My Last Walk with Angel by Dominic Marinelli

My Last Walk with

ANGEL

BY DOMENIC MARINELLI

John moved into the apartment above ours shortly after my wife and I settled into the apartment on the third floor. I can still remember him hauling one box after another out of his old pickup parked at the curb. The reason this stuck in my mind wasn’t at all because of the man, a fortyish single guy from out of town, but rather the Border Collie that accompanied him up and down with every trip.

It was so intriguing to watch the dog, fur, brown and white, at his master’s leg, looking up with wonder. Many times, Ican remember walking from my window as I took a break from writing, a smile set on my face. In the end, John and his dog, Angel, would turn out to have a far greater impact on my life than just a distraction from my day’s work.

John settled in quite nicely, and it wasn’t long before I invited him down for a few steaks I fried up and served with sweet potato fries. We sat at my kitchen table and we got to know one another: he divorced but still in contact with his daughter, now in college. She’d visit from time to time, but mostly John concentrated on his own work as a sheet metal worker at a local company nearby. He was gone most of the day.

And of course there was Angel. We gave him his own piece of meat, and he ate it hungrily yet daintily. In truth, I had never before seen a more obedient and patient dog.

That of course had no bearing on our landlord’s opinion. He knocked on my door looking for John, just as we were enjoying our meal, and boy did he let him have it. John hadn’t even been there two months and he was telling him that if he didn’t do something about that dog’swhining, he’d be out. Our landlord left in a huff, leaving John to explain. Essentially, he had no one to walk Angel during the day and apparently he whined all day long. In truth I had heard him many times up there, but apparently some of the neighbors in the building had complained.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, taking a swig of orange soda.

I looked down at Angel, and so would begin our daily walks around the neighborhood. As a writer, I’ve got quite a bit of time at home; especially at that time. I had a few books out and was writing for a few online magazines, making a decent pay, so walking Angel really wasn’t a problem. At first John was shocked, but he appreciated it immensely, accepting my offer.

Angel would just look up at me for those first few walks, walking timidly, but eventually, he took to me and it really was as John had said … “probably the only dog you don’t have to keep on a leash.”

A few weeks later, the pandemic hit, and no one was around on our daily walks, so mostly we had the pathways in the parks and the riverside to ourselves. Angel liked to watch the ducks swimming in the icy river, ducking down in the water where they could. He’d bark every time one of them did that, seeming to me, almost in worry. I noticed eventually that he walked with a limp and it was only after our first month of walks that John told me that Angel had something wrong with his hips.

On a personal note, the height of the pandemic also brought severe pay cuts for the articles I was writing, pay cuts that just wouldn’t do. It got to a point where they were paying a mere seven dollars for news reports of about three-hundred words.

I understood their point, as they too were probably suffering, as the entire world was suffering. I ended up spending even more time with Angel, as he distracted me from my issues with my work—or lack thereof—us even playing catch in the back yard of the building. It was on one of these occasions that I noticed his limp getting worse. I didn’t want to mention it to John, but maybe in the end, that was my mistake, and maybe what ended up happening wouldn’t have been quite the blow that it was for John. But of course, these are the questions that will forever persist … for me, for John and maybe now for you, reading this—these, the questions we’ll never get answers to.

It was in early May that Angel couldn’t make it up the steps anymore. I’d carry him all the way up. By the second week, he stopped trying altogether, just looking up at me at the base of the stairs, his big brown eyes pleading to be helped.

I’d pick him up and start climbing as he’d lick my face affectionately. When I’d let him into John’s apartment, I’d stand at the door, hooking the leash on the hook there and watch Angel go straight for his bed in front of John’s electric fireplace. “Have a nice rest, Angel,” I’d say as I closed and locked John’s door.

In the weeks that followed, I’d let myself up in between writing sessions to check on him … he was sleeping through so much of the day.

He’d get up some energy for when John got home. My wife and I would hear them above us as we watched old sitcoms we had on DVD or playing a game of chess. We’d hear Angel hopping about, barking contentedly and John laughing. I don’t think I can ever forget John’s laugh. It was so infectious.

It was the following week I noticed that John’s pickup truck was still parked out front. He hadn’t gone to work, and it must have been serious, because John never missed work, for any reason. I sat down in my chair to read as I drank my morning coffee and I heard John’s phone ring. I heard some muffled words and then silence, and very much like John’s laughter from the other evening, I heard wails of pain and sadness escape him, the pain seeping through the ceiling that separated us—our lives—like a thick liquid seeping through a thin fabric. I put my book down and listened … I listened, and it was as I listened, that I thought of my last walk with Angel... It had been raining and Angel loved hopping in the puddles. It meant me having to towel dry him when we got back, but I didn’t mind; he was having so much fun. He even got to chase some kids playfully around the park, the kids wearing masks, the sight surreal even now as I think back to it.

When we got back to the building, I carried him up the steps; he licked my face in thanks, and the rest happened as it always had. There was no hesitation at the door, no goodbye like it happens in the movies. In real life, you never know when the last time you see someone will be, and like the blowing out of aflame from a strong wind, it just happens and without much warning.

As I write this, John has moved away. He assured me a million times it wasn’t my fault; he knew Angel’s health was deteriorating all along. He just couldn’t face it either. I hear from him sometimes.

Myself, after the first wave of Covid-19, I got an opportunity to write for a local newspaper, and although I have to go out for stories from time to time, I’m still home quite a bit. And it’s in those moments of reprieve, those moments when I go to the window— especially on a rainy day—and see the world out there, facing this awful and mysterious pandemic, and spy the puddles, that I think of Angel, Angel and our walks around the neighborhood.

Steel Notes Magazine

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