*
If I were to eliminate any one species on this earth, it would be the dog. If, only given the option to remove one breed I was forced to choose, it would not take me more than an instant to decide upon the Corgi. And if I were to go to Henry's Plumbing, buy a box of rat poison, rub it in a steak and feed it to any particular specimen of such genus, it would by my neighbor's horrid beast, Rabid Ruby.
Ruby is a boy dog. This is quite apparent when he stands up on his hind legs. He leans up against my neighbor’s chain link fence to bark at me as I walk past, twice a day, every day. I’m an intern at a law office four blocks away from where I live. To avoid getting close to this animal I’ve tried every alternate route, and they all lead in dead ends. If I could afford a car, I would buy one, but my college fees are borderline overwhelming and I can barely pay for proper clothes. I go through little phases in my head of what I think of him as: Rangy Ruby, Retarded Ruby, Ridiculous Ruby... Before I knew his name I thought of him as simply, ‘canine’ often preceded by ‘idiot’.
Predictably, Rabid Ruby was waiting for me at eight o’clock sharp, Friday morning. I walked slowly, as quietly as I could on the opposite side of the street, pressing myself against the fence, but it was too late. I was discovered. You’d be surprised by how loud a Corgi’s bark is; it’s deep, and guttural, and it definitely sounds like it belongs to something with legs longer than my index finger.
One of Ruby’s owners, a tall, frazzled looking woman opened up the door, leaned her head out, and yelled, “Shut your face, Ruby.” The dog ignored her.
This is Mrs. Courtsfeild. She had her stringy red hair up in curlers, and was wearing a dressing gown. Her face was already plastered in make-up, which failed to cover the hicky on her chin and her one slightly blackened eye. I don’t know what she does as a living, but she seems to spend a lot of time indoors. Her husband, Bill, is a frequenter of the Criminal Activity section in the paper. When he’s not in jail, he’s usually shoplifting, driving recklessly, beating his family members, or staggering home drunk. As far as I can tell, anyway.
“Sorry, Al,” Mrs. Courtsfeild called to me, over Ruby.
“It’s no problem,” I answered. I gritted my teeth, and sped up my pace. I didn’t slow down until I was inside my office building, ten minutes before I had to be. I sat down at my desk, slurped the cold remains of yesterday’s coffee out of my cup, and tried to wipe the unpleasant memory out of my mind. It would be a good eight hours before I had to walk home again, and maybe someone would give me a ride.
*
Monday it was worse.
“Ow!” I yelled. “Son of a bitch!”
I shook my leg, hopping on one foot to try to get him off. He had his teeth clamped on to my ankle. I could tell he hadn’t broken the skin yet, but he was latched on so firmly I feared for the worse. I heard a sharp ripping sound as my suit tore, leaving a hole through which I could see his teeth buried in my sock.
Rabies. An acute, infectious disease that affects the central nervous system and is almost invariably fatal to humans. Within five days I could be hydrophobic and feverish. Twelve: comatose. Either hooked up to a respirator or chemically restrained in a quarantine facility.
I tripped, and with the dog still latched onto me like a leech, fell backwards onto the fence. I held myself up and continued trying to get him off of me but he was unstoppable. I lifted my foot a few feet off the ground, shaking it all the time, and the dog literally held on by its teeth, dangling in midair.
“Fucking mongrel!” I growled, through my teeth. He did the same, right back at me. If dogs could swear I knew he’d be a sailor. The pain increased. There’d be blood, I was sure of it. In desperation, I hit my foot against the fence. The dog released me with a yelp, landing sprawled on its side. It leapt to its feet, barking manically, and charged again, but I was too fast. I got up on the fence and pulled my legs up, holding tight to the pickets for balance. Ruby snapped at me below, pacing back and forth like a shark circling a diver in a cage. He stood up on his hind legs, gaining another couple feet. I pulled my legs up further, so that I was in a crouch on top of the fence. I looked across the street and down the block to the Courtsfeild house. The gate, sure enough, was cracked. Inside, the tall grass swayed; a sea of puffy dandelions. The door slammed open, and Bill Courtsfeild stood there, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. His white tank top had yellow stains on the front, and he had a split lip, as if he'd got in a fight. He looked straight at me, then lumbered forward down his steps.
"You abusin' my dog?" he asked.
"Your dog just attacked me," I said. Are you abusing your wife?
"She don't attack without good reason," Bill grumbled. He took a few more steps towards me, and I was painfully aware of my position: balanced precariously on the fence with a Corgi jumping up and down below. "Come on, Ru."
Ruby gave me one last piercing glare, then trotted away towards his owner. I stayed where I was.
"You stay away from her," Bill Courtsfeild warned. His muscles flexed. I saw a tattoo I hadn't noticed before: it said 'Leslie.' "And the rest of us too. I see you walking by. You think you're so smart 'cause you go to some damn fancy school for pretty boys."
He took another step forward. My hand flinched towards my cell phone in my suit pocket. I was about two meters from calling 911.
"Keep out, punk. That's the last thing I'm gonna say."
With a final look that mimicked his dog's almost exactly, he turned and marched back indoors, banging the gate shut behind him. I saw Ruby try to follow him inside but Bill shut the door in his face. Ruby got up and scratched at it for a few seconds, then turned around to stare at me once again, this time quietly.
"Don't start," I said, then began to walk, cautiously, back towards my house. I was late already, and I had to change my clothes, put some Neosporin on and book an appointment for a Tetanus shot as soon as possible. His head turned to follow me, but he remained silent.
"Good dog," I said.
*
You can imagine my delight when the Courtsfeilds moved to Oklahoma. It was combined with a just twinge of guilt; I'd been calling the police a lot lately whenever sounds of a fight broke out, or Mrs. Courtsfeild ran screaming out of the house. Somewhere else, they'd have less of a rescuer. I admit; I did get a certain amount of pleasure from seeing Bill getting dragged off the property in handcuffs. But really, it was for the poor woman's sake. No one else would do it.
I enjoyed two delicious weeks of peace and quiet, during which I walked to work slowly, even stopping from time to time to observe an on sale car or piece of nature. However, on the fifteenth morning, I was greeted with a very unpleasant surprise.
"This your dog?"
The officer was holding a kennel that was shaking back and forth in his arms. It was a bright, cold, Saturday morning. I choked back a yawn, which almost became a sob when I saw what was in the box.
There he was. He had a new chip out of one of his ears, and his fur was sticky and matted. He was splattered with mud, and there was drool sliding out of his mouth. He panted loudly, his little stub of a tail wagging furiously back and forth like a comical alarm clock about to go off.
"Ruby," I said. We meet again.
"So he's yours?"
"No!" I said, as he moved to give me the kennel. I jumped back, and raised my hands protectively. "Absolutely not! He's my neighbor's."
"Oh. When we called the number on his microchip, the man who answered, a Mr. Courtsfile, said he'd given the dog to you."
"Courtsfeild," I corrected, automatically. And then it hit me. I stood, my mouth agape, my brain churning to soak in this new piece of information. What malice… I hadn't even thought a man like Bill had been capable of such an act. Sure: I'd often nursed the fear that he'd come into my house and hit me with a two-by-four, but this was almost unbelievable.
"You know the Courtsfeilds," I said. "They just moved away. You guys came around here pretty often. The husband got in a lot of trouble."
"Sorry, I'm new to the force." The officer smiled politely. "But the man I talked to was definitely a Mr. Courtsfile, and he didn't sound like the type to mess with the law. He actually said you'd try to get rid of this dog for free. But honestly, take him to the pound or something if you don't want to care for him. It only costs sixty bucks to drop an animal off."
I shook my head, speechless. Sentences formed, then withered, over and over again in my mouth.
"It's okay," the cop said, kindly. "I was in college once too. It's a nice dog, though. You really ought to consider keeping him."
He set the kennel down on the ground on my front porch. I heard scuffling sounds from within. The officer and I shook hands (my hand went up and down, limply,) and then he took off down my stairs. At the bottom he paused, and turned around to look at me once again.
"You said his name was Ruby… Is that short for something?"
"Yeah," I said, still in complete denial of what was happening. "Short for Ruben. Like the sandwich. It's… it's his favorite."
*
It was not sixty, but one hundred and sixty dollars to leave a dog to the pound, and it was closed until Monday. I pondered alternative options: setting him loose, sending him to Oklahoma or following my original plan, and poisoning him. However, each had its individual flaws, and I found myself kneeling on the floor with the kennel in front of me, face to face with the animal of my nightmares.
"Listen, dog," I said. "I am giving you fifteen minutes in which not to bite me. If, after those fifteen minutes, I am unscathed, I will allow you to stay the weekend and reconsider your fate on Monday morning. However, if at any time during the following days I find your teeth anywhere near my ankle, or other body parts for that matter, you will be returned to your kennel and denied all but the most basic of privileges."
It was a light threat. I didn't even think I could catch him if he chose to wreak havoc in house. I was bigger, but his beady little eyes told me he was fast. An ounce of menace is worth a pound of strength.
I straddled the kennel and leaned forward, over it, to undo the latch. It burst open like a cork off a champagne bottle: I yelled and jumped backwards as Ruby pelted out, barking and snapping. I could barely follow him with my eyes—he circled me and the kennel twice (I found myself mysteriously on top of it,) then shot towards the kitchen. A sound of breaking glass followed shortly. I swore, then left my sheltered island to chase after him.
Ruby was rolling in the remains of a large glass mixing bowl. He was muddier than even I’d thought: the white tile floor was increasingly brown as he rubbed himself onto it. It was like a reverse mopping action: with the bristles, it just got dirtier and dirtier.
“Bad dog, Ruben!” I shouted.
Ruby paused just enough to look me in the face, then continued rolling. It was clear that his mental handicap was stronger than I’d thought. I was a little surprised he hadn’t hurt himself in all the glass.
I inched by him and opened the refrigerator, feeling around with one hand while keeping both eyes on the dog. My hand touched something damp, and I unfastened the slider on a bag of bacon. I pulled out a raw, slippery piece and held it out in front of me.
Instantly, I had Ruby’s rapt attention. He abandoned the broken bowl (I’d have to replace that,) and began to beg, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His tail wiggled back and forth, but his balance was perfect.
I’m a long-term house sitter. I don’t get paid, but I don’t have to pay, either, to stay in people’s houses for long periods of time. The family whose house I’m currently in habiting is in Brazil, for a year. I water the plants, feed the fish, and break the mixing bowls.
“Ruben, return to your kennel.”
It worked about as well as I expected it too. Ruby stayed where he was, without any sign of having herd me.
“Go to your kennel or you’re going to the pound.” I fed him the piece of bacon. He snapped it up, noisily, and begged for more. Cautiously, I scooped up the broken glass and tossed it in the trash. I was very nervous about lowering myself to his level, but I was able to clean up successfully without incident. He watched me with the intrigue of a thief, watching a diamond transport.
“Don’t stare, Ruben,” I said. “It’s rude.”
I was going crazy too.
*
During work hours, Ruby was confined to a small area of the house, where he could do minimal damage. With the exception of the things he broke, he was relatively inexpensive to care for. He was content to eat my leftovers, and made himself quite at home. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell the family when they returned, buy I assumed I’d think of something. Besides, I told myself, this was just temporary. In a few weeks, I’d be better off financially and able to afford the fee.
Ruby sat across from me in a chair, and I looked at him. He was clean; I’d made him take a shower, and happily gnawing on a Sharpie. He liked those, and it kept him from chewing on anything else.
I checked the clock, and downed the rest of my coffee. Walking to work was much better now. My new neighbors, who had moved into the Courtsfeild house, were very nice, and had already repaired the yard. I waved to the husband as I walked past. He waved back, smiling.
“Hey, Mr. Tide,” I said. I didn’t have to shout; I was on the same side of the street as he was. I stopped to look at what he was working on. The chain length fence was on its way down.
“Good morning, Al!” he answered, cheerfully. He was wearing jeans, and his shirt was tucked in. His wedding ring was neatly polished. “How’s your dog?”
But collage is not college, lol. Collage is an art thing. 
And there's probably a couple of other mistakes I missed, but oh well!
*stars*
