She nodded off at the wheel. Apparently. There was no autopsy and no one else was killed, thank God.
I had a few sleepless nights after that. To say the least.
It was the worst thing to ever happen to me. And the best thing too.
I choose to think of myself as a “mourning husband” rather than a chump. And prefer it if you thought that way too. It’s easier for everybody.
I love my house, the views, the aroma of eucalyptus when it’s hot out. I smoke weed whenever I want, watch porn on the flat-screen, eat at midnight, scream obscenities from the stationary bike at NBA players who take stupid shots. When I leave something on the kitchen table, it stays there.
Everything is perfect. But one thing.
The dog.
It’s not my dog. It’s the neighbors’. It barks. All the fucking time.
It’s not like the dog is right next to me. In this neighborhood, we prize our elbow room. But the barking reverberates through the canyon, arousing more distant dogs to bark, filling the air with mindless, assaultive bursts of aggression, each one landing somewhere in my chest. Morning. Noon. And night.
I used to complain about it to Amy. She’d stop what she was doing and tilt her head, as if to make an effort to hear the barking. “Oh, yeah. That’s kind of annoying.”
How could I have shared my life with someone like that? Who could willfully ignore the equivalent of flaming arrows shot at our house every hour of every day?
It’s not annoying, darling. Running out of toothpaste is annoying. This is the kind of casual everyday brutalization that turns decent men into... well, people like me.
I’m not going to kill the dog. Sure, I want to. I’ve fantasized about it. Even aimed my rifle at it a couple of times. Wouldn’t be a gimme. I’d need a scope. But maybe with a little practice, it could be done.
It’s not the dog’s fault. I know that. I don’t hate dogs. It’s the people. Whoever the fuck they are.
They’ve lived in this neighborhood for years. Ten? Fifteen? I don’t know. Did Amy know their names? I doubt it. All I know is that it’s gotten worse since...
Nobody knows their neighbors around here. It’s not done that way. You might pick up fragments about their habits, their aggressions, their neglects. You make judgments, usually negative ones. You’ll see faces occasionally, through a windshield. Give a wave maybe. We get to know each other in personal shorthand: There’s leaf-blower guy. There’s Giants-fan lady. Maybe I’m wife-died guy. I don’t know.
But at the post office, or the Safeway in town, you don’t look up. Being neighborly means one thing back in Illinois where I grew up. Here, it means the opposite. You respect your neighbors by not acknowledging them. People want space, physically, psychically. You should give it to them.
The dog ruins all that.
I sit on my deck in the mornings with my coffee and nurse my rage. It’s what I do. I don’t let it slide. I don’t act out. I just absorb. The barking — sharp, high-pitched, weirdly metallic — comes in clusters. Sometimes it turns into a yelp, as if the dog is in a bear trap. Those are the bad days. I actually tracked it a few months back. Kept a log on a legal pad; did it for a couple of weeks. Saw no pattern, other than its daily relentlessness.
Sure, I can play loud music, and I do. Sonny Rollins. Dexter Gordon. Whatever. I use white-noise apps. I got them all. But the dog outlasts everything.
It’s a Thursday morning. Foggy. I’m stuck. Can’t find the flow. The barking swarms my ears.
Peering into my binoculars at the neighbors’ backyard across the canyon, I see the dog. Short legs, brown, medium-sized. I don’t know what kind of dog it is. I don’t know dogs.
I put on my sneakers and ball cap and step down into the canyon toward the dog. It’s all my land. I’m on three acres. Eucalyptus, poison oak, a creek bed that hasn’t been wet for ten years. I almost never come down here — only in the fall to clear out stuff — and not since Amy left.
I move my way back up the other side and reach the chain-link fence that separates my property from the other guy’s. The dog is inside a second fenced-in enclosure. It sees me now. The barking reaches fever pitch. Like my pulse. I look for some sign that someone is home. Nothing.
“A watchdog is only effective when it doesn’t bark all the goddamn time, you little bastard.” I’m talking to the stupid dog now.
I climb back up along the property line until I get to the road. I walk to the front of the house, rehearsing my appeal. Keep your cool. Try to be friendly. Don’t demand anything. Tell them you don’t expect the dog to be quiet all the time. But don’t be a pussy. Put it on them to take action. Remember that you hate these people for being oblivious. Make sure they don’t forget this encounter.
I stride to the door with certainty, in case someone is watching from the window. I ring the bell. Again. One more time. No answer.
When I was a kid — eleven, twelve, something like that — I went on a spree of breaking and entering. Actually, not breaking. There was always something open or unlocked back then. I would sneak into people’s houses just to sit in their chairs, poke around their kitchens. I never stole anything. Didn’t feel the need. But now I’m a fifty-two-year-old man.
I slide around the far side of the house and end up behind the garage, the dog barking the whole time. No security system. No cameras. You can see the road but no other houses in my line of sight. The back door of the garage is unlocked and so is the door to the kitchen inside the garage. How can this be so fucking easy?
Nice house. New living room furniture. No IKEA shit here. Pictures of grandkids (and someone’s new Harley) on the refrigerator. Dave and Marilyn Kittle. Funny name, sounds like cat food. They pay a lot more to PG&E than I do. They still have a landline. Marilyn’s going to the dentist next Friday. Someone named Sandra was supposed to arrive on the twenty-third, but it’s scratched out.
I open the fridge — sparkling water, hummus, a sealed package of organic chicken breasts, a wedge of that expensive cheese they sell at Deluxe Market. I dig out a couple of grapes and pop them in my mouth. Take the cheese out of its wrapping. Rub my fingers across it. Did I touch poison oak down in the canyon? Maybe. Hard to say.
I copy down the Kittles’ phone number (could come in handy). Explore the junk drawer. I resist the temptation to scribble Quiet your dog! on the empty space on the calendar beside Sandra’s cancelled visit. I take down a steak knife from a magnetic strip near the fridge and run my tongue up and down it. Juvenile, yes. The last time I did this, I was a juvenile. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow. Bring a few props this time. Hide a ripe banana in the linen closet. Slide a disgusting photo into a coat pocket. Drop a dead fly into their chardonnay.
I go upstairs and enjoy perspectives of my own house that I’ve never seen before. Peer into the first bedroom — a guest room? A child’s bedroom? Is this where Sandra spent her childhood? Nice master bath. Might be your best selling point, if and when you decide to sell.
I take a pee surrounded by gleaming mirrors. It’s a well-earned pee, a post-coffee pee. I reach to flush, then stop myself. No flush. Why not sow a tiny seedling of discord between Dave and Marilyn? She’ll blame him for being a pig. He’ll have no clue why she’s in a rotten mood.
From my wallet, I dig out the neon business card of a divorce lawyer that I picked up after Amy left. What kind of crass business ploy is that anyway? He wasn’t worth a red nickel. I leave it facedown on the carpet just beside the small waste basket in the bedroom. Why not have a little fun with Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful?
I’m not sure if the dog still knows there’s someone in the house. Its barking has returned to its normal rhythms, though it sounds different not echoing around the canyon. Up close, the cheese-grater effect on my nerves is intensified. I feel the cortisol flowing in my blood. I feel like I could pick up this refrigerator.