Pedigree

I was just getting ready to go out and mow the backyard when Emily hollered for me to come out front.
+++++I could tell by her tone that it wasn’t urgent, so I stopped to take off my gardening gloves—the vibrations of the mower have the tendency to cause blisters—and set them on the dining room table on my way through the house. The front door was open, with the screen door latched firmly in place; when I reached it I paused, stunned to see Caesar, Dominick Perdieu’s standard poodle. Caesar was a genuine show dog, a future award-winner (or so Dominick claimed). Caesar had trotted before the audiences of various local and city dog shows, never winning but usually placing or almost placing. He was indeed a fine dog, if you judged dogs that way. He looked like a standard poodle from a magazine, his fur perfectly white except near the feet and muzzle, ears hanging on either side of his head like giant muttonchops, and eyes pitch-black (unnervingly so, though Caesar was friendly enough, and was currently licking my wife’s wrist). The dog didn’t have the effeminate poufs you sometimes saw—his fir was cut even, curly, thick. I’d never petted Caesar before (Dominick wouldn’t think of it, and I’d always known better than to ask), but when I reached out and ran my hand over his head, I noticed how hard the fur was. You think of dogs being soft and cuddly but maybe that was just in the commercials.
+++++We didn’t have a dog of our own. Neither of us was allergic; we just weren’t the type. I’ve never had any particular fondness for them, or for any domesticated animals. I remember having a cat as a kid but it died when I was seven and after that my parents had thought it wise to not have a fourth mouth to feed. Emily was much the same way. We weren’t hostile towards pets. We didn’t mind them when we visited friends, and had been known to toss the occasional tennis ball or play with the infrequent mouse-on-a-stick. We’d just never seen the benefit of sharing our home with an animal.
+++++Caesar, of course, wasn’t what you would normally consider a pet; all you had to do was look at him to tell. He looked perfect. He wasn’t, of course. He never won, after all, which meant there were dogs out there that looked more perfect but there had obviously been a lot of effort put into this dog’s physical appearance and overall health. Pets slept on the couch; Caesar slept in a special fur-lined cage, which Dominick had shown off the one time we visited him (a sort of pre-gaming party for a dog show; imagine a neighborhood party, where nobody really feels comfortable with each other, with a canine theme and caviar).
+++++“He just wandered over here,” Emily said. Caesar was trailing his nose across her glasses. She snorted and backed away, wiping them on her shirt. Caesar turned his attention to me, and I played with his ears a little.
+++++“Wonder what he’s doing on this side of the circle,” I said. Hampton Road was shaped like a giant horseshoe. Dominick and Caesar lived on the opposite side, not exactly in back of us but a few houses down. There was a pond in between. Caesar would’ve had to walk the entire length of the curve—and then some—to get to our house.
+++++“He’s shaking,” Emily said, when she’d put her glasses back on. “I think he might be thirsty. Should we bring him in?”
+++++I nodded and opened the door. Caesar immediately stepped inside. I think he seemed relieved to be out of the sun.  He lay down in the center of the room, panting.
+++++“I’ll get a bowl,” I said. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the cheapest plastic bowl we had, filled it with water, and set it down in front of the dog. He stuck his muzzle into the bowl and began lapping the water noisily. Emily laughed at the sound, probably because it reminded her of how I tend to eat chicken noodle soup. I smiled along at the unspoken joke and we sat there on our haunches, watching Caesar slake his thirst.
+++++He finally stopped after a couple of minutes, turning his head away to show that he was done. He got up and walked to Emily, rubbing up against her. She was dressed in jean shorts, t-shirt, and her gardening apron; some of the dirt from the apron got caught up in Caesar’s fur.
+++++“They should make cloths out of poodle hair,” I said, pointing it out.
+++++“You’re sick.” The dog licked her face. “See? He agrees with me.”
+++++“As well as Dominick treats him, you’d think he’d be smarter.”
+++++“Ass.”
+++++“We should probably give him a call.”
+++++“Caesar?”
+++++“Dominick.”
+++++“Oh, must we?” she said. Her voice rose in pitch, taking on the highfalutin airs that Dominick Perdieu tended to affect. He wasn’t rich, nor gay, but that was how he presented himself to most people, which was why he’d only thrown the one house party: no one enjoyed his company for long. We all pitied him. The dog was all he had. His wife had died five years previous; shortly after that, he’d bought a pedigree poodle and immersed himself in the world of dog shows and canine fashion. Caesar had appeared on a local billboard, advertising a ma and pa pet salon. To Dominick, it had been the crowning achievement of his life; the rest of us had joked, behind his back, how the billboard made Caesar look fat.
+++++“Do you know his number?” I said, getting up.
+++++“Oh, yes,” she said. “Why, it’s all I ever think about. It’s number one on my speed dial, just ahead of yours, dear.”
+++++“Now you sound like Truman Capote.”
+++++“Look in the damn phonebook.” She smiled. “It’s what it’s there for. Dear.”
+++++I laughed and did as instructed, then used the phone in the kitchen. I dialed the number. Dominick picked up on the first ring.
+++++“Yes?”
+++++The word was devoid of an accent. He wasn’t consistent with it, especially when he was upset.
+++++“Dominick, it’s Mike Harrison. Guess who decided to pay us a visit?”
+++++“Oh thank God.” He practically shouted it. I had to pull the phone away from my head, in the next room, Emily said, “Jeez.”
+++++“I figured you’d want to know,” I said. “We aren’t going anywhere. We can bring him over to you or—”
+++++“I’ll be right there,” he said, and hung up.
+++++I followed suit and was about to go back into the front room when I stopped and turned to the fridge. I got out a package of sliced deli ham. I ate a piece on my way back to the front room.  When I got there, I hefted the package to show Emily.
+++++“I figure the guy’s pretty hungry.”
+++++“Dominick?”
+++++“Cute.”
+++++Caesar, sensing the meat, left Emily and was by my side even before I’d knelt down again. I fed him a piece slowly, avoiding the gnashing of his teeth. He nicked me once; it stung but didn’t draw blood, and when the meat was gone he licked my finger. I pretended it was in apology, and not because I still had ham juice on me.
+++++“Dominick will be right over,” I told them both. I’d resealed the package; Caesar was sniffing it enthusiastically, licking the plastic.
+++++“He’s probably flying,” Emily said. “I wonder how fast that Beetle can get.”
+++++A couple of minutes later we heard a car pull up out front and a door slam. Dominick must’ve run up the walk to our porch; by the time he reached the screen door and let himself in, he was huffing, his pudgy frame not used to such rapid physical exertion.
+++++He’d always looked comical—normal height, slightly overweight, with one of those toupees you knew was a toupee, but looked natural enough to the casual eye. Sweating and huffing, though, he looked like a caricature, a cliché from some sitcom. He was blushing, his wet lips huffing in and out. He was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, his usual attire. I wondered if he’d gone out looking for Caesar. Surely he’d known the dog was missing long before I called him. It must’ve taken Caesar a good fifteen minutes to get around to our house and that was only if he hadn’t stopped along the way.
+++++Dominick didn’t take the time to compose himself. He went to the dog, the dog met him halfway. The owner knelt down, kissing the top of Caesar’s head, running his hands along the dog’s face and body. “Oh thank God,” he said, using the same tone my mother had used whenever I fell off the backyard swing set. “Oh thank—”
+++++He stopped when he came to the dirt. He glanced up, first at me, then at Emily. He noticed her attire and scowled, but said nothing. He turned his attention back to the dog momentarily, then apparently noticed the water bowl sitting in the middle of the room.
+++++Emily and I both stood, sensing the change in his emotions. Emily said, “He was thirsty, so we gave him some water.”
+++++“Tap water?”
+++++Emily nodded.
+++++He was about to say something further, but noticed the packaged ham in my hand. His face, already flushed, turned a deeper shade of red, until I thought he was having a heart attack. His voice sputtered as he tried to speak.
+++++“Tap water and deli ham?”
+++++He was screaming, his voice so high and pitchy that I only knew what he was saying because of the context. Emily tried to calm him, stepping forward with an arm out-stretched. He backed up at first. I thought he was trying to avoid confrontation. Then he, too, stepped forward, and slapped her once—not lightly—across the face.
+++++Emily didn’t react. She stood there frozen. I gasped. It wasn’t until Dominick was rearing his arm back to slap her again that I said, “Hey.”
+++++He turned and I got the slap intended for her. Then he screamed again, something unintelligible. Spittle hit my face, and his breath smelled of peppermint and gin. He turned, grabbed the dog by the back of the head, threw open the screen door, and left. Caesar didn’t look back at us. He went willingly enough, uncomplaining.
+++++The screen door shut slowly behind them, squeaking into place. I could feel the burning in my face, a pain that was surprisingly sharp and crisp. Getting slapped wasn’t like getting punched. When you were punched, your body absorbed the pain. It hurt, but it hurt deep, in your muscles. Dominick’s slap was there on the surface. My skin tingled from it, as though a skillet had been placed against my face for a fraction of a second. My eyes were watering, my nose running.
+++++Emily looked the same; her left cheek had turned a brilliant red. She was looking at me oddly—not accusingly, but not sorry I was slapped, either. I don’t think she was actually thinking of me, or directing whatever emotion she was feeling my way, but I was the only one with her at the moment. With her glasses crooked—the frame no doubt bent—she looked hysterical, crazy. She spoke calmly though, her voice even and devoid of anything I usually associated with her.
+++++“Well.”
+++++The word came out like a sigh and the tension seeped away with it. Her features didn’t change but her eyes softened a bit. Within the hour, I knew, we’d be laughing about it and would eventually tell our neighbors about the time Dominick Perdieu completely lost composure. But that would be later, after the pain in our faces had faded. For the meantime, the only thing we could think to say was “well,” which seemed to say: Well, that was uncalled for, and Well, I guess we just aren’t the type, and Well, we’ll just have to see about all this.
+++++“Well,” I echoed her. I listened as Dominick’s car drove away. I pictured Caesar’s head hanging out the window, enjoying that special pleasure that television teaches us dogs enjoy. I knew he wasn’t, of course. He would be caged in the backseat, fastened, secure. But, with my cheek stinging, I imagined him that way anyways: carefree, happy, tongue flopping in the wind, ears blown back, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun. I had to admit, it wasn’t altogether a bad day for a pedigree dog.
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Daniel W. Davis is a graduate student born and raised in Central Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can follow his work and musings at Dumpster Chicken Music.