Perhaps it was the night Carrie seated him at the dinner table with us. Until then, she'd been content to have him sitting at our feet like the despicable little beggar he was, studying every bite we took, waiting for scraps from the table.
"Go ahead," I'd say, "watch every morsel we put in our mouths. You're
"Oh, John," Carrie would say.
"I can't enjoy my meal with him staring at me that way."
"He's not staring at you."
"What do you call what he's doing right this minute? Look at him! If that isn't staring, what is it?"
"I think you're obsessed with this idea of the dog staring at you."
"Maybe because he
"If he is, it's because he loves you."
"He doesn't love me, Carrie."
"Yes, he does."
"He loves
"He loves you, too, John."
"No, just you. In fact, if you want to talk about obsession,
"He's not a mutt, and he's not obsessed. He just wants to be part of the family. He sees us eating, he wants to join us. Come, Valletta, come sweei puppyboy, come little Mommy, come sit with your family," she said, anc hoisted him off the floor and plunked him down on a chair between us.
"I'll get your dish, sweet babypup," she said.
"Carrie," I said, "I will not have that mutt sitting at the table with us." "He's not a mutt," she said. "He's purebred." "Valletta," I said, "get the hell off that chair or I'll-" He began barking.
"You mustn't raise your hand to him," Carrie said. "He was abused. He thinks you're about to hit him."
The dog kept barking.
And barking.
And barking.
I guess that's when I decided to do it.
October is a good time for dying.
"Come, Valletta," I said, "let's go for a walk."
He heard me say "Come," so naturally he decided to go watch television.
"Is Daddy taking you for a walk?" Carrie asked.
Daddy.
Daddy had Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson in the pocket of his bush jacket. Daddy was going to walk little pisspot here into the woods far from the house and put a few bullets in his head and then sell his carcass to a passing Filipino man or toss it to a wayward coyote or drop it in the river. Daddy was going to tell Carrie that her prized purebred mutt had run away, naturally, when I commanded him to come. I called and called, I would tell her, but he ran and ran, and God knows where he is now.
"Don't forget his leash," Carrie called from the kitchen.
"I won't, darling."
"Be careful," she said. "Don't step on any snakes."
"Valletta will protect me," I said, and off we went.
The leaves were in full voice, brassy overhead, rasping underfoot. Valletta kept backing off on the red leather leash, stubbornly planting himself every ten feet or so into the woods, trying to turn back to the house where his beloved mistress awaited his return. I kept assuring him that we were safe here under the trees, leaves dropping gently everywhere around us. "Come, little babypup," I cooed, "come little woofikins, there's nothing can hurt you here in the woods."
The air was as crisp as a cleric's collar.
When we had come a far-enough distance from the house, I reached into my pocket and took out the gun. "See this, Valletta?" I said. "I am going to shoot you with this. You are never going to bark again, Valletta. You are going to be the most silent dog on earth. Do you understand, Valletta?"
He began barking.
"Quiet," I said.
He would not stop barking.
"Damn you!" I shouted. "Shut up!"
And suddenly he yanked the leash from my hands and darted away like the sneaky little sissydog he was, all white and furry against the orange and yellow and brown of the forest floor, racing like a ragged whisper through the carpet of leaves, trailing the red leash behind him like a narrow trickle of blood. I came thrashing after him. I was no more than six feet behind him when he ran into a clearing saturated with golden light. I followed him with the gun hand, aiming at him. Just as my finger tightened on the trigger, Carrie burst into the clearing from the opposite end.
"No!" she shouted, and dropped to her knees to scoop him protectively into her arms, the explosion shattering the incessant whisper of the leaves, the dog leaping into her embrace, blood flowering on her chest, oh dear God, no, I thought, oh dear sweet Jesus, no, and dropped the gun and ran to her and pressed her bleeding and still against me while the damn dumb dog barked and barked.
He has not barked since.