he's friendly

“Mommy, I don’t like that dog,” wrenched me from my morning stupor. I walked to the window facing the street, and I saw a woman carrying her young child back toward a white ranch-style home. I live on the second floor of a renovated farmhouse in a small one-bedroom apartment. My living quarters exist in an area that could easily be imagined by even the most unimaginative. I have no interest in what the neighbors are or what other things might occupy these homes that surround me. I do, however, hear all sorts of people sounds, as these neighbors perform their daily tasks and hobbies. Strangers tend to clomp by, chat loudly, or fire up droning yard-work machines; there is a near-constant barrage of activity and pretend busyness. This child’s voice cut through the din of focus that I internally refer to as my passive privacy boundaries. Despite not having children of my own…I am not yet so jaded that I won’t look when I hear a child in…distress…

As I saw that mother and child fade into the background of my vision, my eyes began to pick up on a loping black shape. It was about the size of a large dog, but its form was not conventional. Its skin glistened in the sunlight and was oil-black with almost no discernible features. It was not a shade or shadow; there was nothing of the mythic or insomniac about it. The animal was also behaving much like a sick dog would; It wandered and made small circles, sniffing aimlessly between the grass and pavement. There was something deliberate about its movements, despite the air of confusion. There was something waxed and greasy about its fur or flesh. For a moment, it looked like a seal; all blubber and sheen. The head was very round, and its tail was missing—although its hindquarters swayed as if it were still attached. I could understand why the child was frightened. The creature was sick, wounded, and alien.

Was it menacing, though?

I decided to call animal control, but before I went into the other room to get my phone, I swear the dog looked at me from the street. It stopped its ambling, and I saw a black iris with the thinnest rim of white. I saw it, but I couldn’t have from that distance. It was a coincidence, a momentary glance. In fact, I might have already turned my back when it registered.

My phone read Emergency calls only.

I can never make a call from this location, and as I was already late for work, I was going to call animal control from the car once I reached a better cell area. I finished getting ready, grabbed my coffee, and went to my door. As I said before, I live on the second floor, and because of odd architectural choices, the only entrance to my home is via a small porch. I have a cheap plastic swinging door with a large transparent plastic window. As I reached for the handle of that door, I saw that the dog had made its way up my stairs and was sitting on my porch. It was facing me.

At this closer vantage, it was more clearly visible that something was very wrong with it; no ears, nose, whiskers, or lips. The entirety of the head was smooth, black, shiny, like a bowling ball. I wasn’t sure if it had eyes or a mouth. I thought that maybe this animal had fallen into something, some sort of industrial waste, or thick muck. I wanted to open the door, I wanted to help it, I truly did, but I was frightened beyond reason. I stood staring at it. I was trying to identify something. Trying to diagnose the ailments. The animal did not seem to be in distress or agitated, nor did it show any of the signs of confusion I had noticed before. It sat calmly with its round head slightly tilted.

No, it sat calmly with its round head aimed at me.

I could hear a low rumble or growl, I think. This might have been a rattle of lungs. I approached the door from my side, and the creature did the same. It could see me despite its condition.

Every time I moved to open the door, it would approach and press its body up against the plastic. It was half preventing me from opening the door and half trying to squeeze its greasy body into my apartment. It left brownish-yellow streaks and smears on the plastic. I pulled back each time. I did not want it in my home. When I finally pulled back a greater distance, so did it. I yelled for it to go away, and it returned to its seated posture a few feet back. I looked for something to throw; A ball or a stick, but I couldn’t find anything that would do the job. I stared at it, puzzled, and again I saw a flash of its eyes; this time it wanted something of me…wanted to be let in. Black canine irises with just a sliver of white. It was only for an instant.

I had not reached a state of panic, but I was deeply vexed. Had this beast been any more menacing, I would have been frightened into action; had it been in pain or dying, concern would have forced my hand, but neither of those circumstances was true. It sat, silent and attentive. Almost tentative. It grumbled softly and asked me to do the one thing I was unwilling to do.

Emergency calls only. Do I call 911? “Yes, help me, there is a dog on my porch!?” No, I didn’t do that. We love dogs, right?

I hear it all the time. Humans say they like dogs more than they like people. The whole world can die in a movie, but if the dog dies, people melt down, scream, and protest. People walk their dog off-leash, and when it jumps on you or sniffs your ass, they say, “he’s friendly.”

IS HE?

How do you know? Did everyone get some sort of telepathic animal sensitivity that I didn’t? And all the people who bought dogs during the pandemic because they were afraid of being isolated, and needed a companion? Now they couldn’t care less. They leave these creatures in a one-bedroom apartment for twelve hours while they pursue vanity activities and brunch.

“Mommy, I don’t like that dog.” Of course you don’t. Why would you? Why would you, dear one? You haven’t yet projected your sense of existential betrayal onto a blank canvas. You personify innocence, so you do not need to project it. You have yet to understand that you are alone, and that nothing will ever appease that solitude. You haven’t yet shed your transitional objects. Traded in your teddy for some cookie-cutter expectable drudgery. 

“Mommy, I don’t like that dog,” The words of a…child.

I wait fearfully with the mind of a...child.

I must go do something. I had to go to work. I could not allow this dog to paralyze me any longer.

I saw its mouth. I saw the mottled slit rip open and the slick red interior flounder through. It had no teeth. Just an ever-expanding gummy mass. This salivating lump transitioned from pale violet to a deep red. An overlapping tapestry of predigestion. I could smell it through the door. That corn chip dog smell forced its way through the thick, clear plastic window.

What happened to this dog?

I am now complicit in its suffering. 

I am now complicit in my own suffering. I am delaying the inevitable. I made myself late, and I put myself behind.

“Mommy, I don’t like that dog,” I said over and over. I said it to the version of me that should have been.

I am still saying it to my… I don’t like that dog. I don’t like your dog. Not like you do. Not in the way that you do! Shut up! Shut up! 

I had to go, so I forced open the door. I let it in. It trundled past me, wetting my left leg. It shook the part of itself it still thought to be its tail with unquestioned joy. It did three small circles around my kitchen. It sat on my plastic tile floor and gave an exaggerated yawn, exposing all its internal softness, again. Pure oil-black split horizontally; an endless corridor. Musty yeasty breath. 

 Emergency calls only

I called 911 in the car. It was probably not the best choice. I was agitated. I kept yelling, I don’t like that dog! I don’t like that dog! I don’t think I made my point. I am not sure if they hung up or if I did. It wasn’t a real emergency. I wish they would just shut up! I left my front door open, so the dog could come and go as it pleased. I wasn’t worried about it. What was it going to do? Destroy my possessions? I don’t own anything of value. No one does anymore. The TV? The TV is a thing people used to worry about. Mine was free, or I paid very little for it; I don’t even remember. See? See? So, if that oily mess ruined it, I would find another. It is just trash. The dog can have all my trash. All of it.

I went through the motions of the day...In the way that I do. On my way home, I was half excited to see what remained of my apartment. I kept seeing prolonged flashes of that dark Iris. I kept seeing flashes of that red toothless yawn. Flashes of that round waxed head.

The door was still open, but the dog was not there—at least not in any of the places I looked. I listened too, but I heard nothing. Lots of flies got in, big fat juicy ones. There was a prominent oil stain on the kitchen tile. I touched it. It was dry. The oil had seeped into the plastic. It dried up. Dried up. Stained!

I cooked some burger meat and mixed it with rice. I put it in an old bowl. I left the bowl on my porch. I still don’t like that dog. 

I haven’t seen that woman and her…

child again. I wonder which house theirs is. I hope they aren’t frightened by dogs now. I hope that wasn’t a traumatic experience. It wasn’t.

Nothing was menacing about it…a sick dog. 

It was just a sick animal.