The Dog That Whispered (4 page)

W
ILSON PACED
around the house that afternoon, holding Thurman's blanket. Thurman obviously considered following him, but he must have been cognizant of Wilson's anxiety issues. Instead, he sat on the braided rug in the kitchen, enjoying the afternoon sun on his back. There were not many windows in Gretna's apartment, and none of them seemed to let in a lot of natural sunlight. There were no windows in the shelter and Thurman did not know how long he had been there, out of the sun.

So he sat, his eyes half-closed, his breathing regular, enjoying the warmth and apparently enjoying the quiet environment of Wilson's home.

At Gretna's, well, there was always the sound of televisions or doors slamming or someone calling out to someone or a phone ringing with no one hearing well enough to acknowledge it and answer.

In the shelter, there was constant barking and the metallic tang of bars being shut and locked, that clattering sound of dog nails on hard concrete.

But here, in this smallish house, in the afternoon sun, there was quiet.

And Thurman liked that quiet.

Wilson, on the other hand, seemed to grow more anxious as every potential bedding spot for Thurman was evaluated, considered, and then discarded, as Wilson found some manner of disagreement with it.

Not in his bedroom.

Too close. He'll worry me being that close. Maybe he'll bark at night.

Not in the spare bedroom.

I don't want to mess it up in case I have guests. They might be allergic
.

He had not had overnight guests in over a decade, but no matter.

Not in the kitchen.

What if he gets into the pantry? Dogs do that, right?

Finally, after two circuits through the house, Wilson, frazzled, stood in front of Thurman with blanket in hand.

“Okay. Okay. So where do you want to sleep?”

Thurman looked up and growled.

“It doesn't matter? Is that what you said?”

Good grief. I'm pretending that this beast is sentient and understands English
.

Wilson looked down at Thurman, who looked back up, grinning.

Just like I pretend that my students are sentient and understand English. Of which I am not always certain
.

Thurman growled and walked into the room with the big chair and stack of books. He looked about and sat down.

He growled out,
Here
.

Wilson was about to ask why, but he watched Thurman look to the back of the house, then to the front, and then to the steps. From this one spot near the couch, Thurman could see the back door, the front door, and the steps leading upstairs.

Wilson turned his head.

“You want to stand guard?”

Thurman smiled and growled a yes.

As Wilson put the blanket down, and as Thurman mooshed it to fit his specific requirements, Wilson considered just how absurd and bizarre and unbalanced and disturbing these last thirty minutes had become.

“Dogs don't talk. People don't understand growls. And I'm not crazy.”

Thurman sat on his blanket, looked up, and growled in agreement.

The next morning, Wilson woke earlier than normal, and his normal was most early, well before sunup. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face and feeling the creaks and groans of his body, the angry pings from his shoulder and back, the twists and twinges always the forerunner of a memory—a memory he had spent decades trying to ignore.

Mornings were not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed affairs. Or at least they had not been to him for the past few decades.

He stood and flexed at the waist, first to the right and then the left, a series of pops and cracks emanating from the various joints in his lower back.

He took a deep breath, walked to the window, opened up a gap in the blinds, and stared out to the darkened street beyond. A few cars slipped past, headlights glistering in the early fog.

The dog doesn't talk. I am sure of that. I'm projecting. My mother has that effect on me. She acted as though the dog was aware—and now I am believing her as well. It's all because of her. I'm susceptible to nudges like that. I am. It's probably genetic. And she's done that all her life.

He had wrestled with those truths most of the night, not sleeping well as a result.

But then, he hadn't slept well since…since a long, long time ago. Not that much different to last night—except this night's restlessness had a dog at the center of it. And his mother.

He grabbed his robe off the peg on the back of the door, slipped into his slippers, and padded downstairs as silently as he could.

By the time he was halfway down the steps, the beast was awake and standing at the foot of the stairs, grinning and wagging his tail in an incoherently happy manner.

Wilson waited until he was at ground level to speak.

“Thurman.”

Thurman responded with a small jump, front paws only, and a warbled growl.

It might have been
Morning
. But it was most likely just a growl.

Let's face it, Wilson, dogs don't talk and you don't understand barks and growls. Let's just chalk this up to a busy day and having a horrid surprise sprung on you all of a sudden by your mother and that's all. Overwhelmed. That's it. That's what happens.

Wilson, perhaps taking after his mother, often addressed himself in the third person when talking to himself—as if he was simply an observer of the life that swirled around him.

Yes, I know it sounds ludicrous. That's what forty years of living alone will do to you.

“I suspect you need to go outside.” It was a statement, not a question.

Thurman jumped again, doing a delicate half-twist as he did, like a furry ballet dancer of a sort. A smiling, four-legged ballet dancer. With fur. And a very long, relaxed pink tongue.

Wilson walked to the back door and Thurman followed at his side. Wilson had his hand on the doorknob, then turned to Thurman with a stern look.

“There will be no swimming this morning. Understand? No water.”

Thurman looked up with a look of disappointment.

He growled.

“I mean it. No swimming. Not this morning.”

Thurman looked down at his paws for a moment, as if thinking that literally interpreting this statement might also mean that swimming would be allowed later in the day. It was obvious that he could abide by that rule.

He smiled up at Wilson.

“Okay. Out. Don't sneak off. I'm going to make coffee. I will watch for you. Okay?”

By the time Wilson was done making his pot of coffee, Thurman was sitting by the back door, staring in, dry and happy and smiling.

I can't believe it. He does understand English.

A
FTER CLASS
that afternoon, Wilson swallowed hard and mentally hitched up his thoughts.

Two doors down from his faculty office on the twelfth floor—a small, cramped room that he kept agonizingly devoid of all decoration, as if thinking he might be forced to pack up at a moment's notice—was the office of a Dr. Robert Limke, a small, wizened man who had some manner of doctorate in some area of psychology, a field that Wilson had long declared to be pure bunkum.

Wilson had a nodding acquaintance with Dr. Limke and occasionally had been invited to his home for some tedious manner of faculty get-together. He had attended a few of them over the last few decades and found them barely tolerable.

He assumed that Dr. Limke viewed these social obligations with the same disregard as he did.

Perhaps it was because Dr. Limke had a perpetual scowl on his face.

Wilson wondered if that was because of genetics or some sort of industrial accident.

He saw the small, shadowy figure through the frosted glass.

He tapped.

“What?” came the barked reply.

Wilson set his face to neutral and opened the door a crack, the thickness of a piece of toast.

“You have a minute?” he asked.

Dr. Limke stared at the small opening.

“Dr. Steele? Yeah. Sure. A minute. Come on in. Or at least open the door a little more.”

Wilson opened it enough so that he could stand halfway inside.

“You coming to the faculty mixer this weekend?”

Wilson had no knowledge of a faculty mixer, this weekend or otherwise.

“Maybe.”

Dr. Limke actually grinned after a moment.

“Yeah. Neither am I. Stupid things. An excuse to drink. Like I need an excuse.”

Wilson nodded.

“So what do you want? Professional or personal?”

Wilson looked a little surprised.

“Advice,” Dr. Limke explained. “The only reason someone voluntarily talks to a head-shrinker is for advice. Like we have answers to anything.”

“Uhhh…I guess personal.”

“Shoot.”

“Long story…about a dog, sort of. My mother is forcing me to take care of this mutt—which is something she's really good at, I mean, forcing me to do things I don't want to do and…well, I listen to this stupid animal growling, and for the life of me, it sounds like it's trying to talk. That's crazy, right? Like the dumb beast understands and is trying to form words. Crazy, right?”

Dr. Limke leaned back and folded his hands together and placed two fingers under his chin, as if he had to supplement his neck muscles in supporting the weight of his oversized head.

“Your mother, you say?”

“Yes.”

“You don't want the dog?”

“No. Not really.”

“Your mother makes you feel guilty.”

“She is very skilled at it.”

Dr. Limke pursed his lips.

“The dog isn't telling you to do…anything illegal? Or dangerous, is it?”

“No. Just talking. Normal things. Like, ‘When's dinner?'”

“Hmmmm.”

Wilson waited, then said, “Sort of crazy, right? I'm projecting, right?”

Dr. Limke nodded.

“Probably projecting. That's normal for people with pets. And this is my five-minute, snap diagnosis. You want the real definitive answer, make an appointment at my practice. But your mother, this dog, guilt…that's a heady concoction for sure. Though lots of people who have dogs swear that the dog talks to them. Or at least the dogs let them know what they want. No big deal. Not crazy. Eccentric, perhaps. Not crazy. Harmless, actually. We have a dog at home that I know hates me and is plotting against me. Leaves toys on the stairs so I'll fall down and break my neck and then he can claim my side of the bed. But that's another story.”

Wilson drew in a large breath.

“But if the dog tells you to get a gun or something like that,” Dr. Limke cautioned cheerfully, “you come back right away and we'll talk. Okay? No appointment needed. Okay?”

Wilson nodded. “Okay. Not crazy. Dogs don't talk. Projecting. No guns. Got it.”

That evening, Wilson ate his individually sized take-out pepperoni pizza, while Thurman watched expectantly from a respectful distance. The dog did not whine or whimper, just stared. Wilson gathered up his plate and the empty box and looked down at the dog.

“Dogs aren't supposed to eat pizza.”

Thurman looked back, appearing shocked, and growled.

“Don't tell me that they are,” Wilson replied.

Thurman shook his head and re-growled his response.

“They are not. You have your food over there,” Wilson said as he pointed to the half-full bowl of kibbles.

Thurman dutifully regarded the bowl, then turned back and instead of a growl, made a
Yuck
sound deep in his throat.

“Regardless, that is what you will eat.”

Thurman just stared.

Wilson stared back.

“And I know you can't talk. Even Dr. Limke agreed with me. He said it was simply me projecting. Because of my mother. No dogs talk. No dogs understand. I know that, Thurman. And so do you.”

Thurman lost his smile.

And then he growled out what sounded exactly like
Bunkum.

Wilson eyed him as he placed his dish by the sink.

“Maybe. But that's the truth I am assuming to be true. That's the truth both of us are going with.”

And maybe it is because I've been alone so long. Maybe it's because of that…and all the rest of my past. Now it comes out. Now it begins to manifest itself. After all these years. Buried memories will out, someday.

And then Thurman growled out
Bunkum
again, stood, walked into the family room, and let himself fall onto his blanket, his back toward Wilson and everything else.

“I am going to the grocery store, Thurman,” Wilson said. “I need coffee and bread and half-and-half…And I suppose you need some dog food.”

Thurman stood and smiled and growled.

Friskies
.

Wilson scowled and pretended that his growl did not sound like an endorsement for a specific brand of dog food that Wilson was not even sure was a current brand, since he never traveled down the pet food aisle at the Giant Eagle supermarket.

“You have to behave while I am gone. There will be no ‘accidents,' right?”

Thurman looked up, offended, and growled,
I am not an animal
.

Wilson did not want to engage in what he knew was an activity that was beginning to verge on real psychosis.

“No. I do not think you are an animal, Thurman. I think you are largely a figment of my overwrought imagination. A manifestation of repressed painful memories. Or at least some of you is. Or are.”

Thurman smiled, sat down on his blanket, and growled,
I am Thurman
.

“Yes. Of course you are,” Wilson replied, his thick irony beginning to dissipate, much as an early fog slowly becomes invisible over time and with adequate sunlight.

And with that, he entered the garage, closed the door firmly, and unlocked his automobile, a vehicle he used primarily to go and buy groceries.

He heard Thurman growl from behind the door,
Friskies
.

Wilson closed his eyes.

Please
.