Never, Never. Never!!!

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Along with several short story collections and books of poetry, Cathy has published two novels: WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel. She has also written two volumes of grief poetry in memory of her son Matthew that she hopes might help other grieving parents: MY HEART IS BROKEN and BROKEN HEARTS CAN’T ALWAYS BE FIXED.

This month’s prompt: trying something new; real or fictionalized.

Cathy continues with Melvin (soon to be a novel at this rate!), who decides to get a dog...

 

***

Never, Never. Never!!!

by Catherine A. MacKenzie

 

“I think we need a dog,” Melvin said, eyeing his wife across the table, knowing she’d flip.

Marie dropped her fork onto her dinner plate, chipping the china. “What? A dog?”

“Yup.” Melvin shoved another forkful of beef stroganoff into his mouth and chewed. Chewed. And chewed. “Not quite as tender as I like, Marie.” He paused with his chewing. “I think my teeth are loose.”

“Don’t change the subject, Melvin. You know I hate dogs. The drool. Sniffing at my crotch. Fur everywhere.”

“It’s hair, Marie. Some dogs have hair, not fur. And if we get a dog with hair, it won’t shed.”

Marie picked up her fork and poked at the beef. “There’s dogs that don’t shed?”

“There are.”

“Nope. I still don’t want an animal in the house. Pets are too much work.”

“But William would love a dog.”

“Good thing he’s at Freddie’s tonight. If he were here, he’d be on your side, clamouring for one. But please tell me you wouldn’t have brought it up if he was here. That would’ve been unconscionable on your part.”

“See! You know I’m right.”

“But I live here, too, Melvin. I have rights. I hate dogs. You know that. You knew that when we married. And thanks for ignoring my comment.”

“Nothin’ to say, Marie. Two against one. Nothin’ else for me to say.”

 

***

 

The next day, Melvin and William brought home a puppy.

“Mom!” William screeched before his father closed the door. “Come see.”

Marie, expressionless, appeared from the kitchen.

“This is Puddles, Marie. He’s a poodle. Eight months old. Ain’t he adorable?”

“What?”

“We talked about a puppy, remember?”

“Yes, but we never agreed. And eight months old? I thought you were getting a puppy.”

“He is a puppy, Mom. They’re puppies until they’re a year—if we can believe Google, that is.”

“But... Puppies are supposed to be eight weeks old when you bring them home, not eight months. And he’s sooooo big.”

Melvin scratched his chin. “Yeah, well... I got a deal on him. Someone turned him in at Pet Village down on Main Street. Kinda like Value Village, I guess. Deals at every turn.”

“Turned him in? Who ‘turns in’ a puppy?”

“Guess they didn’t want him. I dunno. He was only a hundred bucks. Better than two thousand at the breeders. And he’s fully trained, too. Knows rules and—”

William set the cream-coloured pup with the tightly curled, matted hair on the foyer floor.

Puddles promptly produced a puddle.

And then a poop.

“Melvin. Look at that!” 

“Sweet, eh, Marie?”  

“Mom, isn’t he adorable?”

Marie flailed her arms. “He just peed. Does no one see that? Pooped, too!”

William raced away and returned with a towel.

Marie flailed her arms again. “Not my good kitchen towel, William. My best friend gave me that.”

“Oh, Marie, it’s just pee,” Melvin said. “That’s why I bought you that washer and dryer set, remember? The very one you wanted. I’m sure dogs don’t have any more germs than humans.”

“But I don’t want to dry dishes with a towel that’s had pee on it.”

“It’s pee, Marie, not poison. I’m sure you’ve peed on towels at one point. And I’m sure you’ve washed and used them again.”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s just pee,” William said as he mopped up the mess.

 

***

 

A week passed. Marie was no happier. She’d never ever wanted a pet (which she’d stated numerous times; in fact, this had been stated in Melvin’s and hers marriage contract).

Puddles continually produced puddles and poop, wherever and whenever he so desired. Neither her son nor her husband seemed interested—or competent—in training the creature. Puddles (obviously an alpha!) had taken over the house. Toys everywhere. Scratching the furniture. Jumping on the furniture. Throwing up on the furniture, not to mention the usual pee and poop on the furniture. Even biting Marie at every opportunity.

“Puddles hates me,” she’d said on numerous occasions.

After two weeks, three, four...

She was fed up to her chin.

“Enough of this crap—literally crap,” she mumbled.

The next day, a Saturday afternoon, four weeks to the day that Puddles joined the family, Melvin and William readied to leave for Canadian Tire to pick up new wiper blades.

“Take Puddles,” Marie said. “Canadian Tire allows pets.”

“Oh, Marie, no. He might have to pee or poop. Better to leave him here.”

After Melvin’s car revved and roared down the driveway, Marie found an appropriately sized box.

 

***

 

Three hours later, Melvin and William returned from their Canadian Tire excursion.

An hour later, William asked about Puddles. (Melvin had never noticed the pup was missing.)

“Get your father,” Marie said.

“Dad!” William yelled. “Mom wants you.”

“William! I could’ve done that myself!”

“Done what, Mom?”

Marie shoved her hands into her apron pockets. Safer there than on someone’s neck.

No, she had more restraint than that. She withdrew her scabbed and bite-bitten hands. Rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. Getting up every two or three hours to take Puddles to potty had added years to her face.

Wasn’t a nice thing she’d done, but she’d had enough. Couldn’t handle any more “dog.”

Melvin appeared from the basement. “What’s up?”

“Can’t find Puddles, Dad. Mom said to call you.”

Melvin scanned the kitchen. Cocked his head (presumably to discern a bark or a moan, neither of which materialized). “Marie, what’s going on?”

Marie pointed to the table. “Guys, sit down.”

“Mom?”

“Marie?”

William and Melvin spoke in unison.

“I have some bad news. And I’m terribly sorry.”

William and Melvin stood. “What’s the bad news?” (Again in unison.)

“Puddles. It—he—ran out the door when I was taking the compost out. I tried to find him, I really did. But...” She covered her eyes and sobbed.

“Mom!”

“Marie!”

“I’m so sorry. Maybe you guys can find him.” She pointed at the door. “It hasn’t been that long.”

William’s big blue eyes lit up as if they were fluorescent bulbs. “Dad, let’s go.”

Marie detested the “look” her husband sent her. If eye-daggers could kill...

When the door slammed behind them, she dried her eyes and puttered to the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass of red wine and a large glass of white (couldn’t decide which she wanted) and sat at the table. While gazing out the window, she smiled.

 

***

 

“Marie! Marie! Look at this.”

“Wha—what?” Marie opened one eye and glanced at the nightstand. She could barely lick her lips; her mouth seemed full of cobwebs. But best night’s sleep she’d had in a month. “Melvin, it’s three in the morning. Is there a fire or something? I’m sure not. Gah, go back to sleep.”

“Marie, it’s Puddles.”

She rubbed her eyes, feeling crusties in the corners.

“It’s Puddles, Marie. Look.”

“Puddles? Where—”

“He’s here.” Melvin thrust out his phone. “Look. At the SPCA. On their website. See his pic? He’s available for adoption. He’s ours! Our dog! What the hell, right? Someone must’ve found him and took him there.”

Marie’s stomach lurched. “No! Really? You sure?”

“It’s him. Look at the bit of black on his right ear. See it?” He didn’t wait for a response. “First thing in the morning, I’ll run in and get him back. That’ll stop our moping and mourning.”

“But—but... Maybe you should leave him there. Might be a better home out there for him than ours. He was quite a handful, you know. And it—he—didn’t really like me...” She silently prayed to God. Any god. Help me, please... She’d done the right thing by dropping him off at the SPCA. (Anonymously, of course, wearing a black hoodie and large dark sunglasses. After making eye contact with one of the staff through the window and motioning for him to come to the door, she’d sprinted back to the car she’d parked three blocks away, tossing the sunglasses and Melvin’s old hoodie into a clump of bushes.)

Dear Lord, give me one break. Please!

“Gotta get there first thing, Marie, or he’ll be gone. Probably a line-up right now for him. Such a sweet feller...miss him sooooo much...unbelievable our luck, eh?”

She lay back on the bed, wishing she could take the pillow from beneath her head and smother herself—or her husband. (Either one; she wasn’t fussy.)

“You gonna come with?” Melvin asked.

Marie rolled over. She hated how he continually omitted the “me” or the “us.” Not correct English; then again, what did she expect?

She faced the wall, unable to see it in the dark, but it was a shade of green. A putrid green. She grasped her feather-filled pillow. Placed it over her head. No one could suffocate self with a stupid pillow; suicide didn’t work as easily as that. No, I’m not gonna go with.

“Night, Melvin,” she mumbled, hoping he heard. No matter if he didn’t. He was such a duffus he’d never clue in no matter which way was right or left, up or down, in or out.

She closed her eyes. Could still breathe despite the pillow over her face. Waited for the nightmares sure to come.

 

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/