Dog People (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maxime D. McKenna

DOG PEOPLE

ecause I no longer have a yard, at least not a yard that suits me (not like the one we had back in Wyndmoor), and because I am not the type, yard or no yard, to stay cooped up indoors—not on an evening where the summer heat has mellowed and the sun is orangeing—because of these things, I’ ve been sitting out on the stoop these days, making it the place where I can undo my belt, slouch, and let my belly unfurl onto my knees. Where I can drink Bacardi and Diet Coke from the tiki glass that Lana abhors. Where I can stare down the cars creeping past, looking for precious street-parking while my station wagon sits in the middle of two perfectly good spots.

At this time of day, little things happen all on their own: dirty rain water drips through a sagging awning, and the breeze scatters glass, wrappers, and other detritus to reveal skeletal forms in the filth. And the stray cat, the longest, thinnest cat I’ ve ever seen, comes out from under my station wagon to rub shyly against my back before I let it climb into my lap.

“Hey you, ” I say to the cat, rubbing my hand across it. “Hey cat. Hey puss. Hey kitty. ”

The cat isn ’t all that grimy for a stray. I’ m not sure what to call it: it has that quality between an it and a she.

“Are you a Catrina or a Catherine?” I ask it. “Or do you prefer to be called Mrs. Cat? Or even maybe Dr. Cat?”

The cat meows. I like to imagine she was once gainfully employed in the cat world, as a college professor or a medical doctor. When she fell on hard times, she became depressed, and rightfully so. Given how introverted a cat is to begin with, she must have been real unpleasant, so her family put her out on the street. But she ’ s ready to turn a new leaf, so I give her the respect she needs to get back on her feet. I tell her about what I’ m reading. We converse. After all, isn ’t this why people keep cats in the first place?

“Tough times, huh? You want a snack?” I ask. “Wait here. ”

Inside, Lana is preparing dinner. There aren ’t enough hallways, not enough alternate routes in this townhouse; to get to the kitchen, I have to walk through the living room where the three dogs lounge like a plague. Why even have a sofa? Why not just spread some hay in front of the television and let whoever wants lay in it?

I rattle the ice remaining in my cup until Charlie, the pit bull, shoots his head up and begins to whimper.

“Is that you, King of The Street?” Lana calls. “How does everything look out there?”

I answer her question with one of my

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Philadelphia Skyline at Dusk by Megan Grugan © 2012

own. It’ s not that I don ’t hear her. That’ s just how we talk nowadays.

“What’ s cooking, Lan?”

“Don ’t you want to guess?

“Steak?”

“Quinoa salad and baked fish, ” she replies.

“Aha. ”

I step into the kitchen, grab her bony hips, and watch her denude a ratty carrot over the compost bin. Then I go into the fridge and reach into the back corner for a slice of turkey.

“You ’ re not feeding that cat, are you?” she asks.

“Nope, ” I say, putting the lunchmeat in my pocket and filling my glass with ice.

“Good. I don ’t want it to think it can come inside. We ’ re dog people, now. ”

Lana likes to say that. But we aren ’t dog people by nature, and had never been when we lived in Wyndmoor. Dogs have conquered our new house, bit by bit. It all started when Lana adopted Charlie as a young pit bull from the animal shelter, where they ’d told her that Charlie was the sweetest, most friendly dog, but good for protection too. And for the most part he was. But the day he was brought home, Charlie killed our cat, Bootsy, just killed her like there was nothing to it. He bee-lined for her, grabbed her in his jaws, and shook the life out of her like a plush toy. I had to wrestle Charlie to the ground, which got Charlie even more excited, and he started to lick my face with his bloody tongue.

“On second thought, there ’ s no point in us losing two pets, ” Lana had said, after I had loaded Charlie into the trunk of the station wagon. The animal was circling around back there like an excited particle, pausing once in a while to look at us, his tail whacking alternately between seatback and windowpane. Not only did I blame Charlie for killing Bootsy, but somehow I blamed him for the fact that Lana, visibly, was not nearly as upset as I was. I started to hate Charlie that very day.

Charlie was soon followed by Megan the Weimaraner (a yuppie dog, grey, athletic, vacant—in other words, a yuppie herself) and George St. George, a shih tzu that I was allowed to name. I named him that way because he walked into the house the first day and stared down the bigger dogs into submission. George St. George is the one I dislike the least.

After dinner, we go for a walk. It’ s dark now, and the breeze is refreshing. Lana walks all three dogs at once, pulled along like a warrior on a chariot, driving through the night. She gets ahead of me instantly, so I sneak a glance under the station wagon. A pair of marbly eyes tells me that the cat is there.

“More turkey when I get back, ” I reassure it.

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