THE SIXTY-SIXTH DAY . . .
(Sunday, August 16, just after
midnight)
MACK:
The gnats are chewing
at us. But if I close the window, we’ll roast.
Thirty-odd hours in
the bathroom. We’re staring at each other. Boo licks my face with
his extra-long tongue. It hangs out of his mouth three inches when
he sleeps.
He pees on the side
of the toilet. I’m mopping up the mess with newspaper when I
suddenly understand what he needs.
I’m an idiot. How
could it take me this long to figure it out?
I take the wet paper
and lay it around the shower drain and lead Boo into the stall. He
smells his mark in the paper and starts to pee on it.
I give this blessed
dog a quarter pound of boloney dunked in peanut butter. I’m howling
and hugging him. We’re running around the training
center.
I get him full of
water again. “Boo, pee.”
He gives me
paw.
“Nuh-uh. Pee.” I lead him into the stall. He smells himself
in the newspaper and lets loose over the drain again, and again I
feed him boloney and praise. “Good pee.
Good Boo.”
I take the dirty
papers and set them out on the roof, and Boo nails them there too.
For a slice of boloney, this dog will climb a tree to spray a
newspaper hung in its top.
Wash is in the door
frame. He was ripped from deep sleep again, but he’s grinning. Has
a phone to his ear. “Yessir, I have good news. No, I said
good news.”
(Monday, August 17, morning of the sixty-seventh day . .
.)
Four days since I
told her I never loved her. She hasn’t come back. It’s done. If I
didn’t have Boo with me right now, I don’t know.
Thompkins stands tall
to watch, arms folded with his lame hand tucked into his armpit.
Wash watches from the door.
“Boo, sit,” I
say.
Boo
sits.
“Boo,
pee.”
Boo puts up his
paw.
“Boo, I want
pee.”
Boo trots to the
shower stall, lets loose over the drain, comes back out with a
spinning tail for his baloney reward and a “Good boy” from
me.
Thompkins scowls.
“Can you make him go outside?”
I lay out a paper on
the roof. “Boo, pee.”
Boo trots to the
paper, lifts his leg, pees what dribble he’s got left.
“Mister T., this dog
is housebroke.”
“I still don’t
understand the reasoning behind getting the animal to eliminate in
the shower drain.”
“Sir, a dog needs
options. You take him outside, he knows it’s cool to make water
outside. But if he’s stuck alone in the house or with a paralyzed
veteran who can’t let him out—”
“He won’t be
put with anybody who can’t let him out,
as I told you. How many times must I
say this? He is not a medical aid animal. He is a companion. The
veteran may be physically disabled, but in order to qualify for the
animal he or she at minimum will need to be able to provide for the
animal’s basic needs, for example, letting the animal out to
eliminate and for the last time stop,
pinching, your wrist.”
Blizzard of radio
static now. Roof cage hot. Day hazy gray. Heat lightning inside me.
I see myself going crazy on Thompkins. My hands are getting tight
to do it. I step toward him.
Boo cuts me off. He
sits between me and the man. He nudges me for petting. Leans into
my leg. Big eyes. Tongue hanging out his mouth. This bait dog from
the fight pits. A dog that lived terror and came out the other side
with his heart still open.
I can’t forsake this
dog.
The radio static
fades, and the world comes back with sounds of a hot summer day,
men working a tar rig out behind the tent, an airplane
climbing.
I hold my head up and
look the man in the eye. “Mister Thompkins, due respect. These
vets, sometimes they need to drink at night. You know, to keep from
getting scared and sad, right? So, let’s say the poor vet passes
out drunk. As a fallback, Boo can go into the bathroom,
eliminate over a drain, where you can
rinse away the mess. Better there than on a carpet or a bed,
right?”
Thompkins looks at me
for a long time. He makes a note in his book. He
leaves.
Boo fetches his
chewed-up Frisbee.
“Think Thompkins is
gonna have to fire me, Wash?”
“I think he’s gonna
have to rewrite his training manual.”
“I don’t know what
that dude wants from me.”
“I expect he’s just
one of those people who don’t know how to give praise. Son, deep
inside, he sees you are doing just fine. He would have pulled you
from the job by now if he thought otherwise. As much pressure as
you feel to come through for him, he has that much pressure to come
through for his people.”
“The
vets.”
“I believe so. No, I
wouldn’t ever expect a word of praise from Mister Thompkins. His
praise is his silence, and he gave you that. Hey?”
“Yessir?”
“How you
doing?”
I look at my boy Boo
chasing his Frisbee. He isn’t on a caged-in rooftop. The
incinerator stacks, low-flying jumbo jets, sun-faded concrete, and
the razor wire—all fade away. Boo’s running through a field of wild
grass. “Wash, I’m doing just fine.”