I used to joke about cooking him.
“Maltese meatloaf is delicious,” I used to tell Carrie. “We’ll pluck him first, and then wash him real good, and stuff him and put him in the oven for what, an hour? Maybe forty-five minutes, the size of him. Serve him with roast potatoes and—”
“He understands every word you say,” she’d tell me.
Damn dog would just cock his head and look up at me. Pretended to be bewildered, the canny little son of a bitch.
“Would you like to be a meatloaf?” I’d ask him.
He’d yawn.
“You’d better be a good dog or I’ll sell you to a Filipino man.”
“He understands you.”
“You want to go home with a Filipino man?”
“Why do you talk to him that way?”
“In the Philippines they eat dogs, did you know that, Valletta? Dogs are a delicacy in the Philippines. You want to go home with a Filipino man?”
“You’re hurting him.”
“He’ll turn you into a rack of Maltese chops, would you like that, Valletta?”
“You’re hurting me, too.”
“Or some breaded Maltese cutlets, what do you say, Valletta? You want to go to Manila?”
“Please don’t, John. You know I love him.”
Damn dog would rush into the bathroom after her, sit by the tub while she took her shower, lick the water from her toes while she dried herself. Damn dog would sit at her feet while she was peeing on the toilet. Damn dog would even sit beside the bed whenever we made love. I asked her once to please put him out in the hall.
“I feel as if there’s a pervert here in the bedroom watching us,” I said.
“He’s not watching us.”
“He’s sitting there staring at us.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is. It embarrasses me, him staring at my privates that way.”
“Your privates? When did you start using that expression?”
“Ever since he started staring at it.”
“He’s not staring at it.”
“He is. In fact, he’s glaring at it. He doesn’t like me making love to you.”
“Don’t be silly, John. He’s just a cute little puppydog.”
One day, cute little puppydog began barking at me.
I came in the front door, and the stupid little animal was sitting smack in the middle of the entry, snarling and barking
Barking at Butterflies
at me as if I were a person come to read the gas meter.
“What?” I said.
He kept barking.
“You’re barking at me?” I said. “This is my house, I live here, you little shit, how dare you bark at me?”
“What is it, what is it?” Carrie yelled, rushing into the hallway.
“He’s barking at me,” I said.
“Shhh, Valletta,” she said. “Don’t bark at John.”
He kept barking, the little well-trained bastard.
“How would you like to become a Maltese hamburger?” I asked him.
He kept barking.
I don’t know when I decided to kill him.
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 not getting fed from the table.”
“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 is staring at me.”
“If he is, it’s because he loves you.”
“He doesn’t love me, Carrie.”
“Yes, he does.”
“He loves you.”
“He loves you, too, John.”
“No, just you. In fact, if you want to talk about obsession, that’s obsession. What that damn mutt feels for you is 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 sweet puppyboy, come little Mommy, come sit with your family,” she said, and 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.”
“Hit him?” I said. “I’m about to kill 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.