Old Dogs and All of That

From somewhere out of sight, from within the thatch of trees and brush, a quick jay flew across the yard. It flared its wings and landed on the porch. One hop and two, it went to the pie tin and began to peck at the potato peels and scraps of egg there.

Roman, with his hunter’s eyes, had caught the movement. He stood still, fork raised to mouth, only his eye landing on the bird. Seeing it was only a jay Roman lowered his fork and regarded the dog.

“He’s after your breakfast. Looks like he’s going to leave you with nothing.”

The dog had oversize ears and they were up. The rest of her was a dog-shaped rug beneath the table. Roman heard the dog sigh.

“Alright, then.” He rose from the chair to walk stockingfooted out the door. The jay lifted with one hop and slewed away. Roman picked up the pie tin and carried it into the house. He set it near the stove, where the dog was want to lay. At hearing the tick of pan onto the floor, the dog rolled onto its paws before making one, two, three attempts at rising before it staggered to its feet. Roman watched him.

“Look at you,” he said. “Somebody is getting old.”

The dog padded over to the pie tin to eat. Roman carried the rest of his breakfast over and added it to the tin.

“There you go, your majesty,” he said. In his own ears he sounded angry and so allayed it by pat the dog on its back. Skinny dog, sharp bones like a barbed wire fence. “Goddamn,” he said.

When his grandfather had built the cabin he had money enough for only three windows. Two looked out across the porch to the yard. The third was set above the sink. The bedroom, farthest from the front door, was as dark and forgotten as a cave. Roman carried his plate and the skillet to the sink and looked out the window as he washed the dishes.

The kitchen window looked out at the garden and clothesline. The line was naked and down to one wire. The garden was a scruff of weeds and even they were weathered gray. The lath arbor rising from the dirt had a few beans clinging to it, one proud bean pod as twisted and misshapen as an earthworm. He stared at it.

Roman gave up on the egg stuck to the skillet. Let her soak. He filled it with water and left it in the sink. Wiped his hands on his shirt before reaching for the telephone. He stabbed at the buttons and held the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, thank God.

“Donabelle?”

“Roman. Hello.”

“Hey, sis. Is Harry’s boat in the garage?”

She was chewing on something. “Last I checked. It’s a Tuesday, so I expect he’s not using it. Why?”

“I wanna borrow it. Gonna rain later today, I feel it. Change of the weather means the fish are biting.”

“You just missed him. If you called an hour ago you could’ve asked him yourself. Lucky you caught me. I’m just out the door.”

“Just leave the side door open,” Roman said. “I’ll being you a mess of fish.”

“Harry doesn’t even like fish that much.” She hadn’t said no.

“But you do. I know you do.” Roman swapped the phone to his other ear. “Look, I’ll catch you some nice bluegill. Heck, I’ll even clean them for you. All you’ll have to do for dinner is roll them in cornmeal. Like Ma used to make.”

“Cracker crumbs,” Donabelle said. “I had fish at the Big Minnow and they were so good. I asked the waitress and she said they dredged them in saltine cracker crumbs.”

“There you go,” Roman said.

“I’ve got to get to work,” she said.

“Thanks, sis.”

“Listen, Romie. Make sure you leave a full tank of gas, okay? Last time Harry went to use the boat and it was about empty.”

“Got it.”

“Roman,” he heard her take a breath, pause. Here it comes. “Roman, you better keep an eye out.”

“I got my license,” he said.

“No, I mean somebody from the county. You’re supposed to be on disability, all laid up with a bad back. The folks at Northwoods Electric would love to take your pension away.”

He laughed. “It’s gonna be raining in a few hours. You think any of them are going to be out in it? No way.”

He hung up and peered again at the yard. It felt like rain, maybe. His shoulder was achy and the sky was a muslin sheet. Wind swings around from the south and we’re in for it. After he’d found a jacket and freed his fishing pole from the mess in the closet, he saw the dog waiting at the door.

“No, you ain’t.”

The dog remained at the door as he sat to lace his boots. Found the lucky ballcap, the black one whose front panel was stained white with sweat. It had a capital B on it, and he had no idea what team the cap was for. He’d found it on the roadside and liked the way it fit. He carried the pole and went to look for his tackle box.

“Go ahead,” he said, and opened the door. “But you ain’t going with me.”

Outside he paused. Definitely a little cooler. He found the tackle box in the little woodshed and put it and the pole in the cab of his pickup. He also found a little bucket and used it to hold worms he dug from the garden. Lures are good and all, but bluegill really go for worms. He put the bucket in the bed of the truck. The dog had done her business and now followed him to the truck. She stood by him and put her nose against his knee.

“I said no. Besides, you don’t like to be in a boat.”

Which wasn’t fair. She just didn’t like speedboats. Johnboats were fine. Years back he was with Jerry from work and some others when they had taken gone waterskiing on Turtle Lake.  He remembered how Jerry’s wife wore a yellow bikini that had glowed against her tanned skin. The other wives had worn one piece swimsuits, his Susan looking good in that red one. He’d made a point of not looking at Jerry’s wife but Susan had elbowed him anyway. The dog had been just a puppy, maybe two years old and had stayed curled on the floor at Susan’s feet.

“She’s scared,” Susan said. “Too noisy.”

Roman had been coaxed to try get on the skis, eventually able to stay up and make a few cuts. Jerry preferred to drive and Jerry’s wife was terrific. When Jerry cut across their wake she jumped the wave fearlessly. Susan had sipped wine coolers, with the dog at her feet.

“She okay?” Jerry asked.

“The dog? Yeah. I’ve had her out on boats, fishing.”

“No, I mean Susan.”

Roman had looked at his wife that day, the way she wore a big straw hat and oversized sunglasses. He noted that she was on her third wine cooler.

“Oh yeah. Susie’s the best.”

He tried to recall who the other couple with them was. Brother of Jerry’s wife? Maybe. Related some way. Jerry had sat for union patrolman and had moved somewhere near Neenah. Roman had not talked to the man in years. When he opened the door to climb into the pickup the dog pressed herself against his leg. It was a tall truck with an extended cab. Bought it with some of the settlement money.

“Okay,” he said. Scooped her up and set her on the seat like he had so many times before. Silly old dog.

September had about played out. The threat of heat was gone, sure, but the likelihood of frost was still a dirty lie. If he still lived at the house at Tilden he would have been leaving the windows open at night. No mosquitoes any more, maybe a late roaming bee. Susan was one who kept blankets on the bed all year long and finally, after months of kicking them aside, he would have started to share them with her. He actually liked the cold nights.

Roman caught himself. Goddamn how stuff sneaks up on you. That’s her house now. Donabelle liked to tell him news of her, how Susie had been seen with her hair done up, or had been eating steaks at Flood’s Supper Club. He’d always said, I don’t care, I don’t wanna know. He saw a gust of wind lift leaves from the road shoulder. Felt the wind sway his truck.

Rain coming, for sure, he thought. Change of the weather and everything else just the same.