Omega Dogs

Omega Dogs

         My new wife and stepson had a couple of dogs, Tasha and Sherman. Tasha was a big, muscular animal with a golden coat; a mongrel descendent of some noble working breed- a boxer and a retriever, maybe. Sherman was a nervous, little gray rodent of a mutt, from something like a Chihuahua and a miniature dachshund. Tasha was showered with affection, Sherman was largely ignored. Tasha posed and postured, aware she was watched and loved. Sherman hung onto the edge of the room, waiting for the inevitable petting and cooing over his housemate, then he'd come forward apologetically to beg a piece of Tasha's action.
         I asked my wife why she ignored Sherman, though the dog obviously was hurt by it. She said she felt bad that she didn't like Sherman, and she wished she could feel more generous toward him, but she just simply did not like mousy little dogs. She only had the dog because she felt sorry for it when a friend's emergency required that Sherman go to the pound, where he might be euthanized. She had saved his life. That should be enough.
         In the spring I developed a garden in what was no more than a clothes yard at the rear of the 1940's-era house. I heaved stones for a flower garden border, turn compost, and tilled planting areas with Sherman close by, watching my activities with real interest while Tasha basked in the sun.
         I'm a consummate conversationalist, so I talked to Sherman as I worked, sometimes turning to look directly at him, just to let him know someone cared. The monologues generally ran toward what I was doing, why I was doing it, and to relate my understanding of the dog's life and trials. In a language that avoided baby-talk, I told him that there would soon be flowers to pee on, herbs to nibble, and butterflies to chase. Sherman sometimes lifted his ears and cocked his head as though I had given him cause to ponder. We bonded, while across the yard, Tasha turned over, like a super-model on the beach, to let the sun do its work on the other side.
         Sherman came to be my dog. I came to see this neglected mongrel as having a keen intelligence and a warm heart. He sat by my side as the family watched television in the evenings. We took walks around the neighborhood. Where once his manner was meek, his head hung and his tail drooped, both were now raised high into the air. Tasha began to show signs of jealousy. This new member of the household had altered the center of gravity. She cast agitated glances at Sherman when I petted and talked to him. She tried to situate herself between us. She got angry once that he was getting attention that she felt was rightfully hers. She snarled at him, showing bared teeth. I reprimanded her, and she slunk off across the room where my sympathetic stepson stroked her faltering ego. Sherman, to his credit, did not respond to the threat, but looked down at her from his perch on the sofa as though he was an aristocrat dealing with a particularly bothersome serf. Such is the politics of dogs.
         An acquaintance, in town for a weekend, sold his ten-speed bicycle to me. He had carried it in the bed of his pickup from his farm out in East Texas, near the Louisiana line. I was excited at having a racing bike- I'd wanted one for some time, but was put off by the prices in the bike shops. I bought this one for less money than it would take to replace a chain sprocket.
         I took to riding it around the neighborhood and down to the convenience store near the White Rock Lake spillway. Sherman ran along beside me. Regardless of his short legs, the dog was a born runner. He ran with blissful abandon, favoring the street side where his joy was not interrupted by sidewalk cracks, trees, and overhanging shrubs. Rather than being exhausted by those full-gallop outings, he was energized by them.
         The political situation at home intensified. Sherman became haughty toward Tasha; Tasha became morose. I made attempts to appease her with an occasional petting session and baby-talk, but it didn't work. She knew my affection was fleeting. Sherman treated these occasions like a benevolent host sharing his good fortune. Tasha cowered, uncertain of how to handle this violation of universal order.
         One fall evening Sherman and I were out on one of our bicycle excursions under a star-studded sky. There was a hint of chill in the air that, with the early arrival of nightfall, signaled the coming winter. This might be our last bicycle run until spring.
         Whenever headlights glowed behind us, I'd give the command for Sherman to get over to the sidewalk. He was always reluctant, but he always obeyed. He didn't like the break in his ecstasy to drop back, move over, increase speed, and drop back again to get back on the street. He wanted to run, without thinking about running.
         Headlights came up fast behind us. I pointed to the sidewalk and commanded, "Get over, Sherman." He fell back and moved to the right. The headlights moved to the right, keeping Sherman in their beams. In an instant I knew what was happening- someone was running Sherman down. "Get over, Sherman!" I yelled in a panic, just ahead of the thump and the crack of bone. A beat up pickup truck swerved back into the street and roared away.
         Didn't I hear laughter from the cab of the truck? A couple of yokels, emotionally retarded and intellectually crippled, out for a good time?
         I dropped the bike to the ground and rushed back to my smashed dog. I knelt down to stroke his head. One eye rolled up toward me. He gurgled a sigh, and died. Did he hang onto life for those few seconds so that he could see me one more time, to know I was there? I like to think he died knowing he had finally, though briefly found the love that dogs crave so. I sat on the curb and wept alternating tears of grief and rage.

         Over the winter the mound of Sherman's grave flattened, brown grass grew over the turned earth. My stepson returned to school and had taken an interest in girls, sports, and hanging out. My wife was promoted to general manager and I began to see less of her. A wet spring followed, rain fell almost daily, and the grass turned lush and green. It grew to calf-height, concealing even the stone that marked Sherman's grave.
         Then, one day, the rain stopped. Sun beamed down through breaks in the thick gray cloud cover and shattered the melancholy of winter. I took the ten-speed out of the shed garage, oiled the chain, and aired the tires. Down on the approach to the spillway, shafts of sunlight danced across the lake, humidity muffled the sounds of traffic and the waterfall roar of the spillway. I slipped a Sony Walkman over my head and pedaled to the rhythms of The Ramones and Radiohead.
         The ride back home was uphill, away from the lake and spillway. I stood on the pedals in order to put my weight into the effort of getting up the long incline. The walkman worked loose from my belt and fell to the pavement below. I considered leaving it: it probably broke in the fall, anyhow, its batteries scattered, its innards shattered, but I looked back to be sure it was not salvageable. It was still all in one piece, except for the ear phones that remained on my head. A white van behind me swerved to crush the gadget under its wheels. As it passed, two scruffy men leered at me. I gazed vacantly back, without giving away any indication that I regarded them any differently than I regarded the roaches that infested my shed garage. I'd rot in hell before I'd give them the satisfaction of emotion.
         The week wore on. Clouds swept away like majestic galleons putting to sea. By the next weekend the grass was dry enough to mow. My wife was working and my stepson was at soccer practice. I put out garage sale signs and arranged unwanted and irrelevant clothes, tchotchke, and books on a table in the dappled sunlight under a young mimosa tree in the front yard. A man who lived down the street bought the ten-speed for less money than it would take to replace the chain sprocket. He was ecstatic at finding such a jewel at such a price. He had been wanting a bike, he said, but was put off by the prices in the shops. I bade him good luck as he walked it away
         I spent the remainder of the weekend attending to customers of the jetsam displayed on the front yard, with loyal Tasha at my side.