dog people
by Nicholas Claro
I go inside for the other bottles. Rod brought over three thinking Kristen was going to hang out too. She’s refused to talk to me and stayed in the bedroom after we got home this morning. When Rod arrived, she turned the television up. We talked and ate while The Great British Bake Off boomed in the background. Later Kristen came out with her hair straightened, wearing a black dress and heels. As she clicked through the kitchen she told me she was going out. She said Hi and Bye to Rod, and Rod said, Jesus goddamn Christ, Kristen, you look divine. She laughed and said, Thanks, before slamming the door.
Back out on the porch, I say, Red or white?
Let’s do white, Rod says.
Where was I? I say, setting down one bottle, twisting the cap off the other.
Too many dogs in the world, he says.
I refill our glasses.
I was telling him how Kristen dragged me to Petland this morning to look at dogs up for adoption.
While parking, I tell her we’re here only to look. I say, I don’t think we’re dog people. She gives me this look like I owe her at least this and I’m thinking maybe she’s right. Then she says, What kind of people can we be then? I just shrug and follow her. And get this—there’s a line. And we wait in it. It’s like 90 degrees. Brutal. Too hot for March. The pear trees aren’t even budding yet. I complain the whole time and she ignores me.
Rod scoots forward in his chair. He’s a good listener. It’s one reason I like Rod.
We drink.
So I’m sweaty when we get inside, I say. The air-conditioner’s blasting and in no time I’m cold. I don’t like abrupt change.
Especially the kind that makes you uncomfortable, Rod says.
And the whole building smells like piss. I feel like I’m the only person who notices this. Everyone else is surrounding this massive metal pen, pointing and gawking like they’ve never seen puppies before. Anyway, Kristen and I wander around. Eventually I wander away from her. Have you seen how expensive dog food gets? I say. One bag was $75.99. That’s a weeks-worth of groceries for her and me.
Another mouth, Rod says.
That’s the thing, I say. That’s just it.
We finish our glasses. I refill them.
I look at leashes, treats, toys. Tallying the cost of everything. It’s astronomical. I’m comparing heartworm medications when this employee approaches me and goes, Finding what you’re looking for? How common is this? I ask, shaking the box. It’s not uncommon, he says.
I go looking for Kristen, who I find at the edge of the pen. She’s saying, C’mere cutie, and clapping. Right here, cutie. Cutie, cutie, cutie. She stops clapping and bends down, comes up holding a puppy by the scruff of its neck. It sort of looks like a wolf, only it’s dark brown and tan striped. The dog kicks its legs like it’s treading water and I get this sensation in my gut, like I’m plummeting on a roller coaster, you know? I can feel every hair on my arms and neck stand, and I’m thinking, How is it that I’m the one who doesn’t even want a goddamn dog and I know better than not to hold one like that?
So I say, Don’t hold it like that.
Kristen turns, lifting the puppy higher. It’s still kicking its little legs.
This is how his mother would hold him, she says. He’s cute, right?
Put it down, I say. You’re going to hurt it.
I won’t, she says. I would never.
She keeps repeating this. I would never. I would never. Holding the puppy the exact same way.
I shake my head.
What happened after that? Rod asks. I mean, like, what’d you do?
I didn’t do anything, I say. I just went back out to the car and waited. She stormed out about fifteen minutes later carrying a bag full of shit. A collar, a leash, and a dog bed. Thankfully no dog. I laugh. I take a drink. Sometimes she doesn’t make any sense to me, I say.
I laugh a little more but stop when I notice Rod isn’t laughing.
He looks sad, underwhelmed. He’s expected something more, a blowout, I think, some big ordeal. He takes a breath. He says, This is something she really wants.
Yeah, I say. What’s your point?
Maybe you should try to find some middle ground, he says.
I don’t think there’s any middle ground in this situation, I say. If I budge on the dog, it’ll show her I’m willing to budge on other, bigger things. Don’t you get that?
You’re right. You know what? Forget it. He laughs. It isn’t the funny kind of laughter. What do I know about women anyway? he says.
Rod shakes his head. He takes a sip of wine like he needs to make it last. As if there isn’t another bottle at my feet. Only, he isn’t looking at my feet. He’s looking at me, straight through me. Like he’s seen something behind me lurking in the dark.
Nicholas Claro is an MFA candidate in fiction at Wichita State University and serves on the editorial board of Nimrod International Journal as a fiction reader. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, The McNeese Review (online), Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y, and my short story "A Few Things Before Coffee" was an honorable mention in Glimmer Train's 2018 Very Short Fiction contest.