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“Alright. Keep me posted, and tell Lance to call me when he’s back.”
“Will do, boss. Enjoying your vacation?”
“Bye, Yaya.” I hung up before I could indulge her in small talk. Besides, I wasn’t on vacation.
I needed to find a dead man.
THREE
TILLIE
“And then he goes, ‘If you can’t train him, then maybe you don’t deserve to have it.’ Or something along those lines. With a look like this.” I attempted a frown to imitate my new neighbor as I retold everything that happened this morning to my best friend.
We were sitting in a crowded bar, and I had to yell a little to be heard over the din, but I needed to vent my anger, so I continued. “Can you believe it? And he was holding poor Roscoe like this—” I also demonstrated the hold for my best friend, trying to show just how harsh it was. Brenda raised an eyebrow.
“He was a giant picking on a tiny ass dog,” I continued ranting. “Roscoe is like less than a quarter of his size. And that’s not even the worst part. The man threatened to shoot Roscoe if he ever came onto his property again. Can you imagine? I mean, yeah, I know we live in the south, and we threaten to shoot each other all the time, but I never thought my dog’s life would be threatened.”
“He’s right,” Brenda said.
“What?” I blinked at her in shock, unable to believe the words that had just left her mouth. I knew Roscoe wasn’t exactly her favorite living thing in the world, but I never thought she would wish him dead or anything.
Brenda shrugged and took a sip of her bear. Her kohl-lined eyes scanned the room while she spoke. It appeared as if she was only half paying attention to the conversation because she was mostly scouting the crowd for…something. “Roscoe has a lot of energy for a dog, and he is such a little shit. Honestly, I warned you from the beginning not to get him. I could tell that he was going to be more trouble than he’s worth.”
“But…he needed me.” I’d adopted Roscoe a few weeks ago from the shelter down the street. It’s not that I wanted to adopt him or any dog either, though. He chose me more than I chose him. One night, I came home to find a little terrier sitting on my front porch with one of my ripped-out magnolias in his mouth.
He’d looked so forlorn and sad and scared. The minute I got close, he crouched low to the floor as though I was going to hit him. He didn’t even try to bite or fight back; he simply accepted his fate. It broke my heart.
And then, when I began petting him, I could tell it took a lot for him to relax, to accept that I wasn’t going to hurt him. When he realized I meant him no harm, he put his head in my lap and let me run my hands through his fur, practically purring with pleasure.
I later found out that Roscoe escaped from the shelter nearby, although why he skipped all the other houses and wound up at my doorstep was a mystery. Either way, I’d resolved to take him back because I didn’t have the time or money to take care of a dog. But then, when I got there and saw the conditions of the shelter, I just couldn’t leave him there. The place was overcrowded, and though the workers tried their best, it was difficult to have space for all the pets and keep track of each one. They didn’t even know Roscoe was gone.
While we waited for the lady to take him back to his cage, we stood there and stared at each other. Roscoe’s comfortable smile that he’d donned throughout the walk here was gone. Instead, his eyes looked unbearably sad once again, his ears droopy as he gave me thatlook. It seemed to say:Please don’t leave me here.
And call me a softie or a sucker, but I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I adopted him right there, against my better judgment, and since then, we’d been together.
A decision that Brenda never understood or approved of.
“Look, I know Roscoe isn’t the best-behaved dog….” I started.
“That’s an understatement,” Brenda quipped wryly.
"But we’re both trying our best,” I finished anyway. “It’s not like I can afford a trainer at this point, so I’m trying to do the best I can.” And in my opinion, Roscoe was doing well, considering I’d only been training him for a few weeks. He’d learned to sit on command and no longer tore apart my entire house when I left for work. That was progress in my book.
“It’s not Roscoe’s training that’s the problem, and you know it,” Brenda said. “It’s the fact that the dog has far too much energy and doesn’t know what to do with it. Let’s face it. You work double shifts and are gone most of the day, and when you are home nowadays, all you wanna do is sleep. Roscoe doesn’t get nearly enough exercise, which is probably why he’s acting the fool.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You want me to give him away?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because, apart from all that, the fact that you can’t train your dog shouldn’t be your hot neighbor’s problem. Or any of your neighbors, for that matter. They’re going to kick you out of that suburb soon enough. You forget it’s all retirees there, and they’re not exactly known for their tolerance.”
I sighed, realizing that Brenda was right. But then, I already knew she was right, especially about my neighbors. I knew the community probably didn’t like that I was there, and I’d already received a warning due to the loud music Mateo always insisted on playing when he was over. And that one time right after I moved in, Brenda had thrown a party when I was working nights. It had been a disaster.
So I didn’t necessarily blame the residents of the cul-de-sac for wanting me gone. I didn’t belong there. But after the bank came to reclaim my father’s home for nonpayment of the mortgage after his death, I had no place else to go. If not for this house—previously my mother’s parents’ home, which had been left for me in a will—I would have been homeless by now or subsisting on Brenda’s couch.
Remembering my father’s death caused a wave of sadness to hit me, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. I refused to let myself be sad about it. People died every day, and it wasn’t like my father and I were particularly close. At least not for a few years. Not since way before my mother abandoned us, and he let his drinking take over his entire life.
My father passed away three weeks ago, only two years after his diagnosis. I didn't cry when I found out. I didn’t rage or curse the skies or wonder why me. I just took the news the way I did with everything else in my life.
With cold, unfeeling numbness.
