BY NICK DI CARLO
Copyright is held by the author.
MARGO HAD two ex-husbands, three kids (from different fathers), a sister, friends, well-off parents, a dazzling intellect — and me.
I had no family, two combat tours, the G.I. Bill for college, a nighttime janitor job, and a needy heart that made me a fool for love and a damned fool for Margo. I mean, despite her well-off parents, alimony and child support, I pitched in for food, her numerous car repairs (she had to have Saabs, but couldn’t afford to repair the old ones) and a new refrigerator. I was always at her disposal.
Still, Margo wanted more: a dog. Not any dog. A Golden Retriever.
You ask, “What’s wrong with that?”
Remember the three kids — the oldest, a pre-teen and the youngest under three? And Margo, finishing her B.A., wasn’t home during the day, and spent nights parenting, studying, drinking coffee and chatting with friends. Plus, she’d never had a pet.
One day between my classes and my job I stopped by her house, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? A rambunctious, undisciplined, albeit gorgeous Golden Retriever pup of significant size that she’d named Sam because Golden Retrievers had to be named Sam.
Days passed without Sam being taught to walk on a leash, without Sam understanding that when Margo and the kids shouted “Sam, Sam, Sam,” they were talking to him, and Sam never realizing that jumping onto people, especially small ones, wasn’t appreciated. The young kids wanted to know, “Why won’t Sam play with me,” and “Why can’t I ride Sam?” When let into the yard, a manic Sam dashed from end to end over and again and twirled like a dervish. Nobody cleaned Sam’s significant droppings from the yard.
One Saturday, Margo and the kids were away so I stood the Sam watch. I brought a large box of treats, a new collar and leash, and a plush toy to help Sam learn his name and transform himself from delinquent dervish to dog. When I was young, living with my grandparents, we had loving and loyal Spitz who’d lived into his teens, so I could speak a little “dog.” That night, Sam demonstrated his progress, showing his human family how to walk with a leash, communicate, pet and play with him. All seemed right with the world.
Sunday morning, my phone rang, and a hysterical Margo screamed, “A neighbour called. Sam’s been hit by a car!”
I rushed to the house.
“Sam’s hurt, but running around and nobody can catch him,” Margo said.
“How did it happen?”
“He needed to go out and I couldn’t put on the leash.”
“What the . . .”
I found the frantic pup six blocks away, hobbling on three legs with his right hind leg damaged.
The distraught driver kept crying, “He just ran into the road. Came out of nowhere.”
Sam calmed down for me. I swaddled him in a blanket and tucked him onto my car’s back seat and drove to Margo’s house.
“You’ve got to take him to animal emergency,” I said.
“I can’t. You have to do it for me.”
“But he’s your dog. They might not treat him if I go.”
“I can’t do it. Please — you take him.”
In the examination room, I held Sam’s head and told him how he’d be OK, and when this was over, I’d take him to live with me.
When the vet came in holding the x-rays I could tell things were bad.
“Those bones are crushed. And he has internal injuries. I don’t see any alternatives.”
I phoned Margo. “Sam has to be euthanized. You’d better come down here.”
“Can’t they keep him alive? There must be something they can do.”
“No. Don’t you understand? They can extend his life, but he won’t ever leave here. He’ll be miserable and they’ll have to do it eventually.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t come down and watch it happen. It’ll break my heart.”
“You’ve got to sign the papers.”
“Just tell the doctor I put you in charge.”
The vet sedated Sam and told me, “You can sit with him for as long as you need. Talk to him. Love him. When you’re ready . . .”
I sat with Sam for a long time. I stroked him and spoke to him, whispering how everything’s going to be fine pretty soon. I said out loud, “I love you, kiddo.” And damn if I didn’t love that dog more than anything in my whole life. Again, I promised, “When this is over, buddy, I’m going to take you home with me.”
Afterwards, the doctor asked, “Should we send the cremains to the owner?”
“Hell no. I promised that boy he could come home with me. I’ll take care of him.”
I never saw Margo again. I heard she got a black cat and called her Mehitabel. Hearing that, I think I made the sign of the cross.
Sam? All these decades later, he’s still with me, cozy in a mahogany box of significant size. Several similar small boxes cradling my former furry companions keep him company. We’re all together, those old friends, me and the feisty Tortie, Dorothy P., whose house I share.
***
Nick Di Carlo, an erstwhile poet and inveterate short fiction writer has been careening about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He has taught writing and literature in traditional and non-traditional settings, including maximum security correctional facilities. He’s been recognized for his “vigorous, muscular prose in the service of an unflinching vision of the world.” Novelist Eugene Mirabelli has written: “Di Carlo’s stories are severe and uncompromising. They aren’t pretty, but they are real. His scenes are gritty and hard edged, his characters are lost, marginal and indomitable. The writer is a man of great ambition, honesty, and unflagging energy.” His work appears in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Flash Fiction Friday as well as print anthologies.