Karma for Idiot Dogs

“You did not choose me, but I chose you.” — John 15:16

“…but I am slow of speech and of tongue.” — Exodus 4:10

It’s a habit of yours. Checking out the flyers posted for missing dogs. That’s why you stopped on your way to work to check out the latest one on the light pole in front of your apartment building.

This particular flyer, however, surprised you. The dog in the picture was not lost. This dog was dead. You’d watched it happen. You’d watched that same moronic animal, off its leash, outrun a bearded guy chasing after, ending its block-and-a-half run for freedom under the wheels of a north-bound city bus.

The flyers had been posted all over the neighborhood. Do-it-yourself appeals taped to lampposts, mailboxes, and apartment building walls, all for a lost dog answering to the name of Flick.

The day of the accident, a late afternoon, it was just the three of you approaching the intersection — you coming from work, the small brown-and-white dog running toward Amsterdam Avenue, and the bearded guy chasing after, without a hope of catching it.

The dog, a short-haired terrier mix, panting hard, its tongue lolling, flashed past you, heading for the heavy, Bronx-bound traffic.

The bearded guy ran by, wheezing, his face grim, the slapping of his sandals providing a percussive beat to the music of futility in his race to catch the dog. He didn’t call out to the dog, which surprised you. He just kept running after.

You turned to watch. How could you not? It wasn’t your disaster unfolding there at the corner.

The dog dashed off the curb into the path of the bus. There was a thudding pop, and a streamer of guts shot out from under the wheels of the bus. You winced. The bus kept going. Likely, the driver hadn’t realized what just happened under his seat over the front axle.

The bearded guy pulled up, jerk-dancing to a stop at the west side of the intersection, staring at the smear of brown and white and brilliant crimson spread over the asphalt. He squatted down, his hands clasped over his head, his fingers interlaced, as if keeping his brain from bursting free of his skull. He stood up again, turned a full circle, bent over, his hands on his thighs like he might be sick. Then he straightened up, running his hand over his head. He made no sound, no cry of grief, or disbelief. From what you could see, the guy seemed unable to decide what his reaction ought to be, more confused than grief-stricken.

Which made it seem like the dog was more of an obligation than a treasured companion.

Guy wasn’t the owner? Maybe a dog sitter? That sucked.

The bearded guy dithered at the curb, as if struggling with this sudden, drastic, and irrecoverable change in his reality. Like he’d stepped into an interdimensional time-hole and wanted to find his way back, knowing he had only seconds before that mess on the pavement became his permanent reality and he’d have to face the dog’s owner.

Watching all that play out, your sympathy was with the guy who lost the race with the dog. Then, reading the flyer the next morning, you felt worse for the dog’s owner. Probably a woman, from the hand and arm still visible in the picture cropped down to focus on the dog.

Checking out flyers for missing dogs was something you’d done for years. At first, you thought it would be an easy way to connect with people whenever you moved into another new place. Changing jobs, changing neighborhoods, you never seemed to have much in common with other people. You were self-conscious about your roadworn face, bad teeth, and the way your words seemed to rattle around inside your mouth before you could get them out. You didn’t have money to go to yard sales or buy guitar lessons. You didn’t have kids that needed babysitting. You didn’t rent places you’d care to pay someone to clean, even if you did have money. So you settled on the missing dog flyers as a way to connect with people. Take down the flyer, call the number, ask about the dog. You wouldn’t have to say much. Just get them talking. It seemed a good bet most people would appreciate someone showing an interest in their dog, especially if it was missing. They’d get a chance to tell you about their mutt, and you’d feel like something more than another shadow on the wall of your empty room.

But—

Those first couple of times you called one of the numbers, the person at the other end said the dog had already turned up. They’d put you off, saying they’ve got dinner on the table, or their kids home from school, or friends to visit, whatever. You could understand how they wouldn’t want to spend time on the phone talking to you if they were busy and there was no lost dog.

But they kept doing it. You’d ring the number, the person would say the dog just came back, thank you for calling, and then hang up on you. Every time.

People were assholes.

You tried a few different ways to keep the conversation going. Like using words that weren’t a struggle to pronounce. Like using a friendlier tone. Didn’t matter. The caller would say, no, the dog’s not missing. Some would say it just now turned up, thanks for the call, rushing you off the phone.

You tried to keep them talking by asking how and when the dog turned up. But your intense curiosity and clumsy speech made people suspicious and uneasy. There was nothing more you could do but croak out a mangled, “Gla’ ‘o hear,” and hang up.

Maybe the dogs were no longer missing, and maybe hanging up on you wasn’t personal. Maybe they didn’t have time to talk about a dog that wasn’t missing anymore. But you couldn’t get over the feeling they hung up because it was too much work talking to you.

You kept at it. Kept making those calls. Maybe it was more about your perverse satisfaction in this dubious streak of luck. What else did you have? Nothing. Nothing else worked out for you—sports, jobs, relationships— nothing. This was the one remarkable thing you had going. Getting an unbroken string of assholes on the phone to tell you their dog was not missing.

You started keeping track of every asshole who cut you off. You’d fold each flyer into a little paper dog, like your daddy showed you, and keep them in a large cookie tin. Last time you counted, you had 62 little paper dogs. 62 bona fide assholes whose dogs were not really missing.

Still, you kept trying.

Which is why you reached for the flyer, figuring someone should call and tell her. She might appreciate knowing the bearded guy lied to her about the dog.

You had the flyer by a corner, ready to take it down, but stopped.

Making yourself understood to people was tough enough. Telling some woman her dog was dead and her boyfriend, or husband, or whatever, was an asshole, would be too hard.

Besides—you laughed, not meaning to—on the bright side? They couldn’t tell you this dog had come back—

You stayed frozen for a good long moment, your hand on the flyer, like a faith healer waiting on the Holy Ghost.

—which would kill the streak.

Maybe the bearded guy did tell her. Maybe she didn’t believe him. Maybe that’s why she put up the flyers. Maybe you saying anything would piss her off.

You stepped back from the flyer. No. It was not your place to tell her.

From the other end of the street, up at the intersection, you heard a young woman calling out. For Flick. Calling out as if singing the dog’s name, a lilting, melodic appeal in her voice.

The woman, dressed in a sleeveless shift over a sports bra and yoga pants, her hair bound up into a dark, auburn spray on top of her head, came toward you. She carried a ratty chew toy. Each squeeze of the chew toy produced a tired, whistling squeak. As she moved along, she checked under cars, bracing a forearm on the fender, or pressed her face against the iron fencing to look down into the basement stairwell pits.

As she got closer, you could see she was tired, not a lot of energy or optimism in her face. She must have been coming back from looking all over the neighborhood.

You waited too long to pretend you hadn’t seen her. She’d made eye contact with you and smiled. It was something that didn’t happen often, so you smiled back.

Nodding at the flyer, you asked if it was her dog, which you already knew, but it seemed a safe enough question.

She said yes and waited, as if you had more to say. It made you squirm. You hadn’t meant to get her hopes up.

“How’n he ge’ loose?” you asked, to let her think you didn’t know anything.

That familiar crinkle of confusion crossed her face, that squint people do when they’re working to decode what you’ve said. When she got it, her face brightened with relief.

“She. Yes, she got away from Brad. He was walking her.”

Brad. The bearded guy. “Wha’s i’ happen’ ‘o her?”

“I’m sorry?” she asked, twisting her head, inclining to hear you better.

“Which way she run?” You bit down on the syllable to get it out and gestured with your thumb.

She straightened. “Oh. Brad couldn’t see. She disappeared under some cars.”

Kind of true. “Mus’ feyoo ba’. He mus’, I mea’.”

She was getting used to your speech, not leaning in so much. “Angry, mostly. Keeps telling me Flick’s gone for good and I need to get over it.”

Not exactly a lie.

You were about to turn and go on to work, but she put a hand on your arm. “Why do you think people say that? Gone for good? A disease or a bad smell, those could be gone for good. Not a dog.”

Smiles were rare. A touch was non-existent. You wanted to say something, anything in exchange for the touch. “He ou’ loo’ing?” you asked.

“Is he out looking?” she asked, to be sure she understood.

“Loo’ing?” You gestured at your eyes.

“Oh! Yes. I went downtown and he went uptown. He wasn’t happy about it, stomping off, telling me how stubborn I was.” She shrugged. “I can be. Stubborn. About dogs.”

“Hope you fin’ her.” You called after her. It was out of your mouth before you could think. Shit. Made yourself a liar.

“Thanks,” she said, giving a sad tilt of her head as she turned aside and continued on down the street.

Now you felt worse. Fucking dog.

You should’ve said something. If the bearded guy ever tells her what happened, and mentions you, she’ll think you’re the asshole for lying to her.

You had to tell her. You ripped the flyer off the lamppost and called after her to wait, jogging to catch up with her.

You pretended to study the flyer, your brain racing, searching for some way past your failure to speak up in the first place.

You could say it only now occurred to you, seeing a dog that might be hers run into traffic over on Amsterdam. Maybe she wouldn’t believe you. People often wrote you off as slow-witted or ignorant, even crazy, because of the way you talked.

It didn’t matter if she believed you or not. Maybe she’d tell the bearded guy, and he’d have to tell her what really happened.

“I’m sorry. How bih’s your do’?”

“How big’s my dog?” she asked.

You nodded.

She spread her hands to show the dog’s size.

“Do they go over—over tha’ way?” You pointed toward Amsterdam.

“Over to Amsterdam? No. They go to Riverside Park.”

“Yesterthay. Af’ernoon? Do’ li’e this ran by me. No leash. Tha’ way.” You pointed in the direction of Amsterdam.

She was watching your mouth. Her eyes narrowed.

“Too fas’. Wou’n’t stop. Ran—” you said, “in’oo traffichh.”

She seemed to want more to come out of your mouth.

“Un’er a bus.”

Still, she wanted more.

“I’m sorry,” was all you had left.

Finally, she broke off her lock on your mouth.

“Fucking bastard!” She bucked then doubled over, jackknifed erect and swung, causing you to dance backward.

She stormed on down the block, stopping to rip flyers off the lampposts and building walls.

You touched the spot where she’d touched you and watched as she went. Then you headed on to work.

Coming home that evening, you saw the woman headed in your direction, pulled along by a brown and white terrier, lunging against its leash.

Spotting you, the woman hauled back on the leash as the dog reared up on its hind legs, yapping and snapping, desperate to get down the street.

“Hey,” she said. “Excuse me! Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!” Coming even with you, she started to speak, stopped, taking a breath as if gathering herself.

You could only stare at the dog.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, because it all worked out,” her breath was coming hard, “but I really have to say something, and I apologize for being emotional, but you—you—” She paused looked away and bit on her lower lip, then continued. “When you told me you saw Flick run under the bus and—and I believed you—because Brad said Flick was gone, and you said you saw what happened—and why would you tell me something that—that—that wasn’t true?” She inhaled again. “So, what was I supposed to do? I had no reason to doubt what you were telling me.” It was hard enough trying to follow what she was saying, but harder still was trying to make sense of the little dog twisting at the end of the leash.

She saw you weren’t paying attention.

“Yes, yes. That’s my dog. Hello! It is not dead. Like you told me. She’s right there as you can plainly see.”

The pictures ran through your mind.

The dash for the street—

“You had me believing Flick was killed in a—in a terrible, terrible way. What kind of person would make something like that up about a dog that never hurt them?”

The pop, the streamer of guts, the crimson smear—

“What makes it worse, is you made me think terrible things about Brad. Thinking he lied to me.”

The bearded guy’s dance of despair—

“I’d like to think it’s because of—because of—” she couldn’t or wouldn’t say the word, could only gesture at you with her open hand, as if that was enough to explain you.

What could you say. You knew what you saw.

Maybe it was seeing the utter befuddlement on your face, the fact that you didn’t try to excuse or explain, but simply stared at the dog, reinforcing some idea she might have that you were slow-witted.

She took another deep breath. “I get that sometimes you might make a mistake, but you have to be careful about something like this. It tears people up. It tore me up. Tore me up. You—” she stopped, then as if to a child—to a nasty child taking a shit on her lawn, she said, “you need to not say anything when you don’t know something for sure.” She turned to go, dragging Flick.

“Wha’s he say?” you called after her.

“What?” she asked, as if forcing herself to be polite.

“Bra’? Wha’s he say? You fin’ing the do’?” You kept your words as crisp as you could manage.

“Nothing. Yet. He’s not back yet. I’ll have to apologize to him for nearly throwing all of his stuff into the street.” The dog yanked at its lead. “You may want to apologize to Brad, too.”

She’d had her say and let the dog drag her down the street toward the intersection.

You stood rooted to the sidewalk. You knew what you saw. You knew what the bearded guy did.

You needed the bearded guy to say what happened.

You needed proof. You needed—what did you need? You needed the bearded guy to admit the dog was crushed to death by a fucking city bus. And now it was back home in one piece. If the bearded guy didn’t want to tell the woman, that’s fine. But you needed him to tell you what the fuck was going on.

The rest of the night, you sat by your window, watching for any sign of the bearded guy’s return, people walking from the subway stop over on Broadway, or getting out of cabs in front of her building.

The next day, you called out sick from work and sat on the front stoop, still watching for the bearded guy.

The woman appeared, with Flick pulling her down the street in a sense of urgency that seemed manic. You called out to her, asking if the bearded guy was back yet. She did you the courtesy of shaking her head at your question, but that was all. She kept trotting to keep up with Flick, running down the street.

That evening and the following morning, you sat on the stoop, watching for the bearded guy. Still no sign.

The third morning you went down to sit on the stoop, and noticed a new flyer pasted on the lamppost. You went over to check it out.

A notice posted by the police with a picture of the bearded guy, Brad, cropped from the same photo with the woman and Flick.

Shit.

The rasping, gasping of a dog caught your ear. It was Flick, agitated, towing the woman along.

You turned to retreat up the steps into the foyer of your building.

“Hey,” she shouted at you as you worked your key into the lock trying to get in before she reached you.

“Hey,” she shouted again. “Could I talk to you? Please?”

You stood at the door your back to her.

“I wanted to say,” she moved the leash from hand to hand as Flick struggled and ran around her legs, “I wanted to say I was sorry. That’s all.”

You turned to look at her.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like a crazy woman. I don’t do that kind of thing. I was so mad. So I just wanted to say—I’m sorry.”

You lifted your chin to the missing person flyer. “Tha’s Bra’?”

“Yes. No one’s heard from him since he went out looking for Flick.”

She looked down at the dog.

“After you told me what you thought you saw happen? The super showed up at the door with her. I’m still mad at Brad. I can see how you made a mistake. But Brad was lazy. Now he’s totally ghosting me over this. I called the cops so he can’t blame me if I give his stuff away.”

Flick continued its manic dance, leaning into the collar, scratching to be gone.

The woman followed your line of sight down at the dog, watching Flick struggle against the leash.

“It’s like she forgot how to be a dog. Shits everywhere. Won’t eat. When I take her out she drags me over the whole neighborhood, like she’s looking for something. God only knows where she was all that time she was missing. Vet says she might be brain damaged, and may have to—” the woman lowered her voice, “—put her down.”

“No.” The words were out of your mouth before you could think.

“No? She’s not shitting on your sofa.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

At best, she thinks you’re stupid. At worst, she thinks you’re a liar. You can’t tell her what you’re thinking.

“How long’s a do’ live?” you ask.

She straightened up and studied you and gave a shake of her head as if remembering she had to make exceptions for your weakness. “Um—ten or fifteen years I guess,” she said. “Why.”

You squat down and take the struggling dog by the forepaws.

You know what you saw. You don’t know what to think.

“I’ll ta’e her.”

She looked around as if an interpreter might help understand you. “Really? Why?”

There was no point in telling her. You reached down and picked up the dog. She let go of the leash.

You start back up the stairs.

“Sorry if I came off sounding like a—” she paused, then mouthed bitch.

“S’okay.”

You went back into your building.

She didn’t wait long to bring over the dog’s bed and a bag of food, some treats, and toys, leaving them in the lobby for you with a note attached. The super let you know.

Now you’re sitting in your room with the tin of paper dogs open on your lap, wondering what you’re supposed to do.

You fold Flick’s flyer into a little paper spaniel. You hold it up, studying it.

How many times has this happened before? Are you some sort of karma for idiot dogs?

Who could you possibly tell? Who would have the patience to listen? The one person close enough to what happened thinks you’re an imbecile. The one who could actually tell you what happened is a goddam dog.

Flick stops exploring your apartment and comes to stand in front of you.

“Somebody! Please! Explain this to me!” you shout out. “If I bought a toaster, I’d get instructions with it. In three fucking languages!”

You lift another of the origami dogs from the tin. If you unfold them all, could they come back? Or would something worse happen?

Maybe one good thing out of all this? Your streak of summoning lost dogs is still intact.

You drop the two origami dogs into the tin.

Flick settles on its belly, watching you.

You never cared much for dogs. The desperate friendliness. The lack of boundaries. That pathetic look of apology they give you while they’re taking a shit. You never had any use for them.

But now you do. The only living creature who could explain all of this.

“Why couldn’t they make you a talking dog? Hunh?”

You get up and open a packet of the dog food the woman left you, emptying it into the dish and setting it on the floor. Flick seems resigned and takes a few exploratory bites, then eats without enthusiasm.

“I guess their fucking secret’s safe with us, i’n’t.”