The man was dreaming, so he didn’t notice the strain in his neck as his chin dropped to rest on the lapel of his tweed jacket. It was his prerogative as a man of his age—and his daily habit—to nod off on the park bench after his morning walk and muffin and coffee. He was dreaming of a party with banana cream pie that rose to the sky and became the sun and a gift box that held a blue dotted neck tie that must have been thirty feet long. Someone snagged the pie from the sky and smashed the gooey thing in his face. They smeared it over and over on his nose and lips. It didn’t taste like pie, he noticed.
It was the licking that woke him. A massive, dripping tongue was licking his face.
The man swatted and sputtered and tried to get his eyes to refocus. He straightened his neck, realizing then how sore it was. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his face, and looked the assailant in its eyes.
They were dark eyes, too small for their face and buried under bushy brown eyebrows. The nose was the size of a silver dollar and protruded at least six inches, with a white stripe down the middle and one brown dot. The lips hung well past the jaw line. What a sight, this creature.
“Nice Saint Bernard you have there,” a woman said as she walked by. She was gone before the man could finish wiping his face and tell her that this thing did not belong to him.
The man wondered how long he had been asleep on the bench. His coffee was cold and the abandoned last bite of blueberry muffin—still in his lap—had turned crusty in the open October air. He sat on one end of the bench, his favorite end of his favorite bench, where the back rest curved out a little, a reprieve for his protruding spine. At least three more bodies could fit on this bench, he figured. But of course not one would.
The dog hadn’t moved. She sniffed the the crust of muffin, decided it was edible, and gobbled it, leaving a shiny streak of drool on the man’s pant leg.
“Well, sir, are you even going to wish me a happy birthday?” the man asked the dog as he wiped his pants. The dog stared, blinked. The man cocked his head to look at the dog’s underbelly. “Ma’am, excuse me. I’m 87 today, you know.”
The breeze unleashed a flurry of golden leaves from the sycamore trees and the man thought about his prescription that needed to be picked up and the rent money that needed to be mailed.
“Well, I’d better go,” he said to the dog.
He didn’t notice when she followed him through the park and down the street. He didn’t notice until he felt a wet nose brush his hand at the corner of 7th and Main.
“Oh!” he said, looking down at her. “Oh no, you have to go back to the park. I’m sure your family is looking for you.” He pointed back that direction and told her to go on. She didn’t move. He checked for a collar, for a bone-shaped metal tag with a phone number, but the dog wore nothing.
“Go on,” he said again. He walked a little faster, which was really not much faster, but still she followed him to the pharmacy and to the post office and to the street where he lived. With no collar, he figured she must be a stray and she must be hungry and perhaps he could keep her until tomorrow. He needed someone to celebrate with, after all.
At the corner of his street there was a hot dog stand, and he bought two—one with nothing on it and one with everything on it.
“Well, come on then,” he said to the dog. “Let’s go have some lunch.”
Inside, the man sat on a wooden chair at the small square dining table and the dog sat at his feet on the linoleum floor, wagging and panting. On a plate he put the hot dog with everything on it and placed it on the floor for her. She devoured the dog and half the tissue paper tray until the man snatched it away and scolded her for eating something that wasn’t actually food. She looked at him with sad eyes—actually, her eyes always looked a bit sad—and he said, “Yeah, you’re right. Hot dogs aren’t much better.”
In the small living room was one cushioned rocking chair, and the man read the newspaper and offered commentary to the dog, who was laying on the light green carpet with her belly to the sky and her legs splayed open.
“Gas prices are hitting a record high again, can you believe it? When I had my first car I could fill it up for ten cents a gallon. I’d let it run just for the joy of hearing the engine.”
Partway through the sports section, the man fell asleep and had no idea how long it had been when he woke to licks again. He was startled, but at least the furry face was familiar this time.
“Is this going to be a habit now?” he asked. The dog rested her chin on his knee and looked up at him with those sad eyes. The man couldn’t help but pet her behind the ears. Her eyebrows twitched as she turned her gaze to a framed picture on the end table next to his chair.
“That’s Donny, my son,” the man said. “Good man. Lives in California though, so I don’t see him much. I imagine you don’t see your kids much either, if you have any.”
He remembered a pitcher of lemonade he made from powder the day before, and so he went to the fridge, where a calendar hung with nothing but doctor appointments on it. He poured a glass for himself and a bowl for her. She sniffed and lapped it once, then went to the door and looked back at him as if to say, “Come on.”
Maybe she was ready to go home, he thought, maybe she wasn’t a stray. He opened the door for her, but she waited for him, and he decided he’d better follow just to make sure she didn’t get hit by a truck or lured by a homeless person. And maybe he would buy a cake.
He followed her down the sidewalk, across the street, and around the corner to the entrance of the park where they had met that morning. As they walked, she stopped every so often and checked to see he was still coming. He expected at any moment she would spot her owner and dart off, jumping up to lick him in the face.
But instead she led him to the carousel where children moved up and down on shiny jeweled tigers and elephants and ostriches. Satisfied, she sat and looked back at him. He came to stand next to her.
“You like to ride?” he asked.
Though the question wasn’t directed at him, the teenage carousel attendant responded curtly, “No dogs allowed.”
In silence the man watched the children in their merry rotations. A small boy was holding a balloon and wearing a gold crown. It must be his birthday too, the man thought.
“Well, if you can’t, then I will,” the man said to the dog. “One ticket, please.”
The suspicious young man looked from one side of the old man to the other, apparently searching for a grandchild who might be hiding behind his knee.
“Alrighty then,” the attendant said, and traded a ticket for a crumpled dollar bill.
The man chose a rhinoceros with a purple saddle and bright blue eyes, a tarnished silver pole skewered through its middle. He counted twelve rotations, marked by the blur of brown and white fur he spotted once each time around.
He wobbled off the ride and placed his hand on top of the dog’s head for balance. “Well, now it’s a birthday,” he said. But it was time for the man to go, and since he never liked goodbyes, he turned and walked away.
He passed the last tree in the park and saw a paper nailed to it. Sad eyes, bushy eyebrows, large nose with a white stripe and one brown dot. Her.
MISSING DOG
Responds to the name “Saint Catherine”
At the bottom of the flyer were perforated strips of paper, each with a phone number typed on it. He tore one off and rubbed it between his fingers. Of course, when he looked down, she was there. Of course, she followed him home, and when they got there, he ordered a pizza with nothing but cheese—a birthday tradition. He had two slices, she had six.
When he got into his twin-sized bed that night, he told himself he’d call tomorrow, and then he patted the cover and said, “Come on, Cate.” She jumped onto the bed and curled up in the space behind his knees. In the kitchen, the strip of paper absorbed spots of grease.
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