[Based on the photo series “Dead Dog. Dayton, Ohio” by Forrest Wasko]
Warmth radiates from the dryer. Scattered stray socks lie in a pile in the corner, and a waste basket teeming with gray and bright pink dryer lint sits in the other. I migrate over to the sock pile, and select a green striped one to chew on. I find myself sleeping in front of the dryer more and more. I wonder if it’s broken, because it never used to be so warm before. Regardless, I relish in the slow leaky heat. Round and round I wind my body, the tip of my nose taps on the vinyl door that shutters shut to hide the machines. But this door is rarely closed, unless we have guests. I settle down and take my place. Dingy yellow lines create squares, a checkered pattern across the floor, crisscrossing at gold flecked corners. I trace each line with my eyes, as the boy’s sneakers rhythmically clang around the dryer drum.
Blade after blade of damp grass clings to the sides of my legs, turning the bottom inches of fur from dust gray to a stained, bright green. I’ve fixated on this one knot in a wooden plank of the deck. Dark and hard, I know an hour’s worth of pushing and scratching would nudge it out of the way to make a peep hole. The boy would like that. He’ll watch me chase rabbits and fireflies around the yard from his perch on the deck. Blinking, bright green eyes will rapidly follow the uncharted zig-zagged paths I take across the lawn. Dusk settles around, bringing out a navy haze in the air. Third post from the left, or eighth from the right. The spot looks burned, possibly charred from the former flame of a firework. Haze and whispers, muffled shouts, dusting sounds. Shifting my head to the left, I notice that both of the adults are standing in the sliding glass doorway. The woman calls to me with an odd look on her face, and I can’t discern what she could want from me. Regardless of what she thinks I’ve done, I know a simple tilt of my head will alleviate any anger. The man looks frustrated. I turn my head back to the knot in the wood. Strains and lines have formed through the plank, giving way to the natural grain of the wood; layer and layer of pulp once added to its growth. The man’s hands come round my torso, and he lifts me from the ground burying his chin in my neck, “What’s wrong? We’ve been calling you for well over a while now. Are you alright?” I turn my head and lick his cheek. They like that. He snuggles his nose further into my neck.
The tips of my claws make scratching noises on the sidewalk. The woman dropped several green olives on the floor this morning, and the taste still sits in my mouth. Indiscernible time trails my path, and I’m unable to tell where I am or how long I’ve been out for. Spaced gaps divide my memory, and make it harder for me to find my way back. House after house with bright red chimneys indistinguishable from my own pass me on both sides. Metal contraptions stick out of the top of each one, collecting waves and signals from the air. Voices and pictures that float and collect in the living room’s noisy television sets. Heat radiates in waves off the road in between. Stream, slurry haze floats inches above the asphalt. Three teenage boys on skateboards come up to pet me, one feeds me a piece of beef jerky. They skate off and leave me to my walk. Rain begins to fall. I stop on the corner to drink from the puddle that has begun to form on the sunken corner of the sidewalk. A compelling weight forces me to fold my legs beneath my body and settle on the ground. A knot forms within my stomach, forcing my eyes closed and a painful whine to escape from my mouth. My eyes rest and I settle on the edge of the puddle.
Unable to move, I sit the silent guardian of the street corner. Haze from the rainstorm sits in the air, with a damp heaviness that leaves my fur smelling musty. Eyes closed, I watch the day to day from my new watchtower. Men and woman walk by, some with children, some with other dogs, one person and their pet ferret. A middle aged pug stared back with horrified chill. Shaking, it yelps, uncomfortable at the sight of me. Earlier this afternoon a group of older kids on bicycles came by. The oldest of the five circles back, his had wrapped around a large tree limb in his right hand. A knot three-fourths of the way down the branch reminded me of the peep hole I’d never fashioned for the boy. Leaping from his bicycle, letting it fall in the grass, the boy runs over. He pokes at my legs with his branch, shifting them away from the puddle in the street. The others have circled back to join him. One of them, a girl, recognizes me. They eventually get back on their bikes and ride away. Later that evening two small ones, a girl and boy, run over to look at me. Their woman raises her voice, “Don’t touch it. Think of all the germs it carries.” Nervously, they get about a foot away, and the girl shrieks back toward her woman and hides behind her legs.
A week has passed. Routine has come to cause an overwhelming sense of boredom. I could recite who runs in the morning, who leaves for work when, who gets on the school bus in the morning and whose parents come to see them off or retrieve them, what time the mail is dropped off, what time the ice cream man drives through. I begin to smell worse. People, coming down the sidewalk toward me, either cross the street on their paths or veer several feet from where I lay. It has continued to rain on and off through the week. The puddle has stayed by my side, another consistent.
Early in the afternoon, the pug and their person pass me by. But instead of gawking in reflective horror, the pug’s attention focuses on two strange boys. Not strange in appearance. Simply, out of place. For in actuality the shorter of the two reminds me of the boy with the beef jerky. One embraces a camera to their torso. I wish I could lead them to the knot on our deck, to photograph the boy and his green eye staring through the peep hole I’ve made him. The boy and I had pictures together, taken by his woman. Standing diagonally from where I lay, he takes a picture. These new footfalls break the routine of the week gone past. Each drifts different circles and scents from those I’ve come to watch day after day. Sun struggles to break through the gray clouds above. Across the street lives an older woman. Aqua and white curtains frame the front windows of her house. Her hand shoots out, causing them to dramatically dance and sway in the stage of the window. Stepping into view she stands there, staring angrily at the two boys, rapidly talking into a telephone. Her gaze fixes on them in a mixture of worry, fear and curiosity. Such a combination of emotions reminds me of the old tabby that lived next door. This foolish cat would sit in the windowsill. I usually saw him from the boy’s window on the second floor. From my heightened view I’d see that long orange tail meticulously knocking the drapes back and forth, never letting them settle. Similar looks of disdain passing across the whiskered face.
Sunlight has shrunk my companion puddle, making my watchtower smaller, less significant. Cement and asphalt remains darkened by the dampness, but that too shall fade with the growing sunlight. Insects I’d once chased or come upon while digging have inched their way toward me, slowly taking cover throughout my matted fur. Yet, I watch as wondrous disturbance has broken the relentless routine of the neighborhood. Loud, clamoring sirens swerve round the corner. Starkly standing out from the monotone cars I’ve come to know, this one is new. Black and white, with an odd metal contraption hooked to the front. A tall older bald man steps out, talking into his shoulder and with his eyes covered in plastic darkness. His body is tense. One of the boys taps the other on the shoulder. With a jump he swerves round, lowering the camera from his eye. Heavy darkened footsteps echo from curb to curb as the bald man approaches the boys. The sheen of his badge catches the now relentless sunlight, causing the boy without the camera to shield his eyes, casting his gaze downward. They talk, mostly the older man to the two boys. The one without the camera keeps looking at his shoes, kicking around a white rock he’d found in the gutter. Stern questions and warnings, uttered apologies and explanations cross between this newly formed threesome. The wag of the bald man’s finger is met with begrudging nods and a “Yes, sir” from each of the boys. A choreographed call and response of responding to authority that I immediately recognize. Sighs and shudders escape from the two boys as the bald man gets back in the two-toned car and drives away. Within the hour, all have dissipated from the street and the sunlight grows warmer, drying my fur.
Odd that those that don’t belong should come all at once. I’d rather they’d spaced their arrivals. Celebrations over the slight changes, rather than everything, and then nothing.
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