Rochester Writers

Given that it is so beautiful, and that I had so much of nothing to do, I go into the closet, reach up on the shelf, and retrieve a small plastic box. From within the box, I pull a Ziploc bag and a wooden pipe. I fill the pipe, light its contents and inhale slowly and deeply. As I exhale, I watch the tendrils of smoke lazily roll in front of my face, meander upwards, crash into the ceiling and explode in slow motion. I do it again. And again.

Digbee watches me as I do this, and he does nothing. He’s good that way – even though he’s only been with me for a few months now, he understands me well enough already to know when I should not be bothered, and, conversely, when he can cajole me into action. He is a good dog. But when I look at his sweet, adorable face, sometimes I’m struck with the feeling that, despite his boisterous exterior, that there is something profoundly sad about him, just under the surface. 

I get this feeling about him a lot, and when I do, I can’t help think of something my old girlfriend said once: “I know he’s going to break my heart.” Now this isn’t just an old girlfriend, this is my old girlfriend, and she was saying that about me, to a close mutual friend of ours. Two years after her saying that, I proved her right, but that is neither here nor there. 

I know he’s going to break my heart, whether it’s by running away, or by developing some sort of terminal doggy disease, or by some accident, or by attacking a neighbor or a neighbor’s dog. It the last scenario that seems the most plausible, the one that I am worried will actually happen. Despite his sweet demeanor inside the house, his behavioral problems show when in the company of other dogs, the product of being alternately neglected and abused by his first owners, who kept him in a junkyard, tied to an old pickup. I can only assume that it was during this time that he first developed his nervous aggression around other dogs, which is the reason why his second owners gave him up. But, unlike them, I have no other pets, and I am bound and determined to give this poor little guy a fighting chance at a happy life. 

As I am thinking all this, I am sitting idle, staring at him, which he just cannot stand. He has an attitude of “If you’ve got time to sit there doing nothing, then you’ve got time to pay attention to me.” Agitated, he begins to wiggle all over – his first owners docked his tail to an inch-long stump, and, as if to compensate, instead of wagging that nub, he wiggles his entire body in a shimmy that starts at the rump and works its way up to his front. He knows that I know that he knows I’m thinking about taking him for a walk on this beautiful day. 

I’ve only lived in this neighborhood for six months now, and I’ve been using the dog as an excuse to get out and familiarize myself with the various streets. Each day we take a different route, getting to know the landmarks and recognizable houses. Today we go east of my block, to an area we’ve never been before. We take a convoluted route through the side streets, learning the character of individual blocks, until we pop out on to a main thoroughfare. The street is alive with not only the rush of a holiday weekend, but with the buzz of people who are soaking up what they know might well very be the last 50-something degrees day for months. As we round the corner, I scan the block ahead of me: a man raking leaves, a woman gardening with her dog romping in the lawn next to her, traffic moving briskly up the street, some teenagers in front of the high school across the street. 

We make our way down the street, and the man raking leaves pauses as we walk by. He does not acknowledge me, but instead makes a cutesy face and says “hazzahgoodboy!” to Digbee. Digbee responds with an open-mouth smile as he continues to trot next to me. Since, in my own mind, I am still a 17 year-old punk rock kid, the teens across the street have piqued my interest. So as we reach a crosswalk leading to the high school, I take advantage of a green light and make our way across the street. We hop the curb and continue on. 

The afternoon light streams through the trees and again I’m awash in the euphoric haze of this beautiful day. I catalog the elements thereof: warm sun on my skin, idyllic town scene, the teenage girl momentarily locking eyes with me as I pass by. The hum of cars, the birds singing, the kids’ conversation, the rattle of Digbee’s tags, and one sound rising to the surface… 

Lucy! Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!

She is just a tan blur out of the corner of my eye, and she even takes the usually hyper-alert Digbee by surprise. By the time I spin around, she’s at Digbee, barking and snapping at him.

“Lucy! No!” The woman gardener, across the street, is yelling to her wire-haired terrier that, under any other circumstances, I would think is adorable. Looking at the woman through the moving barrier of cars between us, I can’t help but wonder: “How did this dog make it across the street?”

At first, I instinctively pull Digbee away, and Lucy continues to snap at him. But then I remember the advice given to me by the guy that taught Digbee’s obedience class, when I asked what I should do if this very same situation should ever arise: “Just let go of the leash. All you can do in that situation is give your dog a fighting chance and not be hindered by you pulling on his leash when he’s being attacked.”

As I think of this, I start to let go of the leash, but common sense takes over: there is no way I am letting go of this leash when traffic is whizzing by just a few feet away. But a second is all Digbee needs, his initial surprise now faded. He is in offensive mode. He crouches low to the ground, sidesteps one of Lucy’s snaps, and, with incredible accuracy, springs forwards, takes a snap of his own, grabs a hold of one of Lucy’s lips and pulls.  Lucy is in pain, and as Digbee lets go, you can see the recognition wash over her furry little face: I should not have fucked with this dog. She is snapped back to reality, back to the sound of her owner’s frantic calls from across the street.

“Lucy! Come here, Lucy!”

Lucy takes one last look at Digbee and turns to run home. I have a sickening feeling in my gut as I watch her step into the street. I know that there is no way this dog is going to get lucky twice.

I make a prayer out loud: Please let her get across the street.

Lucy is lovingly fixated on her owner, trotting towards her for consolation as she approaches the yellow line. I calculate the dog’s rate of speed, the distance she has to travel and the speed and trajectory of the car coming up the street. I look for variables – to Lucy, to see if she notices the car coming. Locked in on her owner, she does not. To the driver of the car, a girl who looks so young, as though she may have just gotten her license the day before. She is staring forward intently, hands at ten and two, watching the car in front of her as it comes to a stop in the busy traffic. She does not see Lucy.

I look back to see if Lucy has noticed the car. She has not.

I look back to see if the girl has seen Lucy. She has not.

Please see her.

Lucy steps in front of the car. The girl is traveling so slow, that when the bumper makes contact with Lucy’s head, it’s as if it’s soft enough that it should just bump her out of her path, jolt her into her senses, giving her just enough space and time to spring away from the car. She does not.

As Lucy begins to fold under the front of the car, I turn away. I cannot watch. There is a sickening thud, and I know it’s over.

My first reaction is this: THERE HAS BEEN AN ACCIDENT. CALL 911.

 “911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m in front of the high school…on Hudson…”

I don’t even know what street I’m on.

“…there was a dog…”

Lucy is lying in the street. I hope that maybe she has just been knocked to her side, maybe just dazed, maybe just about to right herself and continue her trot home. My hopes rise as I see her legs moving. My hopes fall just as rapidly when I see the movements in her legs increase in frequency. Her entire body stiffens, then slumps. There is a rapidly expanding crimson pool coming from underneath her.

“Sir? A dog?”

“…I’m sorry. There’s nothing you can do. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her owner is now over her, and sighs in resignation: Oh, Lucy…

She cradles her dog in her arms, and lifts her out of the street.

I have dropped to one knee, and I am holding on tightly to my dog. I am sure that, at this point, he’s forgotten what has just happened.

The girl has pulled her car around the next corner and is now in the woman’s yard, bawling. The woman gently lays Lucy in the yard in which, just minutes before, she had been playing. The woman kneels over Lucy and begins to cry. The girl kneels next to her.

A second woman has pulled her car into a neighbor’s driveway. She is a saint, this second woman. Incredibly collected, she consoles the woman and the girl as all three kneel over Lucy. I feel compelled to go over there to console this woman, to tell her that I’m sorry. I cannot stomach the notion of walking my dog out into this dog-killing street, though. And I think of what Digbee will do, how he will inevitably sniff and possibly growl and bark her still-warm dead dog. I cannot go over there and flaunt my still-living dog in front of this woman, especially in light of the fact that this still-living dog of mine quite possibly maimed her dog during her last thirty seconds of life. I just stand there, gawking from across the street like a jackass. The second woman sees me, standing, watching, and stares at me. I don’t know what to do. I say out loud, “I’m sorry,” but I am sure it is drowned out by the traffic that continues to roll by, unaware of the tragic episode that has just happened here.

All three get up. The woman holds the girl by her shoulders, and looks her in the eyes. Over the traffic, I can make out a few words: “…not your fault…” They embrace, and the girl walks off, still sobbing. The second woman gives the first woman a hug and hands her a piece of paper. The second woman leaves, and the first woman is alone, still kneeling over her dog. Like an asshole, I am still there, staring from across the street.

I slowly take a few steps down the street, but turn and look back at the woman. I feel as though I am abandoning her. I should have done something for her. I should have done something. I should have never come this way. I should have never even crossed the street. I should have thought quicker. I should have ran onto the school’s lawn, maybe Lucy would have followed us, maybe long enough for her owner to come get her and get her home safely. If I wouldn’t have been high, maybe I would have thought of that. I should have done something. I am a coward. I should do something now.

She has picked up a cordless phone from amongst her gardening things and is dialing it. She will talk to someone. They will console her. I am not leaving her alone. I should leave now.

Slowly, I start to walk again. Digbee is trotting next to me again. During the entire time I stood there, doing nothing, he remained silent and calm. Normally, he wouldn’t be able to stand there motionless for so long, for no apparent reason, but he knows me well enough already to know something was wrong. I hold on to his leash tight now, tighter than before. We ramble through the side streets, now a little more familiar. As my eyes well up with tears, the warm autumn sunlight refracts and bends. It is gorgeous.