The Mad and the Macabre

- 4 -

During his 10:45 AM break, Charlie called his home voice mail to check if there were any messages. He had to think for several moments to recall his password--he wasn't used to having any reason to access his voice mail.

Two messages. The first was from an old-sounding man who described a white poodle. No need to call him back. The second was a woman who didn't say what kind of dog she was missing, just that she hoped he had her beloved Rhinestone. Charlie didn't think the dog looked like a Rhinestone--he didn't think any dog looked like a Rhinestone--and it didn't sound like the kind of name a wealthy person would give a dog, but he called the woman anyway.

"I'm returning your call," he said, when the woman answered with an annoying, sing-songy "Hello."

"My call about...?"

"The dog."

"Oh, yes, of course. Rhiney came home this morning. Sorry to waste your time!"

"Okay." Charlie hung up.

There were no messages at lunch or at his 3:15 break. Charlie was surprised. He would have expected more people to lose dogs than that.

There were no new messages waiting for him when he got home. Charlie opened the door to the basement and the dog rushed out. It stampeded over to the front door, whining and twitching. Charlie realized that he didn't have a leash. He had plenty of rope and other things that he could fashion into a leash without too much effort, but the dog seemed to be in a state of emergency and what was the worst thing that could happen? The dog might run away. So what? Charlie wouldn't be any worse off.

He opened the door and let the dog race outside. It ran a few feet out onto his lawn and then immediately squatted. Charlie watched it for a moment, then questioned why he was watching this particular activity in progress and averted his eyes. The dog finished and ran back inside the house. It was definitely well trained.

Charlie went down into the basement, and was surprised and pleased to note that there weren't any messes to clean up. The dog held out better than some of the humans he kept down here.

He filled its food and water bowls once again, then walked upstairs. The dog was back on his couch.

"Get down," he said.

The dog rolled onto its side.

"I'm not going to pet you," he told it. "Get off my couch."

The dog woofed at him--not quite a bark.

Charlie sighed. "You can stay, but you'd better not shed on it."

Interesting. Now he was not only speaking to the dog as if it could understand human speech, but he was acting as if the dog could control its own shedding. Bring on the men in white jackets.

If nobody claimed the dog by the time he was out of food (a couple of days, probably) he'd take it to the pound.

Charlie changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a sweater, then microwaved a frozen pizza. He sat down next to the dog and turned on the television.

The dog licked its chops.

"No," he said. "It's mine." He took a bite of pizza and winced. Way too hot. He opened his mouth and fanned his hand in front of his tongue.

The dog inched closer to him.

"Don't even think about it."

The dog whimpered.

"No. My pizza. You've got dog chow." Charlie blew on the slice of pizza to cool it down then took a big bite. The dog watched him carefully. "I'll take you to the pound right now if you don't quit staring at me," he informed it. "I mean it."

The dog didn't whimper again, but silently watched him as he ate the first piece of pizza. Charlie didn't like the crust anyway, so he pinched it between his thumb and index finger and offered it to the dog. "Here."

The dog snapped at the treat, biting his fingers.

"Ow!" Charlie slapped the dog in the face as hard as he could. It let out a loud yip, jumped off the couch, and ran into the kitchen.

Rotten mutt.

It was lucky he didn't shove its food bowl down its throat. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd slice that cur's neck open with an electric carving knife and see if he could get the bowl all the way in there.

He examined his fingers. They stung a bit, but the dog's teeth hadn't broken the skin.

Rotten, lousy, ungrateful mutt.

Wretched, mindless, bitey cur.

Then again...

What was the dog supposed to do when he offered it a piece of food that way, pinched between his fingers? His flesh was in the way of the pizza crust. He couldn't have expected the dog to carefully nibble around his skin--it was just an animal, living through instinct. He should've placed the offering on his palm or set it on the couch cushion. He'd been wrong.

Oh well. Charlie wasn't going to get bent out of shape over hitting a dog without just cause. It was still lucky he hadn't left it to freeze to death in the park, and if he took it to the pound, it might end up euthanized anyway, in which case the slap was the least of its problems.

He watched television and ate the other three pieces of pizza. He almost ate the crusts just to convince himself that he wasn't saving them as a peace offering for the dog, but decided that would be silly. He didn't like crust. Why eat something he didn't like just to fool himself into believing that he wasn't trying to make up for hitting a dumb animal?

He carried his plate into the kitchen, where the dog was huddled in the corner. Charlie set the plate with the pizza crusts down on the floor. The dog looked tentatively at it but didn't move.

"It's food," Charlie said, impatiently. "Eat it."

He could see the dog's nose twitching, but it remained in the corner. Charlie shrugged. It wasn't his job to force the dog to eat. He went back into the living room, and before he even had a chance to sit down on the couch he heard the scrape of the dog's feet as it ran across the tile floor. He listened to it eating. Good. At least the pizza crusts wouldn't go to waste.

About twenty minutes later, Charlie realized he was sitting through a rerun and hadn't even noticed. He switched channels. Nothing looked interesting. He shut off the television and sat there for a moment.

Why did he feel guilty? It was a mindless animal. It was like having guilt over slapping a mosquito.

He looked toward the entrance to the kitchen. There'd been no sound for a while. He wondered if the dog had gone to sleep.

Charlie got up off the couch, feeling stupid. He walked into the kitchen, still feeling stupid. He looked at the dog, which lay curled up next to the basement door, and then cleared his throat, continuing to feel stupid. The dog raised its head and perked up its ears.

"I'm sorry I hit you," he said.

Charlie stood there for a long moment, as if waiting for the dog to acknowledge his apology. It did not.

He returned to the couch and turned the television back on. A few minutes later, the dog bounded into the living room and jumped up onto the cushion next to him. It sat next to him until bedtime.

* * *

"Surfing the net on company time?"

Charlie glared at Alicia over his shoulder. "I'm on my lunch break. We're allowed."

"I was just kidding," said Alicia. "Wow, you take everything personally, don't you? We need to figure out a way to make you a little less serious."

"I'm fine."

"You're a powder keg of repressed rage. If you don't lighten up, you're going to run somebody over with your car."

"Okay."

"Looking for a new dog?" she asked, nodding at his monitor. Charlie was in the middle of a Google search for animal shelters in the area.

Charlie shook his head. "Getting rid of one."

"Oh, no! What did it do?"

"Nothing. I found it."

"Well, make sure you take it to a 'no kill' shelter."

"They have those?"

"Yeah, they'll keep it until they find it a home. What kind of dog is it?"

"Boston terrier."

"Oh, I love those!" said Alicia. "They're so cute! Did you name it?"

Charlie shrugged. Why would he name a dog that he was taking to the pound? And why wouldn't she leave him alone? She knew he was on his lunch break--why couldn't she respect that and let him enjoy it?

"I guess if you named it, it might be hard to let it go," Alicia admitted.

"Yeah."

"But it was nice of you to take in the dog and give it a home for now. Where did you find it?"

"In a park."

"I can't believe the owner hasn't claimed it yet."

"Do you want it?" Charlie asked.

"Can't. I've already got three cats. If I didn't, I'd take it in a second. I think you should keep it, though--a dog would be good for you."

"Why?" Charlie was surprised to discover that he actually cared about her answer to his question.

"Unconditional love. A dog doesn't care if you're in a bad mood or if you cheated on your taxes; they love you no matter what."

Charlie frowned. Was she accusing him of cheating on his taxes?

"I don't have time to take care of a dog," Charlie said, knowing that he had plenty of time, even if he kept up his current schedule of television viewing.

"That's fair," said Alicia. "I'm not trying to get into your business. But promise me that you'll take it to a 'no kill' shelter, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll even look one up for you and give you the address. Then you can enjoy the rest of your lunch break."

It took Charlie several seconds to figure out how to respond to that. "Thanks."

"No problem at all. I'm happy to do it." She smiled. "Did you notice that it's not that painful to have a friendly conversation with a co-worker?"

Charlie didn't necessarily agree with Alicia about the level of pain the conversation created, but he nodded and forced himself to smile.

* * *

By the end of the day, still nobody had called about the dog. Maybe his signs just weren't very good. He supposed that if he asked Alicia, she'd help him make better ones--he'd seen the sign she made for a bake sale last week that he didn't participate in, and it was colorful and eye-catching. Of course, making new signs would be a waste of time, since he'd be taking the dog to the address of the animal shelter she'd given him right before he left.

Still, it would be a major disappointment if he turned the dog over to the shelter and then the rich owner claimed it that same day. Or even a few days later. The dog wasn't exactly eating up a large percentage of his income; maybe Charlie should hang on to it for a few more days, just in case. Also, he didn't want to deal with the awkward phone conversation if the elated owner called him to reclaim his or her pet, and Charlie had to explain that he'd taken it to the pound, where it might have been given to somebody else. At least he wouldn't have to tell the owner that the dog had been gassed. He didn't like hearing people cry outside of his basement.

He decided to stop at the pet store on the way home.

* * *

"Don't get used to this," said Charlie, waving the red rubber squeak bone at the dog. "I'm not buying you a toy every time I go out. This is all you get." He squeaked the bone and the dog ran in a joyous little circle on the basement floor. "If you lose it, it's not being replaced, so be careful."

He tossed the bone to the dog. It caught it in its mouth and then dropped onto its stomach, chewing vigorously on the toy, which squeaked and squeaked and squeaked.

Charlie leaned against his metal table and watched the dog. It seemed to be having a lot of fun. Why? It was just a rubber bone. Was the dog imagining that the squeaks were screams of agony? They didn't seem comparable.

He observed it for several minutes, wondering what possible pleasure the dog could be getting out of this, besides the opportunity to exercise its jaws. Why did people like Alicia think that dogs were so great? Who cared about unconditional love? Love should be given out on an "as deserved" basis.

When he decided that the dog had squeaked the toy enough for one night, Charlie changed its bandages and refilled its food bowl. The dog was healing nicely--in a few days, it would probably be completely back to normal. Normal for a clown-faced idiot dog, anyway.

"I don't want you to run away and cost me my reward," he informed the dog as he showed it the cheap black collar he'd purchased, "so you're going to have to wear this, like it or not."

The dog most definitely did not like it, and it took a few minutes of struggle to get the collar over its head and fastened properly. Charlie considered hitting the dog to encourage it to keep still...but, no, there was no reason for that. He'd win this little dispute without resorting to violence.

He got the collar on the dog, attached the leash he'd also bought, and led it up the stairs. He let the dog run around the living room for a minute while he put on his heavy coat and gloves, and then took the dog outside for a traditional walk.

It finished its business almost immediately, but Charlie was pretty sure that walks were about exercise as much as defecation, so they began to walk along the sidewalk. Sometimes the dog walked right alongside of him, sometimes it tugged on its leash in a failed attempt to run ahead, sometimes it forced Charlie to tug on its leash because it got distracted by fascinating smells, and sometimes it ran in a circle and almost tripped him, but overall Charlie thought it was a relatively successful walk.

After they'd gone about six or seven blocks, they approached a driveway where a young blonde woman was taking groceries out of her car. Her eyes lit up as she saw the dog.

"Oh, look at you!" she said, placing a bag of groceries on the ground and crouching down so she could pet the dog. "What a sweetie!"

The dog licked her face, clearly loving the attention.

"What's his name?" the woman asked Charlie. She was absolutely beautiful. She looked as if she might have just come from the salon as well as the grocery store.

"He doesn't have one."

"Doesn't have a name?" The woman scratched both of the dog's ears. "How can a sweetie like you not have a name? You don't like that at all, do you? I bet you don't!"

"I mean, I don't know its name," said Charlie.

"Well, he's absolutely adorable," said the woman, picking up her grocery bag and standing up. She grinned at Charlie. "Both of you have a great evening, all right?"

The woman turned and retrieved a second grocery bag from her trunk. Charlie couldn't believe it. She was just standing there, totally unguarded, not even looking at him. He could shove her into the trunk, slam the lid, and have a gorgeous woman in his basement this very evening.

He wouldn't do it, of course. He'd broken the schedule once, and had vowed to never do it again. And though this idea sounded great as a flash of fantasy, it was far too risky. She could scream, or somebody could see (for all he knew, her husband was right inside), or she could be locked in the trunk with the only set of keys.

Still...he was amazed at how the dog had instantly created a level of trust.

He should have asked the woman if he could help her carry her groceries inside, just as a test.

"Maybe you could be useful," Charlie told the dog as they resumed their walk.

Yes, he was talking to an animal in public, but the woman had done the same thing without feeling humiliated. Clearly, you were allowed to talk to uncomprehending animals without looking like a candidate for the local asylum.

Perhaps he shouldn't be so quick to get rid of it. Charlie might have a creepy smile, but he had a cute dog.

* * *

"You need a name," Charlie told the dog as they sat on the couch.

The dog squeaked its bone.

What was a good name for a dog? Fido? Rover? Duke? Prince? Spike? Clowny-Face?

Killer?

Hmmmm. He liked Killer.

"Do you want to be named Killer?" he asked.

The dog squeaked its toy again, but it was a non-committal squeak.

Killer wasn't exactly subtle. He should probably brainstorm more options. Charlie went to get a pen and a notebook, then sat back down and started writing down ideas. He wrote down every dog name he could think of, the first names of everybody he knew, and other names that might be appropriate for a dog whose cuteness was going to lure women to their death.

After about an hour, he had a list of forty-seven names. He read them slowly, one at a time, to see if any elicited a reaction from the dog.

None of them did. The dog just kept chewing on its toy. Charlie had to admit to himself that he was taking his newfound willingness to communicate with the dog a bit too far.

He read the list of names again, to himself in a whisper.

Cutter sounded the best, but it didn't look right. He wrote it on a separate page. Cutter.

He wrote it again: Kutter.

"That's your new name," he said. "Kutter the dog."

Charlie took Kutter for another walk, tearing down the "Found Dog" signs as they went.