I tell her I will, tell her I will soon, buy time. When I tell her I love her, she says only, “I know, babe.”
I wash my hands and dry them on a damp bath towel hanging near the tub. I raise the knuckles of one hand to my nose and breathe in the lingering citrus soap smell. The phone starts ringing in the kitchen. As I head down the hall the dog barks a high, sickly bark. The phone on the wall rattles in its cradle. She hates that phone, keeps saying she's going to join the future and get a cordless (For fuck's sake, it's 1992 already!), but the almond-colored relic still hangs there in all its plastic glory. I lift the receiver and hear traffic and static. I say hello into the noise.
From a payphone she yells, “What's its name?”
“Muffy,” I holler back.
“Fluffy?”
“Muffy!”
“What the hell kind of name is Muffy?”
I look down at the dog. It's hunched over licking its asshole. I shrug. “It's a name, I guess.”
“Ok, whatever. Listen. I was thinking that a dog isn't such a bad idea after all. We could take it for walks.”
“Yeah, that's what I was thinking too.”
“Yeah. So. Get it some real food, and give it a bath or something. Okay?”
“Okay, yeah. I will.”
“What?”
“I will! I will.”
“Okay. Good. I have to go – my bus is coming. I love you.”
She doesn't yell this last part but I hear it. Before I can answer, she hangs up. I hang up. On the wall next to the phone is a yellowed sheet of paper with a long list of names and phone numbers scribbled in various inks. Several are crossed off. Near the bottom is my name beside the number from my last apartment. I run my finger under the digits. I turn around and look down at the dog, still nose-deep in itself.
“If there's no bacon in the fridge by Saturday, you're out of here,” I say. It keeps licking its ass.
* * *
ROY COUGHLIN repairs washers and dryers for a living.
In his spare time he lies about being a writer.
Supposedly, he has contributed flash fiction to Smalldoggies Magazine, PIPE DREAM, and HOUSEFIRE.