The man slammed the phone down. His patience for phone calls and simple conversation was slim.
“Hmph.” He huffed, looking around at his accumulation of precious goods, objects and memories.
As one surveys a garbage dump or looks upon the body of an open sea, the vastness of space overwhelms the being, forcing one to look away in order to gain the sense of self again. Such was the feeling as one looked upon the boxes and stacks the man had collected.
It was this that he knew. Each object, animate or not, served a purpose. It was the piano from his youth, the book from a close friend, the mirror taken as a friend, the chair from his father, the picture of the old yellow dog, now that was a story. These passing pleasures were his string to the earth. As his age grew in numbers, he clung to the strings. They bound him to earth, promising to help him remain in that which he had always known, that which was secure.
He looked out his window, sitting in the chair his father owned, he saw the New York cityscape, the busy traffic and populated earth. He had done this every day for the past 5 years and nothing really had changed. The busy streets and hyped up fervor were always there. The shadows enlisted by the sun were present; even the pigeons that infested the alley stayed the same.
This is why the dog stood out. It was not a very attractive dog or one to stand out. But still it stood different from everything surrounding it. Getting up to get a better look the man muttered something about irresponsible young people and the slow destruction of the city.
The dog didn’t move; it remained still when the man stared and then glared, even when he yelled out the window. No amount of profanities made the dog shift. Anger began to fester as the man muttered, finding a coat, a stick and the door.
This however, was not a day of good. The elevator in his 4-floor apartment building was malfunctioning, forcing him to walk 2 flights of stairs. The years between 50 and 70 had not treated him well, where proper diet and exercise became phantoms, which he had learned to ignore. None of this had really mattered, until now, when his mission was clearly stated.
When he got to the door that acted as a barrier between him and the outside world, he stopped. He wondered what exactly he was doing, chasing a runaway dog. It seemed more like an impasse than a probable mission. He opened the door and was hit with a gust of air unfamiliar to him. Turning around he shut the door and walked back up the stairs into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He stood at the window watching the dog. It didn’t move.
Waking the next day, a new wave of bitterness entered his room. Stumbling out of bed and looking towards the window he saw the yellow dog, sitting but now staring up at him.
He muttered through clenched teeth as he attempted once more to go out and scare the dog away. He made it to the cement pad outside the door before turning back.
It rained. The dog still waited outside for its elusive owner.
It was windy. The dog waited.
Snow littered the streets. The dog still waited, and the man watched from his window for a change. But none came.
This habit had become so natural to the man that he barely noticed the change. He had regarded the surroundings of the back alley each day. He looked and projected what he remembered from the previous day. It was in these simple projections he lost a little piece of reality. One morning he saw the little piece he had failed to take notice of.
“It’s gone!” he yelled. It was true the dog had left. As one removes a sliver and feels instantaneous relief, the man went about his business filled with new vigor. He began cleaning the neglected shadows of his apartment. Scraping the grime from the microwave and cleaning the tiles of the bathroom were welcome changes. The sliver of the unusual dog had been released from his constant watch and that had brightened his life. How much time he would now have on his hands! Whistling he went out he door to check for mail.
In some place between the stairs and his door it hit him. The dog was gone. His mind flooded with thoughts, where had it gone? Would it be back? Had someone stolen it or had the owner claimed it?
The thoughts of relief quickly turned into anxiety. He was slowly caught in the whim of loneliness. The steadfast loyal behavior of the dog was now gone. As quickly as these thoughts had entered his mind, he resolved that they were ridiculous. He did not care for the dog; these impulses were just his body reacting to the new increase of sunlight in his apartment.
As he returned to his room he went to close the curtain. He saw the streets and the sun amidst their fervent routine. For a moment he waited before he shut the blinds.
But that did not shake this heavy feeling.
The next day the dog was still not there.
As he puttered around, eating here and shuffling there, he would look at the drawn curtain, close his eyes and envision its disappearance. When he shut out what he knew to be reality, he found it a little easier to accept the fact that the sun was still shining and the breeze still blowing. Opening them again, he saw the curtain was still a curtain, his hands were still hands, and feet still feet.
The man sat in his chair facing the window, watching and waiting for something spectacular to come back. The longer he sat still the larger the need to find the dog grew. Not acting on his own accord, his body came to a stand. His feet moved towards the door and his hands closed it behind him. His knees bent at each stair, soles promising not to return. Walking through the doors, he stopped, turned around and nodded, as if in a farewell.
As he walked, parting from every shred of security, the fear that had diligently gripped him began to fade. Direction seemed to turn obsolete as courage picked up his step. It was when courage entered that his feet found their way to an old park. Here his eyes saw the trees, great tall beings that had become foreign friends to him. As he passed them, they saluted his quest, using the wind to push his back onward. It was when he reached the end of the park that he saw the small hill, and over the hill the tracks of the railroad. Here he saw something move. The wind pushed him further as the trees groaned louder. “Come on old boy,” they all said, “Come on.” The moving animal was now sitting still on the tracks, waiting. The dog’s tail hit the ground, drumming to the melodies of courage.
These last steps made him notice the pain in his feet and the ache in his knees. A growing thirst dwelled in his mouth and hunger in his belly. This was not his mission, he thought, how will I find my way back home?
As if someone had packed a suitcase to tight, the rationality of thought poured into his mind. These thoughts soon became louder and stronger than the courage and fiercer than the trees.
He stopped. Looking at the dog, he shook his head, disappointed in his foolish journey. The dog looked back at him, thudding its tail quietly.
He looked back at where he come from, searching for a sign to turn back home.
No sign came. All he heard was the constant thud, thud, thud of the dog’s tail.
Slowly, through the protest of his joints, he kneeled down and held out his hand, uttering the words common to man and dog.
“Come.” The dog didn’t move, but looked eagerly at the man, waiting for a genuine sign of faith. The man slowly got up. Standing on his own two feet he tried once more.
“Come.” The dog stood still.
Turning away the man’s insecurities were summoned, and attacked with full force as courage made its flight. The wind had stilled and the trees silenced. As the man walked away, old and stiff, the dog got up and followed. Just as the pages of a book naturally unfold, enveloping the reader, a smile escaped the man’s heart to his lips.
“Come on old boy.” He muttered to the dog who knew this was not a command directed at him but to the man himself.
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