Foo Dog Dené Breakfield

Dené Breakfield

I knew I’d never make it through the weekend without a healthy stockpile of apple fritters, whiskey, and Camel menthols. My final stop after securing supplies was the vet’s. I sat in the parking lot, gnawing on a fritter, waiting for the sugar buzz to carry me inside and prop me upright long enough to pick up Farley’s ashes.

Once home, I stood in front of the fireplace mantel, hugging the small wooden box, trying to find a place for it among the others: four dogs, six cats, two rabbits, one parrot, and a husband. They were flanked on either side by decades-old high school pictures of my two children, now grown, living busy faraway lives, calling and visiting less frequently with each passing year.

I should’ve planned better.

I set Farley down on the coffee table, cracked open the whiskey, and raised my shot glass to him. After the third toast, I went out back to have a cigarette and eat a couple fritters to absorb the alcohol. That’s when I saw the clay pot and surrendered to an idea. Soon, I was prying the boxes open with a screwdriver and pouring everyone’s ashes inside the pot. The plan was to add mine to the mix, then have something substantial planted of top us, something that would last—an apple tree, maybe. I pictured our spirits living together inside the tree, becoming its roots, its branches, its fruit. This made me feel a little less hollowed out. I went back inside, poured myself a double, turned on the TV, and sipped my whiskey while mindlessly flipping through channels. I paused at a commercial that was advertising heartworm pills. A young woman sat by a fireplace, reading. By her side lay a golden retriever who kind of reminded me of Farley. “Oh, what a cute dog!” I said, feeling a familiar ache behind my eyes. He walked toward the camera and started whining. The young woman looked up from her book. “Ollie,” she said, patting the side of the chair. “Come here, boy.”

Ollie turned his head briefly toward his owner and wagged his tail, then looked back into the camera and said, “You need a dog.”

“What the hell kind of commercial is this?” I said. In the background, the dog’s owner grew more agitated. “Oliver! Quit barking at nothing—you’re freaking me out. Get over here.” “Gotta go,” Ollie said. “A dog will save you.” Before I could argue that I didn’t think I could survive surviving another animal, Ollie had returned to his owner. The scene faded, and a banner for HartGarde Chewable Tablets filled the screen. Wouldn’t hurt to look. I scrolled through dog photos on the animal shelter’s website. The very last one was Nash, a basset hound mix who looked like he’d been cobbled together by a mean drunk. He had the long torso, floppy ears, and squat, crooked legs of a basset, but plopped onto his shoulders was an oversized bulldog head with way too many teeth jutting out of its jaw and random tufts of rust-colored fur sprouting across its brow line. The dog’s muzzle was white, his eyes the color of spoiled milk. He reminded me of one of those ugly-ass statues you see at Chinese restaurants. I read his bio: Nash is an older neutered male who was brought to us as a stray. Even though he is losing his sight, this resourceful senior should have no trouble navigating his new home with a little initial guidance. Although gentle, he has demonstrated a dislike for cats, children, other dogs, and adult males, and also suffers occasional bouts of incontinence. Nash has lots of love to give the special person who adopts him! Come see him today in Kennel 13! If not me, then who?

The first thing I did when I got Nash home the next morning was escort him out back so he could do his business and start learning his way around. Cautious at first, he walked along the yard’s periphery, guided by the fence. It didn’t take long for him to build up confidence and speed, and soon he was zig-zagging across the lawn. “Go, Nash!” I said, prompting him to change course and start running toward my voice. He bounded onto the deck and slammed head-first into the planter stand that held the clay pot full of remains. Chunks of terra cotta exploded across the deck, and the ashes disappeared between the deck’s wooden slats.

Unfazed, Nash excitedly sniffed and snorted through the debris, and found a longforgotten tennis ball that had somehow made its way inside the pot. He rolled it around with his snout, 22

then plopped down onto his haunches, set his front paw on top of the ball and faced me, wagging his tail and grinning. I gathered pieces of the ruined pot onto my lap, taking stock of the damage. We sat there like that for the longest time just looking at each other, taking each other in.

BRANCH

The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core. Scratch a lover and find a foe!

DOROTHY PARKER