CHAPTER FOUR

I knew I hadn’t misheard the guttural, almost smoker-like, voice that emanated from my new canine companion. Nonetheless, I stared at him, in awe, unable to dismiss the improbability of my presently unfolding encounter with him—no matter how much I yearned to do precisely just that. Dumbfounded, I stared at him and he back at me.

When it was clear that he was waiting for me to react, I addressed him, nervously and with a twinge of fear in my voice, asking simply, “What… What on Earth is happening right now?”

The dog then incredulously turned his head to the side, as dogs are wont to do, and so I continued my increasingly frantic inquiries: “Who are you? Where am I? What’s going on?!?”

I can understand how a person might think the more prudent or even more obvious verbal reaction would have been to reaffirm what I claimed to have heard—to softly and inconspicuously ask the dog, in a voice near to a whisper, when I was sure no one else was looking, if that dog had indeed just spoken clear intelligible English. Having experienced the situation myself, though, I can report that I never faltered in my faith that he had addressed me, in spoken word.

Yes: I tried to remain inconspicuous to the crowd but I didn’t require affirmation about what had just occurred. I knew unequivocally that this dog had spoken to me. There was a bit of desperation in my voice, which I’m sure he must have noted, but that was due to the fact that I found my predicament to be credible and true—not because I had any doubts in it!

It took him an unnerving amount of time to respond and that made me increasingly anxious. To me, it seemed like eons, though I imagine it was only seconds. Perhaps he was expecting a question centered around validating his ability to speak. Perhaps he was disappointed that I hadn’t, as of yet, asked it. Did he prep for this moment? Did he rehearse a scene where I was a bit more bewildered? Did he want that? Had my acceptance of the situation confused or unhinged him? Was he just messing with me?

“I heard one of the witnesses say he didn’t have his lights on,” he finally began. “Lives here in the park, I think. Probably just pulled out of his driveway and hadn’t realized it yet.”

“What?” I gasped, scanning the crowd out of concern someone would see me talking to this dog. No one seemed to notice me at all though. The two women I could see, without straining myself, were both busy chattering amongst themselves; besides, all they would have observed—should they have decided to look my way—was me talking to a very normal-looking, middle-aged, male German shepherd, in a seated position. His mouth never moved—not in a way that was consistent with forming words, that is—but I heard his voice nonetheless.

“It makes sense: black car, no lights, nighttime, earbuds. I saw one on the ground, on my way over here, by the way.” He paused as I reached my hand to my ear, as if to confirm what he had said. He was right; he nonchalantly noted my realization and then continued: “Your hoodie is up and I can see glass stuck to the back of it. I’m assuming you had it pulled down, over your face?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered.

“That’s what I figured. Kind of a perfect storm.” With that, he suddenly stood up on all fours and exclaimed, “Oh yeah! The storm too! Who the heck jogs at night, in the snow, with their head down and earbuds in, by the way?”

“I… uh…” My trailing thoughts began to prevent a well-thought-out answer to his question. Slowly, my eyes started to survey the carnage around me. The glass stuck to the back of my hoodie—I had been thinking that it was gravel poking into the back of my head but yes: glass made more sense. It fit in with the broken pieces of reflector, blood (mine, I had assumed), and the car underneath which the right half of my body now lay. I also heard voices but, as I strained my neck, to see in multiple directions, my vision betrayed me, displaying only blurry outlines of people encircled around me.

“They’ve called an ambulance,” he told me. “Don’t worry. I think he’s just collecting statements from everyone right now.”

Giving up and letting gravity slowly return my head to the pavement, I confusedly asked, “Who?”

“Who, what?” he fired back.

I was annoyed at how quickly he retorted—almost as if he had already read the script of our conversation and he was jumping ahead of his lines, without letting the words sink in, as the rookie actors from my local theatre often did. “Who’s collecting statements?” I asked, trying to curtail the irritation in my voice.

“Oh. Sorry. Officer Walcott. My partner.”

“Oh.” I was trying to let everything sink in but, after a few seconds, he interrupted my puzzled thoughts.

Impatiently, he asked, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I struggled for a moment to study his face but the ludicrousness of the situation overtook me. As I pondered his question, I saw the beast return to a sitting position. He almost seemed pleased that he had stumped me.

Is he seriously asking me if I recognize him—as compared to other German shepherds? It was too much for me and, as my mind deliberated over all of this, I got the sense that my new acquaintance took an odd satisfaction in my failure to place him.

Sanctimoniously, he then cut into my timid silence: “Typical human. My name is Cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon,” I repeated, as if I had never heard the word before. In that moment, my brain began to formulate a joke about cinnamon and “Spice”—an exotic dancer who was a friend of mine—but I thought better of it. Too esoteric, I told myself. Instead, I simply remained quiet and tried to let his name sink in.

“Do you even recognize Officer Walcott?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to sit up to look. I tried a moment ago and it didn’t go so well.” He started to interject but, talking over him, I added, “Things farther away are kind of blurry too.”

“That’s not important anymore,” he retorted.

“What’s not important anymore?” I queried.

“Just sit up and look. No one’s going to stop you.”

With a more-than-subtle amount of pain coursing through my leg, head and neck, I managed to erect my torso, in a somewhat reclined position, by resting my forearms against the cold, snowy concrete below. My vision was beginning to correct itself, which allowed me to gaze upon the countenance of the police officer I had been instructed to examine. He was speaking quite intently to a man who was waving his arms all around, and pointing toward a vacant spot, in the street, as he answered the officer’s questions. This officer did seem somewhat familiar but my mind struggled to place him.

As I probed the depths of my brain for the comfort that comes with identifying a strangely familiar face, I let my focus stray and began to take note of the other bystanders talking amongst themselves and to their own electronic devices. It was almost as if they were willfully ignoring me. Observing their various placements, in the circle they had haphazardly formed around me, I began to fear that they would all at once descend upon me, rushing toward my helpless form at any moment, as they murmured amongst themselves, driven by their frantic attempts to divine meaning from all of this.

In all their devotion to each other, however, they had seemingly failed to notice that the source for all their inquires was now alert and stirring. They spoke readily amongst themselves and shouted unintelligible statements at Officer Walcott but seemed almost oblivious to the fact that I was there at all. I wondered if they even saw me and, in truth, I actually hoped that they didn’t. Even the woman who had already addressed me once before seemed unaware of me now.

Despite little evidence to the contrary, I couldn’t help but feel as though my anonymity would, at any moment, give way to the crowd’s urge to assert itself into my life. That made my inconspicuous status fragile—more fragile than I would have liked—and so I kept a cautious eye on the crowd.

Hampered by my insecurities, I watched them and, as the rapport between Cinnamon and myself began to thrive, so too did my overwhelming concern for how the mob would perceive me, should they suddenly come to realize that I had been conversing with a dog. “All these people…” I started to say.

“Neighbors,” he answered, before I could even formulate my question. “People who heard the screeching tires and the impact of metal on meat. Ignore them. My partner and I have them under control. They won’t bother you.”

His phrasing left something to be desired but perhaps he was right. Peering more closely at everyone around me, my outlook began to change and I found myself inclined to believe my new friend. With that in mind, I chose to try and avoid thinking about everyone else and turned my attention back to Cinnamon.

I reflected on his question about whether or not I recognized his partner for a few short seconds. I then wiped some of the falling snow from my face and responded to my inquisitor: “Your partner—he does look kind of familiar.”

“All of this should seem familiar to you, really.”

Pondering Cinnamon’s words, I realized that this was, indeed, all eerily reminiscent of another run of mine. Was this conversational dog somehow in my head or had I displayed that look—the one we all get when we suddenly recall something that someone else has asked us to remember? I either displayed that look or Cinnamon was psychic because, before I could respond verbally, he triumphantly belted out, “Yeeeeeeah. Noooooow you remember.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“You, on the ground. Squad cars all around you,” he prompted. Turning my head to toward the car underneath which half of my body had been cast, I stayed silent, hoping my lack of cooperation would encourage him to stop harassing me. Instead, he said, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

***

I continued to ignore Cinnamon for several moments, until he bit down into my arm—not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to get my attention. “Hey!” I cried out, snapping my head back toward him.

“I’m talking to you! Pay attention,” he then demanded.

“I am paying attention!” I defiantly hissed, in an elevated whisper I hoped wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention.

“Admit it then,” he pressed. “I know you remember us.”

“Fine. Yeah. I remember you.”

“You remember both of us,” he insisted.

“Yeah,” I bitterly conceded. “I remember both of you.”

With a bit of smugness, he then said, “Never thought I’d run into you again.”

“Me neither.”

“Figured you’d be dead or in jail by now,” he indifferently told the ground.

“Why would you say something like that?” I asked cautiously, while simultaneously trying to mask the offense I took to his statement.

“You just didn’t seem… ‘right.’ What was going on with you anyway?”

I thought for a second and then asked, “And what makes you think I’m ‘right’ now? I’m having a conversation with a dog, after all, aren’t I?”

“There was something up with you that day,” he prodded. “You know it’s true.”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Humor me.”

After a somewhat awkward silence, I finally relented and told him, “That was the night that I…” But I stopped. I was scared to continue—to admit what I knew to be true. He waited silently for me to continue and so I let the night sky above me reacquire my gaze and then said, “Everything changed that night.”

“Changed how?” Cinnamon wanted to know.

Without any foreseeable escape from his line of questioning, I admitted, “I’ve been… I’ve been reliving that night in my head, over and over, for some time now.” I could tell he wanted more but I didn’t give it to him. Eventually, in an effort to change the subject, I added, “Your partner was actually pretty decent to me. He could have made things a lot worse on me, if he wanted to.”

Puffing up his chest, Cinnamon concurred with me: “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s no pushover. Above all else, though, he does truly want to help.” As he spoke the last part of that sentence, I noticed his proud tone softened a bit.

I could tell he was enamored with his partner and I wanted to commiserate and tell him I too appreciated my own personal experience with Officer Walcott so I did. I furthermore told him that I always felt guilty that I didn’t have a chance to properly thank him for the way he handled my previous encounter with him.

The dog seemed to consider this, for a moment, before he responded: “He has to keep working crowd control and, after the ambulance arrives, he’ll have to hang back to finish his investigation. It’s unlikely you’ll get much of a chance, honestly.”

As I reflected on the dog’s words, I looked back toward Walcott’s direction. He was talking to an older man now. The younger, more animated man, with whom he was speaking earlier, was now pacing nervously, off to the side. He, like everyone else in the crowd, seemed to be waiting to talk to Walcott again.

“That’s too bad,” I asserted, as I continued to observe him.

“You know, you could talk to me about it,” the dog offered.

“Talk to you?”

“Why not? I’m his partner, after all.”

As I evaluated his proposal, Cinnamon began to shift his head around, to better bite at his backside. Not content to simply stop there, he raised his left hind leg a few inches off the ground, to better make room for his head, which he placed there to more easily lick his most private of areas.

I didn’t know what to say and so I looked back toward the sky and said nothing. Before long, he noticed the uncomfortable silence and said, “I don’t know why you all get so bent out of shape about this.”

“I’m sorry. This is all just… really, really strange, isn’t it?”

“Only as strange as you make it.”

“What does that mean?” My teeth had begun to chatter, as I voiced my question. I imagine the initial shock of the situation was wearing off and reality was starting to creep back in. Unfortunately, on this night, reality was cold and I was underdressed.

Cinnamon ignored my chattering and I was actually glad for it. “Look, I’ll help you get started here. I’ll tell you what I remember of that night, okay?”

Without considerable hesitation, I agreed, eager for a momentary reprieve in his line of questioning. Talking to Cinnamon made me feel… “unprepared” and being unprepared made me feel like a moron. Because of that, I was happy for the opportunity to recalibrate my brain to the situation at hand.

“So,” he began, “we had just finished up with a domestic violence call. Real piece of work, this guy. When we pulled up, they were both on the lawn, screaming at each other—boyfriend and girlfriend, I think. I don’t think they were married.” He paused for a moment to think. “No… no; I don’t think so but… I guess don’t really know. Anyway, this guy had a look in his eye, like he was going to kill this chick. Seriously. I think it might have been a homicide call, had we arrived any later.”

“You could tell all that from the car?”

“Absolutely! Body language, the look in his eye, the shouting! Besides all that, humans have a sort of… ‘aura,’ I guess—for lack of a better word. We can pick up on it—see things that you don’t think we can see. Things you’re trying hide, even.”

“An aura?”

“Yeah. We have an amazing ability to sense things that you don’t. I could try to explain it but that ambulance will be here soon so I’ll just leave it at this: we sense things that humans don’t.”

As Cinnamon continued his story, I began to wonder how far away the ambulance actually was and why no one was checking on me. I was growing colder by the second. I held my fear in check, though, and tried to keep my chattering jaw still, while I observed the animal.

My wandering mind had caused me to miss some of what he was saying but, as I became invested in the conversation once more, I remember him saying, “And Walcott kept telling the guy to be quiet and to sit on the ground—ya know, in order to deescalate the situation.” I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t need any further affirmations that I was listening to him. He didn’t. “The guy just kept screaming, though, as if he didn’t even see us. He heard Walcott threaten to let me out of the car, though, and that suddenly calmed him down.”

“I bet.”

“Humans can’t understand us—well, ones who aren’t like you anyway—so, to the suspect, I was just barking nonsense but what I was actually saying was, ‘Let me out of here, Walcott! It’s go time!’ I couldn’t wait to neutralize this guy. That’s not what he heard, mind you, but he definitely understood.”

“What do you mean, ‘humans who aren’t like me?’” I interrupted once he had taken a moment to catch his breath.

“You know: in your ‘situation.’”

“What do yo—”

“Listen. Your transgression with us—it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, I remember it, of course, but we deal with crazy stuff like that almost every day. You understand?”

“I do but I—”

“Just listen then,” he said, cutting me off once more. Next, he took a long, deep breath, which I took as evidence that he wasn’t willing to entertain any more of my existential questioning. Since he was, thus far, my only source of information and because I was slightly intimidated by him, I decided to give him his wish and relent a bit, at least for the moment.

When he seemed to be satisfied that I had decoded all of his nonverbal admonishments, he continued, in a slightly annoyed (but also somehow softer) temperament: “Anyway, as is unfortunately so often the case, this particular woman decided not press any charges.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s normal?” I asked.

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘normal’ but it’s common.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently, she just wanted him off her property so, once Walcott was satisfied that our suspect had calmed down, he allowed him to drive off to stay the night with his friend. Literally, about thirty seconds after we had finished up and driven away, we got a call that some guy had OD’d at Hector’s.”

“I can understand why people thought that,” I said, swallowing my shame as I spoke. Gathering additional courage, I decided to add, “That’s not what happened though.”

“So what did happen then?”

After I took a deep breath of my own, I told him about my night with Diane, six months ago. I spared no detail and the conversation flowed freely until I reached the point in the story where I was about to lose consciousness on the bench, outside the restaurant. “As we were sitting there, on the bench,” I mumbled, “I started to feel a panic attack coming on. I don’t know if… do dogs get panic attacks?”

“We get anxious,” he explained. “Yeah. Some more so than others. We get headaches; we get cancer. We get almost everything that you do.”

I felt like telling him there’s anxiousness and then there’s a panic attack—just like there are headaches and then there are migraines. And if a migraine is the embodiment of physical pain then a panic attack is its psychological equivalent.

Instead, I just said, “Well, I started to feel a panic attack coming on and—”

Just then, our conversation was cut short by the sound of snow crunching under an approaching boot. Having noticed the audible disturbance, I cast my line of sight toward its direction and saw the aforementioned Officer Walcott. As our eyes met, he took a kneeling position, hovering just above me and spoke: “Hey, buddy. Cinnamon, you keeping him company?”