The house was dark and had been that way for hours, shadows danced across the walls as cars drove past the rain splattered windows scaring the small, yellow dog as he huddled, shivering in the corner. His paws, hidden beneath an inch on fur, sat under his chin which he raised only at the vibrations he thought might be footsteps. Finally, after what had seemed like days to the small yellow dog, the front door opened and light flooded into the corner where he waited. He raised his head and squinted through his long, dirty coat that had grown over his eyes and into the white light caste by the street post outside as she scooped down and haphazardly ruffled his fur, her fingernails broken and caked with dirt, roughly scratched behind his ears.
She stepped over him and into the kitchen, plates stacked high in the sink threw shadows across the floor like a skyscraper over the city and the light from the fridge as she reached and took a beer, lit up the filthy spot where his dinner bowl sat. He danced at her feet as she made her way around the kitchen looking for the bottle opener, slamming drawers and throwing tea towels as she hunted through the chaos. She found it behind that morning’s breakfast dishes and flicked the top off the beer and onto the floor where it stayed. She moved to the walk in pantry and rummaging for food like a ferret until she settled on a half empty packed of stale shortbread biscuits and a block of chocolate that had started to develop tell tale white patches. To her left, behind the almost empty bag of no name dog food and bland dog biscuits, she pulled out a small hinged silver tin with a slot at the top and turned on her heels, tripping over the small, yellow dog panting excitedly behind her. She cursed at him and moved him out of the way with one big, grey, muddy, boot clad foot. But his ears, with puss filled polyps pressing against his drums, couldn’t hear the harsh tone of the swearing but even if he could, he would not have cared for it happens tonight.
“Your. Time.”
She swung around, her heart instantly picking up speed, her eyes wide with fright but there was only the small yellow dog at still at her feet, his docked tail moving furiously from side to side. She stepped back through the door way and peered around the corner, into the laundry but there was only mounds of washing growing mould on the floor. The small, yellow dog’s bed where she had placed it a week ago, remained soaking in cold, grey water in the trough. She flicked the light switch by the back door and bathed the backyard in light before cautiously opening the door. Grass grew over the stone path to the door of the garage which had been stuck ajar since the summer heat had warped it four months ago. A well- intentioned vegetable patch of dead corn storks and stunted broad beans swayed in the winds of the approaching storm and her heart began to slow as she realised that she was alone. She closed the door and broke off a piece of chocolate letting it melt on her tongue as she was followed by the small, yellow dog to the living room. She kicked the door shut just as the small, yellow dog scurried through, hitting his rump and bouncing open. She gruffly yelled his name and kicked the door again.
A small television sat on a disintegrating milk crate, a wire coat hanger sticking out the back as a makeshift antenna, beneath the upturned crate a small, silver DVD player she had stolen from a garage sale over the summer blinked 12.00. She sat on the stained futon couch and dumped the food on the cushion next to her, almost spilling the beer lodged precariously under her arm, and shortbread crumbs tumbled between the crevasses of the stitching. The small, yellow dog stood panting in front of the television, his gazed locked on his mistress, blocking the signal from the remote control and she cursed at him again but he didn’t move. She yelled again asking why he was so disobedient, then stood, shoved him out of the way with one hand and turned on the TV with the other. The screen flickered to life and she walked back to the couch, her eyes not moving from the grainy picture she trips over the small, yellow dog again and crashes down onto the biscuits, crushing them into an inedible mess. She sighs and looks over at the small, yellow dog. Is she imagining it or is he laughing at her? She grabs him by the jowls and leans in close, their noses almost touching.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” She let go and heaved her heavy frame up onto the couch, trapping much of what was left of the biscuits beneath the wide, torn jeans covering almost all of her expanding behind. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the silver tin. Opening it she exposed the loose tobacco, rolling papers, torn rectangles of paper and the pungent green buds before reaching over and grabbing a broken biscuit and shoving it in her mouth. Crumbs fell from her lips onto the floor where the small, yellow dog sniffed them out. She placed a bud in the small bowl she kept on the coffee table and started to shred it with a pair of sharp sewing scissors she had found in her grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine cabinet. Next she added a pinch of tobacco, swirling it around the bowl until the mixture speckled green and brown consistently, she rolled the cardboard rectangles between her fingers until it was a tight roll of paper slightly smaller than the width of the pens she regularly stole from her employer. The top of the tin, on the inside, was weaved plastic mesh attached to a roller. She stuffed the mixture into the bottom of the mesh alongside the rolled up rectangle of paper, licked the glue of a rolling paper and slid it down to sit by the mixture before closing the tin in one, swift motion causing a perfectly rolled joint out the top. She rested it between her lips as she dug in her pockets for a lighter. The flame sizzled the end of the joint and she took a long breath in, her eyes closed, she held the smoke in her lungs until she felt they might exploded and slowly breathed it out and into the face of the small, yellow dog who had rested his chin on her knee. He sneezed.
“Not. Long. Now.”
Her head snapped up. It was the same voice from before. She was sure of it. The TV was playing an infomercial selling the latest gadget designed to reduce the waist with no exertion. A lolly-pop headed girl was standing on a disc, grinning like the Cheshire cat as she swiveled her hips from side to side without a drop of sweat tainting her brow. A man with biceps and a neck far too large for his head, waxed lyrical about how he recommended it to all his clients. She raised the remote and increased the volume. Was it him? Was it his voice she heard? She flicked ash in the direction of the copper ashtray she stole from a pub three weeks ago but missed and it floated to the floor. The small, yellow dog ignored didn’t sniff it out. He raised his paw and scratched at her leg.
She flopped back on into the deep cushions and changed the program. Ten obese couples jiggled and sweated carrying car tires along an idyllic stretch of beach. Taut trainers yelled rhetoric in their exhausted faces. The small, yellow dog poked his nose through the crack in the door and pushed it open to run from the room. Cold air rushed in and she yelled out at the small, yellow dog. She forced herself to her feet and followed him out of the room. The bathroom was on her left and she detoured in to turn on the fan heater. She thought she might shower later. She closed the door behind her and returned to the lounge where the small, yellow dog had his front paws on the couch and was eating the patchy chocolate she had left there. She lunged at him, grabbing him by the matted fur behind his ears and shoved him across the room. She bent down and picked up the joint from where it was resting on the ashtray, took a long drag before bending down and hitting him below his collar, blowing smoke in his face a second time as she did so. Using her foot, she roughly guided him from the room, slamming the door behind her. Turning off all but one light, she grabbed her car keys and went to get more chocolate.
The small, yellow dog took his place in the corner. He could feel the low vibration of the heater in the bathroom, he rested his head on his paws and let himself doze off. Visions of a soft bed and steak dinners flashed through his mind, long walks and exciting smells he hadn’t had since she took him in a year ago, warm baths he had previously dreaded now caused a deep ache of longing. He raised his head and sniffed the air but could only smell himself. He sneezed. He remembered his last bath. The Good One had filled the tub with bubbles that tickled his nose and she had massaged his rump and stiff hind legs. The hairdryer blew warm air up his nostrils and fluffed up his dense yellow fur. She had stood to get a towel and tripped. He remembered the splash then flash, the Good One’s body convulsed then she was still. So still. She stayed, in the bath, with him whimpering at her feet for two days until the landlord came to visit.
The small, yellow dog woke to the shudder of the front door slamming. She walked past and he quickly got to his feet. He mustn’t leave her now. She sat back down in front of the television and pulled out the small tin. Lighting up she tore open the family size block of chocolate and shoved piece after piece into her wet mouth, only to interrupt with drags from the joint. Munch, munch, puff, puff, crunch. She opened a bag of chips and the shards mixed with the chocolate in her teeth. She stuck her finger into her mouth and picked out her teeth, sucking off the concoction with a loud slurp. She burped and he felt it through the air. The foul stench reached his nostrils. He sneezed.
She stubbed the joint out in the overflowing ashtray and got up, moving from the room in slow heavy steps. The small, yellow dog followed close behind. Opening the bathroom door, he scampered quickly inside. He had to get in first. He saw the heater in the corner, blowing tumble weeds of dust and hair across the floor. She yelled at him to get out, but he sat. Her hairdryer was by the sink, the cord, plugged in, dangled above his head. Her shoulders slumped at his disobedience but she didn’t have the energy to force him out. He had counted on it. She stripped down and pulled back the shower curtain. The cream bath was only cream at the bottom. Mould grew on the bottom of the curtain and empty bottles of shampoo occupied each corner. She turned on the tap, got the temperature right and stepped heavily into the bath. Beneath her feet, anti slip pads in the shape of ducks, caught the hair and dirt that floated but didn’t move through the water.
“Now. It. Is. Your. Turn.” The small, yellow dog had been practicing for months, delving deep into his memory to remember the words, focusing his energy on hers and yesterday he broke through, calling her name over and over beside the bed while she slept until her eyes opened wide and looked directly into his.
She flung open the shower curtain and looked down at the small, yellow dog no longer panting, tail flat against his bottom. His eyes moved from her to the hairdryer cord, he clenched it between his teeth and pulled it crashing down to the floor. Her eyes opened wider as he picked up between his teeth and walked over the rim of the bath and dropped the hairdryer over the side.
Splash. Flash.
The small, yellow dog wondered how long he would be in the bathroom.
(c) Leni Dixon 2009
