The Mad and the MacAbre

lot more energy now than when he'd first found it, that was for sure.

He reached the bottom without falling and breaking his neck and then refilled the dog's food and water bowls. By now it had lost its torso bandages completely, so he took a few minutes to redress its wounds. The dog licked his hand, and he wiped the slobber off on its fur. He didn't see the point in explaining to the dog that it would be spending the entire day in the basement while he went to work, so he simply went back upstairs to shower and get dressed.

* * *

As Charlie drove to work, it occurred to him that he should have taken the dog for a walk before he left. Oh well. It was far from the first mess he'd have to clean up in that basement.

- 4 -

During his 10:45 AM break, Charlie called his home voice mail to check if there were any messages. He had to think for several moments to recall his password--he wasn't used to having any reason to access his voice mail.

Two messages. The first was from an old-sounding man who described a white poodle. No need to call him back. The second was a woman who didn't say what kind of dog she was missing, just that she hoped he had her beloved Rhinestone. Charlie didn't think the dog looked like a Rhinestone--he didn't think any dog looked like a Rhinestone--and it didn't sound like the kind of name a wealthy person would give a dog, but he called the woman anyway.

'I'm returning your call,' he said, when the woman answered with an annoying, sing-songy 'Hello.'

'My call about...?'

'The dog.'

'Oh, yes, of course. Rhiney came home this morning. Sorry to waste your time!'

'Okay.' Charlie hung up.

There were no messages at lunch or at his 3:15 break. Charlie was surprised. He would have expected more people to lose dogs than that.

There were no new messages waiting for him when he got home. Charlie opened the door to the basement and the dog rushed out. It stampeded over to the front door, whining and twitching. Charlie realized that he didn't have a leash. He had plenty of rope and other things that he could fashion into a leash without too much effort, but the dog seemed to be in a state of emergency and what was the worst thing that could happen? The dog might run away. So what? Charlie wouldn't be any worse off.

He opened the door and let the dog race outside. It ran a few feet out onto his lawn and then immediately squatted. Charlie watched it for a moment, then questioned why he was watching this particular activity in progress and averted his eyes. The dog finished and ran back inside the house. It was definitely well trained.

Charlie went down into the basement, and was surprised and pleased to note that there weren't any messes to clean up. The dog held out better than some of the humans he kept down here.

He filled its food and water bowls once again, then walked upstairs. The dog was back on his couch.

'Get down,' he said.

The dog rolled onto its side.

'I'm not going to pet you,' he told it. 'Get off my couch.'

The dog woofed at him--not quite a bark.

Charlie sighed. 'You can stay, but you'd better not shed on it.'

Interesting. Now he was not only speaking to the dog as if it could understand human speech, but he was acting as if the dog could control its own shedding. Bring on the men in white jackets.

If nobody claimed the dog by the time he was out of food (a couple of days, probably) he'd take it to the pound.

Charlie changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a sweater, then microwaved a frozen pizza. He sat down next to the dog and turned on the television.

The dog licked its chops.

'No,' he said. 'It's mine.' He took a bite of pizza and winced. Way too hot. He opened his mouth and fanned his hand in front of his tongue.

The dog inched closer to him.

'Don't even think about it.'

The dog whimpered.

'No. My pizza. You've got dog chow.' Charlie blew on the slice of pizza to cool it down then took a big bite. The dog watched him carefully. 'I'll take you to the pound right now if you don't quit staring at me,' he informed it. 'I mean it.'

The dog didn't whimper again, but silently watched him as he ate the first piece of pizza. Charlie didn't like the crust anyway, so he pinched it between his thumb and index finger and offered it to the dog. 'Here.'

The dog snapped at the treat, biting his fingers.

'Ow!' Charlie slapped the dog in the face as hard as he could. It let out a loud yip, jumped off the couch, and ran into the kitchen.

Rotten mutt.

It was lucky he didn't shove its food bowl down its throat. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd slice that cur's neck open with an electric carving knife and see if he could get the bowl all the way in there.

He examined his fingers. They stung a bit, but the dog's teeth hadn't broken the skin.

Rotten, lousy, ungrateful mutt.

Wretched, mindless, bitey cur.

Then again...

What was the dog supposed to do when he offered it a piece of food that way, pinched between his fingers? His flesh was in the way of the pizza crust. He couldn't have expected the dog to carefully nibble around his skin--it was just an animal, living through instinct. He should've placed the offering on his palm or set it on the couch cushion. He'd been wrong.

Oh well. Charlie wasn't going to get bent out of shape over hitting a dog without just cause. It was still lucky he hadn't left it to freeze to death in the park, and if he took it to the pound, it might end up euthanized anyway, in which case the slap was the least of its problems.

He watched television and ate the other three pieces of pizza. He almost ate the crusts just to convince himself that he wasn't saving them as a peace offering for the dog, but decided that would be silly. He didn't like crust. Why eat something he didn't like just to fool himself into believing that he wasn't trying to make up for hitting a dumb animal?

He carried his plate into the kitchen, where the dog was huddled in the corner. Charlie set the plate with the pizza crusts down on the floor. The dog looked tentatively at it but didn't move.

'It's food,' Charlie said, impatiently. 'Eat it.'

He could see the dog's nose twitching, but it remained in the corner. Charlie shrugged. It wasn't his job to force the dog to eat. He went back into the living room, and before he even had a chance to sit down on the couch he heard the scrape of the dog's feet as it ran across the tile floor. He listened to it eating. Good. At least the pizza crusts wouldn't go to waste.

About twenty minutes later, Charlie realized he was sitting through a rerun and hadn't even noticed. He switched channels. Nothing looked interesting. He shut off the television and sat there for a moment.

Why did he feel guilty? It was a mindless animal. It was like having guilt over slapping a mosquito.

He looked toward the entrance to the kitchen. There'd been no sound for a while. He wondered if the dog had gone to sleep.

Charlie got up off the couch, feeling stupid. He walked into the kitchen, still feeling stupid. He looked at the dog, which lay curled up next to the basement door, and then cleared his throat, continuing to feel stupid. The dog raised its head and perked up its ears.

'I'm sorry I hit you,' he said.