A Dog and His Sick Master

A Dog and His Sick Master

by Joseph Blake Parker

I laid my head in Master's lap and yawned with a faint cry. He sat still in his moving chair, sprawled out so that I could not join him. His noise box was not on but I knew that he wasn't sleeping by the way he breathed. His breathing told me that he was hurting, sick, and he didn't want to be bothered. I kissed Master's hand and returned to my duty, checking every room to make sure that all was in order.

I first came upon his bedroom. The bedroom always smelled unused. Master had not slept in it since his mate had become sick. I no longer entered except to make my rounds or when I joined Master on the occasions when he changed coats; he acted sicker if he went in alone. This was a sanctuary, all but forbidden.

Today, I smelled an repugnant odor like urine and mold with a touch of strawberry. I bared my teeth and let a low growl from the back of my throat to make the intruder aware of my presence. No sooner had I seen his striped, gray coat than I was on top of him, biting and pawing the desecrator of Master's bedroom. The vermin cried and clawed but I uttered not a sound other than my low growls. Finally, it managed to escape my weight and run like a rabbit out the door to safety, screeching a string of curses as it went.

I turned and exited reverently, bearing my scratches like war ribbons. As I walked out the door, I glanced at a window—the small kind, that did not have sound but only a still image of small things frozen inside. In it, Master was smashing my already wrinkled face between his hands and Master's mate was doing similar to his. I still missed playing with Master but he has gotten sick just like his mate had.

I strode towards the kitchen, a mean look on my face—my eyes squinted, licking my lips, trying to remove the vermin's hair from my tongue. I could hear the sounds of my paws like prat prat prat on the tiles in the kitchen floor and I knew the wretched beast did as well.

“You know that you aren't supposed to be in Master's bedroom, Cat.” I spat the last word like I had seen Master do to the shells of the flavored seeds he chewed, with a good amount of spit.

“You submissive little pet!” Cat hissed from some hidden place in the kitchen. “I have every right to be in that little room. Your Master had the audacity to expect me to sleep on that shitty little pillow-box that Carla brought for me.”

The little squatter was referring to Master's pup. She did not visit Master much anymore, not since his mate got sick. In my happier days, I had imagined that she was at home caring for a litter of her own. You could not imagine my surprise when I discovered that she shared her home with this thing. Even more when I learned that it would stay with us for a while.

Cat repeated numerous times that Carla (I quickly learned that this was what he called Master's pup) was just leaving him for a short while and would return for him soon. I believed his lying tongue at first. But, after a month had gone by, I began to suspect that Master's pup would never return for him. Instead, I believed that she had left it here, knowing how my patience would run thin and that I would relieve her from having to co-habit her home with Cat. I could imagine the trouble of having to raise a litter with a dirty creature like that—always drudging its feces on its coat and paws around the pups. I did not wring its neck, though, for fear that it might upset Master—who would have to clean up the body. He was ill enough as it was. Maybe if I did it silently and ate the body...

“He doesn't look so good, you know,” Cat said, interrupting my chain of thoughts.

“Of course; he's sick,” I replied.

“Oh no, Dog, it's much worse than that.” he said with a thick, oozing drop of satisfaction in his tone.

I turned to leave, intending that it would let him know that I was finished with the matter. “Stay out of Master's bedroom or else.” Apparently, Cat had not understood my message because his creeping voice continued, following me to the door.

“I've seen the look nearly a hundred times before. His eyes, they remind me of a certain kind of mouse. Not the daring of the one who attempts slip past me, into the kitchen to claim a small morsel. Not the one that runs, blind with fright. He isn't even the one backed into the corner, shuddering and pleading, that sees its coming demise. No, your Master is the last kind. He is the mouse that's been played with, given to the kittens to practice with, and tossed and chewed until it has reached exhaustion and waits for death, too tired to even make a final dash to its little hole.”

The words sank into my heart like a tooth into tender meat. I tried to fight the images slithering into my imagination but it was too late. Furiously, I clawed the ground, my tail raised high, and showed my teeth.

“Bastard!” I snarled, leaving the animal to its hiding place in the kitchen. But, returning to my Master and watching his tired, watered eyes, I could not put Cat's words out of mind.

I returned my head to its rightful place, resting on the hand of my Master and kissed it several times. I whined softly to let Master know that his suffering pained me as well.

“I know, Barry. I miss her too,” Master said, the words releasing salt liquid from his eyes.

It hadn't been what I was thinking, but if it pleased Master then I was certain that I missed her as well. I hopped up on the couch, knowing exactly what to do. I cleaned the salt liquid off his face, careful not to lick so much that it would upset him. Normally, it would have brought a noise like a half-chipper bark from his snout—which would curve upward. But this time, he remained unmoving.

“Barry, I don't feel anymore,” Master muttered, without even the energy for a sob, ending it with a single, whispered sound.

My eyes and ears lit up at the sound. It was the one he had sometimes used for his mate. I hopped down, my mind already processing what I would do. I walked silently to Master's bedroom, hesitated. Knowing that it was for Master and that it might be the only way to make him well again, I entered. As reverently as I dared, I began to search the room.

I smelled and inhaled the scents on every item in the bedroom. The pillows were the first thing that I checked. Unfortunately, they were very empty with only a hint of her on them. The sheets were the same, mostly air and the distorted smell of flowers. This discouraged me as it was where Master and his mate had slept the most often. I had never understood why they would not want their bed to smell of themselves, why they had given even their bed and coats “baths.” But I continued my search, determined not to be discouraged.

Then, I found it the scent! Like old vanilla, happiness, and the kitchen floor—all rolled together into one smell. I rummaged through the closet, using my snout to gently run through the different coats that belonged to her—but none really carried much of her scent anymore; the open air had thieved it away.

But, I continued to follow the distant smell to its source, until I found a pile of papery boxes. I pawed at the boxes until one opened up, revealing old, long pieces of cloth that Master and his Mate would wrap around their necks when it was cold. These fabrics were never given baths! I nosed through them until I found a rather thin one that smelled the strongest of Masters mate. I picked it up, gently as I could and left the room. Returning to my Master's side, I leaped onto the bed again, excited; with a single bound.

Master took the cloth in silence, and took a moment to simply look at it before he brought it to his face to breathe her in. “Barry...”

I wagged my tail at the sound that Master called me, hoping his quickened breath was happy breathing.

“Good boy,” He whispered, massaging my fur and the folds of my skin until I was very much entranced. Before I knew it, I was asleep. In the sleep, I saw Master and his mate playing like they did before and throwing my ball, my favorite ball...

I awoke to my Master moving from the chair. I did not rise but watched him, hoping that he would return and scratch me again. He did not return but, instead, went into the kitchen. He began to remove pots from the little doors in the walls that he used to prepare his own food. Master filled each with water and placed them on the floor. Confused, I went over to investigate, hearing my nails on the floor again, and sniffing the water to see if there was anything peculiar about it. There was not. He then removed both my food and Cat's food, tore the bags and dumped all of it on the floor in two separate piles. I was far too stunned to eat or do anything but watch him.

Master returned to his chair, took the cloth that I had brought him and walked towards the bedroom. His eyes looked at me with a misty glaze, just like they had when he had been sick for his mate, but much worse.

I bounded to him and pawed his leg gently as if to tell him that there was no need to be sick for me, I was there.

“Up, up, Barry,” Master said, walking to the couch and patting it—giving me the signal to climb. I did so gladly, expecting him to join me. Master ran a hand down my furry back, a warm hand that made me feel safe and then kissed me between the eyes. I returned the kiss quickly; squarely on his salty mouth. Master did not wipe it away.

He turned and went to where his pups used to sleep—swinging the door shut behind him with with an uncaring crash. I waited a moment and then finally rested my head at the arm of the chair, wide awake but completely uncertain, my nerves on edge for no reason at all.

Master did not leave the room. Days passed and I occasionally heard him shifting in the bed or making water come from the walls. I ate little and rarely saw Cat, except for when he lurked around the house at night and stirred me from my sleep. After the third night, I became so worried that I could no longer control myself. I went to his door.

Hearing Master's soft breathing, I began to scratch at the door and let out soft whines and howls. After ten minutes, there was no response other than the bed creaking and Master cough.

“I guess the big mousy finally died of fright,” Cat said, out of nowhere. Trying to ignore his words, I scratched the door again, even more frantically, and let out a few sharp yelps but Master would not open it.

“I'm worried...” Cat said in a voice that sounded sad and happy at the same time. “I don't think he'll ever come out. I'm not worried for me, Carla will be back to pick me up any day but what about you, my dear Dog? You'll have to find a way out of the house, into the streets to even find your next meal. And your Master, he'll stay in there, shriveled up on his bed, waiting to die and leave you all alone...” Cat said with false sympathy, watching as his words paralyzed me with fright.

Alone? What did he mean by alone? I could not live without Master! Master was the one who fed me, who took me on walks, who scratched me to sleep, who talked with me with playful sounds. Who would I take care of and serve and kiss on the hand when he needed me?

I stayed frozen like a rabbit, too scared to run and too scared to just lay down and die. I remained in that state for what felt like hours but must have been minutes because I was soon torn from my trance by the sound of fabric being shredded in the next room. Then purring, the sound of contentedness and a breath gradually slowing into the state of sleep. I forced myself to look in Master's bedroom and saw Cat asleep in the bed. He had torn the blanket to sheds and slept soundly in the filth he had created of the sacred place. Now in control of my body and trying to grasp the desperateness of my own solitude, I knew that I had to do something.

I killed the damn cat.

I returned to Master's door—weakly, weightlessly. I circled around a spot and collapsed at the warm crack underneath the door. I exhaled, giving out the last bit of energy I could have possibly had stored within me. I was sick, too.