Stay! Page 2

  I could hear the men talking. “Counting the one Pete’s got, three of them little buggers. They’re cute, aren’t they?”

  “Maybe I’ll take two home instead of just the one. Whaddaya think? Will my girlfriend kill me if I take two?”

  “Nah. Women like puppies. She’ll start talking babytalk to them the minute you walk through the door.”

  “Find me another female, would you?”

  I waited, shivering and listening, as they picked up Tussle and Wispy. I pictured the embarrassing scrutiny taking place.

  Then I cringed, crouching there under the cardboard; and probably my tail, unwilled by my brain, wiggled in humiliation for my brothers (and I was glad that they had not learned the nuances of human speech, and so would not know) as once again the dishwashers, almost in unison, pronounced each puppy to be female.

  I heard the men gather them up. I heard the frightened whimpers. I did nothing. What could I do? I stayed hidden.

  I have carried that guilt with me all my life.

  “This one don’t look too good,” someone said. I knew he must be referring to Wispy. Her fur was so discolored and sparse. I would like to think there was compassion in his voice.

  “Ah, bring it along. If nobody wants it, we’ll drop it off at the animal shelter.”

  My heart leaped. I knew the word shelter and that it meant, for humans at least, food and clothing and a bed. Sometimes, on rainy nights, several human occupants of the alley where I had lived since my birth decided to go to “the shelter.” It was crowded, I had heard them say, noisier than they liked, and lacking in privacy, but in times of stress and need, it was a place of comfort and respite.

  I had not known that there was an animal shelter, too.

  “Yeah,” I heard Pete say as they headed toward the restaurant door, their aprons weighted with puppies. “They’ll put it to sleep at the shelter.”

  I was relieved. Maybe, I thought, I should have revealed myself and gone along. To be put to sleep—after some food and perhaps warm milk and some playtime—sounded like an appealing thing, and would no doubt involve some nice ragged blankets, free of fleas.

  I wriggled free of my cardboard and scampered toward the restaurant door.

  “Wait!” I yipped. “I was here all along! I’m part of the group! Can I go? Can I be put to sleep?”

  But the door had closed.

  Night was coming, I noticed.

  Sadly I plodded back to the corner behind the trash cans. I curled up, my tail all the way around to my chin, and tried to get comfy. I began to play with rhyming words again.

  All alone! What to do?

  Brothers gone! Sister, also!

  Very quickly, thinking it over, I realized my mistake and corrected it to Sister, too! How pleasant it sounded, with the words in order, and in rhyme. What a comfort poetry could be in one’s life. At that point, cold and lonely, I needed what comfort I could find.

  Mother had been away for hours. She had never left us for such a long time before. As much as I longed for her, and her warm belly to sleep against, and the supply of milk that it always provided, I dreaded seeing her face when she returned and found her babies gone.

  Finally, still waiting, I dozed off.

  ***

  I woke again, chilly, sometime in the night. I wiggled my nose and sniffed Essence of Mother, that particularly reassuring smell that said she was nearby. But the familiar scent seemed slightly different. It was mingled with Essence of Other Dog, Male. Puzzled, I yawned, sneezed once, and raised my head to look around.

  There she was, at the end of the alley. I stretched, tiptoed over to the side of the trash can, and peered around to get a good look. My mother was standing there with a tall, dark, and handsome Doberman. She was … well, I guess the only word would he flirting. Her tail was moving with a very contrived swish, and she arched her neck to rub against the Doberman’s sleek shoulders. It was cheap, trashy behavior, in my opinion, and I was shocked to see it.

  I whimpered and she glanced my way. I am quite certain she saw me. Her left ear twitched.

  I tried a small bark. Now her escort, the Doberman, looked over at me with bored eyes. Impatiently he turned back to her, and she sighed. They nuzzled each other for a moment more; then he turned and trotted away while Mother watched.

  Quickly I scampered back to the hidden place, flopped down, and pretended to be asleep. I waited. I could hear her approaching, but her steps were slow and reluctant. In the past she had always hurried back to us, checked out our well-being with an affectionate nose, and arranged herself protectively around our little group.

  Now, though, she sighed and pawed restlessly at the ground, barely seeming to notice me. I had thought I would comfort her in her grief at the loss of the other puppies. But she seemed not to be aware that they were gone. She looked longingly at the corner behind which the Doberman had disappeared.

  I whimpered again slightly, but she paid no attention, and I did not want to seem like a whiner. Finally she settled restlessly beside me, acknowledging that her evening on the town was over.

  I sensed that she was bored with motherhood and eager to resume life as a party girl. I didn’t blame her, really; she was young yet—only three, I think—and in the way of dogs still had ahead of her a lifetime of flirtations, love affairs, and no doubt (though I did not want to think about it) other puppies yet to come.

  I licked one paw, pretending to be very concerned about a small bit of damp newsprint stuck to my fur, and glanced at her to see if she was interested in my grooming, as she once would have been. She tended to me in a businesslike way, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

  Did she not notice that her puppies were gone? I think she did, in truth. She pawed a bit at the sleeping place, puzzled by the change. Then she seemed to accept things as they were. She sighed, sat tensely for a moment, then relaxed into a sleeping position, and finally closed her eyes and slept. I did the same, but my dreams were anxious and uncertain: dreams about finding my own way in the world; dreams about being all alone.

  When morning came, I knew that my dream had been more than that. It had been an omen. My mother’s sleeping place was empty. In the intuitive way of dogs, I realized that she would not be back.

  Seeking solace, I tried to write an ode to Mother but found I could not finish. Everything I composed ended with the word alone, and the only rhyme I could think of was bone. The more I thought of bone, the less I thought about Mother. I realized, as my attention turned to urgent needs, that I was very hungry. My nose twitched. Suddenly I sniffed, from some unexplored place around the corner, something that might well be breakfast.

  Unbidden, new poetry came to me:

  Upright, my tail! Forward, my legs!

  I think I smell some ham and biscuits!

  No, of course, it had to be eggs! I began to see how poetry worked. I said the couplet again to myself with satisfaction and new energy. It sounded like an anthem or a marching song. It cheered me. Orphaned now, but not overwhelmed, I turned my back on my past and set forth.

  3

  AT THE CORNER OF THE ALLEY I stopped. Ahead of me lay a busy street, not at all like the quiet, neglected place that had been my home for all of my previous life. In the way of dogs, I sniffed cautiously. I erected my ears to their maximum alertness and tilted my head to listen.

  Mother had taught us each scrupulously about the use of senses. “Nose, ears, eyes,” she had said again and again, so that we would memorize the correct order of importance. Nose, ears, eyes. It sounds easy. But my less bright brothers had tended to look and leap without stopping to sniff and listen. Mother had reminded them with increasing impatience. I could almost hear her voice reminding me now.

  Nose. I could smell gasoline exhaust: great gagging bursts from the back of a large bus that moved away from the curb to my right. I caught a whiff of newsprint quite nearby, and turned my head to see a folded paper in the entrance of a building to my left. As I assessed the paper, congratulating
my nose a bit, I sniffed Male Human, and indeed was able to congratulate my accuracy again as a man opened a door, stepped outside, and leaned down to pick up the folded newspaper.

  The scent of his stale tobacco-tinged breath was familiar to me from the dishwashers who often smoked beside the restaurant’s back door. I brought my ears into play, aimed them toward the man, and heard the scratch and flare of a match as he lit up and drew deeply on the cigarette. Then he took himself, his scent, and the aroma of newspaper and cigarette back into the building and behind its closed door. A slight odor remained, but the freshness, the sharp pungency, was gone.

  Breakfast. The scents that had attracted me were still there, drifting in from a distance, and I was still very hungry. “Forward, legs …” my poetic voice was still saying.

  But I knew I should be wary. A dogs life is fraught with potential danger: from Car, from Cat, from Man, from Hostile Dog, and from all the frightening subcategories therein.

  So I proceeded with utmost caution. Sniffing, listening, and watching in all directions, I ventured forth around the corner and along the sidewalk that bordered the busy street.

  Inching my way carefully past a wheeled vehicle containing a baby, I was startled when a sticky hand reached out and grabbed my left ear. It was my first experience of being touched by a human, and I did not like it very much. Of course it was a subhuman, being only an infant; nonetheless, its grab hurt. An ear is a very delicate thing.

  I confess that I yipped.

  “Max!” its mother shrieked, and removed its hand from me in an alarmed fashion. I was not surprised. It was an alarming event, the possible damage to my ear. In addition, the baby’s hand was not at all clean. It was filled with half-chewed cookie.

  “Never, never touch a dog!” the mother said in a firm, frightened voice.

  I liked that mother. She understood the grave potential danger to my ear.

  The baby waved its hands about, paying no attention what-soever to its mother. It behaved in much the same manner as my brothers, frisking about and not listening to instructions. My heart went out to that wonderful mother, trying so nobly to explain to her child the rules of kindness to dogs.

  “Max?” the mother said sternly. “Are you listening to me?”

  Pay attention, Max, I commanded under my breath. She is teaching you valuable lessons about the importance of being both gentle and generous to dogs. Listen.

  The baby stared at his mother. He had rather bulbous eyes, and there was dried mucus, nostril in origin, encrusted on his upper lip. He was not well groomed. His fingernails were dirty, and he was arranging his right index finger into a pointing position, clearly planning to poke me some place exquisitely painful on my face.

  “Dogs are filthy creatures, Max!” the mother said, to my astonishment. “They’re nasty! They carry diseases! And they bite!” she added untruthfully.

  I hardly knew how to react to such glaring deceit. Finally I decided that the only dignified response would be to walk away.

  First, though, since he was still waving his hand about, I bent over, took Max’s half-eaten cookie in my mouth, and consumed it in one gulp. Then I flipped my young but already glorious tail to one side with disdain and continued on without looking back.

  The smell of breakfast was coming from a fast-food place down the street. Eagerly I made my way along the sidewalk, around humans carrying packages. There were no other babies, for which I was grateful, having learned how ruthless they are, and the humans I passed ignored me. They seemed busy, hurried, and distracted.

  Each human I passed emitted a variety of scents. The basic scent that said Human was primary and strongest, of course, and overlaid with the secondary scent of Male or Female. But these were covered superficially by a medley of soaps, perfumes, powders, cosmetics, shampoos, and the remains of many different breakfasts. Some were new and foreign to me. But I recognized others, taught to me by my mom: butter, for example, which had so often coated her lips after she had dined by the French restaurant’s back door.

  Cream, too, was familiar, as was coffee, which I did not like. I recognized bacon and bread, and soap was not new to me either. The hands of the dishwashers, the very hands that had carried away my puppy brothers and sister, were permeated with the fragrant, antiseptic odor of soap.

  Perfume was unpleasant, and I wondered why females used it. In the dog world, there is no more pleasing scent to a male than the natural and undiminished bouquet of a female. Some, of course, are more appealing than others. Female poodles are not particularly appetizing, except perhaps to male poodles; I do not know why.

  Most small breeds—Yorkie, Maltese, and the Dandie Dinmont—tend to have a perky and amusing aroma. Golden retrievers have a wonderfully warm and earthy scent, and a Newfoundland smells of the sea. At the time of which I am telling, I had not yet encountered many breeds of dog; those days, those meetings, were yet to come. But I did notice, setting forth on my first day as an independent, newly motherless being, the quite overwhelming fragrances with which humans tried to disguise their natural scents. No self-respecting dog would use perfume, I thought with a somewhat superior toss of my head as I trotted through the pungent crowd.

  Upright, my tail! Forward, my feet!

  Prepare, teeth! We approach hamburger!

  Of course I realized instantly that the second line should conclude with the word meat. Feeling that I was maturing as a poet, I repeated the verse in its revised, rhyming version as I approached the shop from which the smells were drifting. I ignored the humans lined up in front of the counter, where people wearing odd paper hats were taking their orders, and made my way craftily toward the back door. My mother had taught me well, especially about the location and acquisition of food. The back rooms of restaurants, populated by somewhat bored and often good-natured employees, had back doors, which were frequently open.

  It was at such an open door that a needy dog should sit. I made my way there, reciting my poem to myself, rehearsing in my mind the sort of polite, wistful posture and expression I would use: the slight cock to the head, the wide eyes. I would not unless absolutely necessary raise my paws to a begging position. Mother had found such a pose demeaning—though on occasion she had been forced to use it—and I wanted to honor her memory.

  Following the aroma of cooking and the cries of “Egg McMuffin!” and “Black coffee coming up!” I approached the back door. Indeed, as I had hoped, it was open.

  Unfortunately, a terrifying rival had gotten there first. The flat-faced dog I confronted was well muscled and broad of chest; his short white fur was mottled with dirt. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a thick scar, jagged but well healed, on the side of his face pulled his lip askew, giving him the appearance of a perpetual snarl.

  Upright my fur! Be brave, O pup! I said nervously to myself, feeling the hairs on my back bristle in apprehension, and failing to finish the poem. Mother had told me about Hostile Dogs; she had listed them among Things to Be Feared.

  She was right. I feared him a lot. He was large, determined, and defiant. By contrast, I was small, uncertain, and fearful.

  But we were both hungry.

  His scent—possessive and alert—said that it was his restaurant door. His eyes glittered, watching me as I tiptoed very slowly forward. His tail (a stump, quite unattractive), resting behind him on the ground, moved slowly from one side to the other: not a friendly wag at all, but a symbol of antagonism and threat.

  I bowed a bit, acknowledging his superior size and the fact that he was first in line. But I did not retreat. I was too hungry to retreat.

  His upper lip moved slightly, exposing his teeth. They were rather good teeth for a dog: even and sharp, nicely yellowed and worn, with long fangs on either side.

  I still had my pointed baby teeth, quite new little biters that had served me well, and thought he might like to know that. So I raised my lip at him.

  Scar (for I had named him, in my mind) stood before me in a pose of unrelenting threat, and his gr
owl was steady.

  We faced each other, and I feel that I was brave in my stance. But it was no contest. He was much larger and more experienced than I. Finally I retreated, moving backward slowly.

  Staring at him in my retreat, I memorized his face and knew that someday I would see it again. He was not the sort of enemy who would disappear. I resolved that our next meeting would have a different outcome.

  But for now I was the loser. When I had backed far enough to be out of his immediate realm, I turned around, still in a humiliated, beaten posture. But as I left the back of the restaurant and the passageway that led to it and its wealth of discarded food, I gathered my courage long enough to give one last flippant gesture. I raised my right leg and made my mark against the wall that defined his space.

  Then I tossed my head and trotted hungrily away, knowing at least that Scar would have to live with my scent for a long time. Somehow that knowledge made my defeat more bearable.

  4

  I NEEDED A CHILD.

  My mother had taught me that all puppies need children.

  Adults are strict with their dogs, insisting that they eat designated food—usually not very tasty—from a particular bowl, often heavy and unattractive. Adults make their dogs sleep in not very cozy places: basements, garages, or wire cages (and they tell their human friends: “He loves his cage,” which is not true, not one bit true), or sometimes on a flea-retardant dog bed stuffed with cedar shavings.

  Dogs would much rather eat dog-sized portions of human meals; pasta is a particular favorite. They would like it served on a dinner plate placed on the floor near the human table.

  Instead of a cage as a refuge, dogs like a nice little cedar house with a pointed roof and a small entrance with the dogs name painted in big letters over it.

  Dogs prefer to sleep snuggled right up beside a human, their head on a feather pillow, with ears nicely spread out, and the rest of the body curled on an innerspring mattress covered by percale sheets smelling of human breath and sweat.