Good Boy, Bear
A/N: For those interested, this was the original horror short I wrote and submitted to Watcher. I swear I didn’t write a ‘murderers lick hands’ story -- the Watcher folks added that in, as was their right (I signed a waiver). I wanted to keep it more ambiguous, but perhaps it was too subtle! TW for animal abuse, mild gore, horror themes.
I was walking home from work after a long shift, counting the pale pools of streetlight as I slumped through the cold, when an ancient pickup wheezed to a stop behind me at the side of the road. I glanced over one shoulder, my interest evolving from mild curiosity to concern as the driver shoved something from the passenger seat onto the gravel.
Whatever it was, it was bound in burlap and wriggling.
I shouted, but the bastard floored it, and in the low-light of the evening I could not make out his scuffed-up numberplate. I ran to the squirming lump, feeling my heart sink into my stomach. My frenzied hands tore at the sack.
Two terrified, cocoa-warm eyes met mine. The dog was whimpering, visibly emaciated and covered with lacerations. I felt hot tears prick my vision as I lay a gentle hand upon its head.
"Hey, buddy,” I whispered, “hold on, now. I'm gonna help you."
The taxi driver who picked me up minutes later was kind enough to take me to the emergency vet without giving me grief about having an animal in his car. The whole way there, the dog laid its head on my lap and shivered.
Three hours later, I stood in the treatment room with this lost soul that had tumbled into my life, stroking his massive ears as he rested. A German Shepherd crossbreed, the vet said. Probably used for illegal dog fighting. No broken bones, luckily, but he'd need intensive nutrition, wound care and antibiotics, not to mention flea and worming treatments. His stay at the clinic and the subsequent aftercare was going to cost me somewhere in the area of three thousand dollars.
But when he opened those clever eyes and nudged his nose into the palm of my hand, sweeping his tongue across my fingers in a grateful lick, I knew the money did not matter.
And that is the story of how I met Bear.
When he was well enough to bring home, I was worried that my neighbours would not take to him. What if he made too much noise? Would he adjust to suburban life in a small cluster of villas? But as he recovered, and as he spent more and more time outside, he blossomed into a sociable, loving dog. Every person he met had a kind word for him, a pat behind the ears, a rub for his ridiculously fluffy tummy. Bear relished every moment of attention. I think he knew he was finally safe.
He fit in just as well inside my villa. It wasn't huge, a two bedroom place built in the mid-seventies; it boasted a kitchen finished with orange tiles, popcorn-style ceilings, and an adorable oak-panelled wine cellar that I used to store my bits and pieces in. Once Bear moved in, it became dog storage – a place for his bulk pack of dry kibble, old toys, and the expensive orthopaedic bed I had bought for him that he'd utterly rejected.
You see, Bear had a habit of sleeping in one place, and in one place only. Once I climbed into bed for the night, he'd flump across my legs, and within minutes I would be serenaded with soft doggy snores. I'll admit that at first this arrangement was almost insufferably uncomfortable, but I actually quickly got used to it. I found that after awhile I couldn't sleep any other way. He made me feel safe, too.
My accident at work happened about two years after Bear moved in. I'd been working with chemicals for a long time, processing samples for various mining companies, and I guess I'd grown kind of complacent. Accidents always happen to other people, right?
I wasn't wearing my safety goggles when I tripped on the lab floor. The acidic solution I was carrying sloshed out of my test tube and splashed up across my eyes. My contact lenses softened, the plastic fusing to my exposed sclera.
I remember screaming as my colleague shoved me beneath the chemical burns tap. I remember the feel of the water on my seared flesh. I remember how it smelt.
In the hospital, post-operation and heavily tranquillised, I was visited by a specialist optometrist. She advised me that in all likelihood, my eyesight would return in time. Whilst I recovered, I was to wear bandages and patches over my eyes, take strong doses of penicillin, and analgesics for pain when required. And my god, believe me, they were definitely required.
I was given time off work to heal, assured by HR that the incident would be thoroughly investigated. I was scared that they'd find out about my negligence and I'd lose my job. But most of all, I was scared that my own stupidity had cost me my eyesight.
When I got home, I was lead to my front door by one of the hospital's social workers. She had me sit down at the kitchen table whilst she prepared my house for me. I was lucky, she told me, that everything was neat and linear and easy to navigate. It was a mercy that I kept a tidy home. I should have no problem getting from my bedroom, to the bathroom, and to the kitchen.
She put out some high nutrition food packs for me -- stuff that didn't need cooking, like protein bars and liquid supplements, as well as packets of chips and pretzels and dried fruit. She gave me a buzzer to carry around with me; should I fall, or get into any other trouble, all I had to do was press the button on a cord around my neck, and help would be minutes away.
"I think it would be a good idea to give your neighbour a copy of your key and ask her to check in on you once a day. I will also come by daily to make sure you have everything you need." She patted my hand, and despite the pain and the misery of the situation, I felt reassured.
"Thank you." I sighed, fumbling with the bottle of water she handed me. I cracked it open and took a few sips, before throwing back some of the glorious painkillers at her behest. "Where's Bear?" I felt around beneath the table – he liked to make camp there, sometimes. "Sorry, I mean, my dog. Can you see him?"
The social worker clicked her tongue. I heard her footsteps as she wandered towards the living room. "Hmm, no, I don't see a dog in--" But she was cut off by the sound of a single boisterous bark coming from the direction of my bedroom. She laughed. "I guess that answers that, then. Sounds like he's taken up residence in your bed."
"Yeah, that's pretty typical." I chuckled, gingerly standing, feeling the edges of the table as I made my way towards the hall from memory. "Look, thank you so much. I'm sure I'll be fine. This all sucks, but I'm a tough cookie."
"Yeah you are!" She agreed, gently touching my shoulder with a kindly squeeze. From the kitchen, I heard a beeper begin to chirp. "Damn, I've gotta get that. I'll let myself out. Remember, you have that buzzer, and I'll be by tomorrow morning. Those pills are going to make you pretty tired, so I suggest you get yourself to bed. You're gonna be fine, cookie. I'll see you tomorrow!"
I heard her collect her bag and leave, as I felt my way towards my bedroom. She was right – the pills were already taking the edge off, making everything feel soft and far away and warm. I slid beneath the covers, and almost immediately felt the heavy weight of Bear across my legs. Sleep found me quickly.
I awoke later, not knowing how much time had passed, or whether it was day or night. The first thing I became aware of was the lack of weight upon my legs; at some point, Bear had moved. The second thing was the sound coming from the kitchen. It was a scuffling noise, like claws being dragged down the wall.
Bear, I groaned inwardly, and rose to attempt to investigate. I felt my way towards the kitchen, using the walls to support myself, judging every step with a careful foot.
He was at the wine cellar door, scratching at the wood. Every scrape was slow and deliberate, and I heard his panting coming in fitful bursts, a low growl riding the edge of his breath.
"Bear, it's just a mouse or something. C'mon, quit it."
He stopped right away. Good dog, I thought.
"Let's get back to--" And then I felt his teeth on the fabric of my pyjama pants, pulling with an insistent tug. This was new. I humoured him for a moment, carefully stepping as he guided me, my hands out in front of me. I felt them hit the smooth grain of the wooden cellar door. Then I heard the scratching again, methodical and slow, coupled with that primal snarl that had woken me up. I grew irritated.
"Bear, I said no. Leave it. Bad dog."
The noise stopped. I reached out blindly to grip his collar, to forcibly bring him back to bed, but my hands met with empty air. He'd probably slunk off to sulk. I rarely scolded him.
"Whatever." I grumped, and fumbled my way back to my room. After a half hour of laying in bed, sleepless, I finally felt the dead weight of him across my legs again.
I managed a half-smile. "Yeah, alright. I'm sorry, too." My words were a mumble; I was asleep again within minutes.
The sound of the doorbell startled me out of slumber, and I sat up alone in my bed, disoriented. I heard a key in the lock, followed by the voice of my closest neighbour.
"Hello, dear?" She called out. Her voice sounded thin and shaky. I pushed myself out of bed.
"In here!" I called, hastening to stand, to greet her.
"No, no, dear. Don't-- don't get up." I felt her warm hands grip mine, and I could tell by the quiver of her breath that she was trying not to cry. I was confused.
"I know my face is a bit of a sight, but surely it's not that bad!" I joked, trying to ease her discomfort.
She squeezed my hands tighter.
"No, dear. It's not that. I'm-- oh my God, I'm so sorry. They found Bear."
I began to tense. "What do you mean found him? He was just--"
"Bear was hit by a car sometime yesterday afternoon. He must've gotten out when that nice hospital worker dropped you off. My dear, I'm so, so sorry. The driver hit and run, the coward, because the poor thing was only just discovered, and it was far too late..."
Her voice became a distant hum, a blur of apologies and sympathy. I did not really hear it. There was a noise in the kitchen.
I held my breath and trembled as the scratching at the cellar door began again.