M-F Dog
Vicki Hendricks
The broiling Key West sun was setting as Bob and I strolled the dog down Duval Street, the heat slapping our faces between buildings when there were no high walls or borders of bougainvillea for shade. It was a climate ripe for jock itch.
I had gotten the dog in hopes of attracting girls up at OSU who were looking for the wholesome, sensitive kind of guy who would care for a puppy. A broken leg had ruined that strategy, so I graduated and moved to the island in the summer with Bob. Both of us worked as waiters, hoping to write best-selling fiction. Writing a novel had been another plan for attracting women—or a woman—but I’d pretty much given up on that idea, too.
The dog was no longer cuddly. However, he was beautiful, having reached an age when his muscles were well-developed, his purebred Doberman body sleek, and black eyes bright with mischief. His step was spirited with the adventure and cheer of an evening walk around town where everybody was his friend. He held his nose high, sniffing for cats and places to piss, his coat shining obsidian-black. Bob and I were less energetic. Sweat rimmed the necks of our T-shirts and rolled from between our shoulder blades to the waistbands of our shorts as we kept up his pace.
Key West was expensive, so we were renting a tiny, un-air-conditioned apartment made out of an old house that had been divided up. Bob had a girlfriend already—he always had one within days—a nice girl who spoiled him relentlessly. She waitressed at Louie’s Backyard and had a small air-conditioned place with a pool where Bob usually stayed, rather than us taking turns between the bed and the couch. We would meet her at Louie’s after work for a drink by the water.
I was unattached, as usual, alone. I’d always been weak in the knees around women, probably from needing somebody so badly, some connection to a female personality—sex—or even love. Normal women never liked me. I figured the dog would change that, but then I’d missed my window.
We decided to stop at the Iguana Cafe for a snack and a beer, where I could tie the dog in a shady spot on the sidewalk next to the table and feed him a bite of conch fritter or a shrimp tail now and then. He took things nice and slow from your hand. When we sat down, he cocked his head at Mr. Iggy in the cage behind us. Mr. Iggy turned his head and looked back—good attention skills for an iguana—and I was thinking the two might have some kind of inter-species understanding.
I looked at the cage and realized this reptile had his own name tag hanging right there, unoriginal as it might be, and I still hadn’t picked a name for a dog over a year old. But there was something pure and true about calling him “the dog,” almost Hemingwayesque, and I decided to keep it that way.
We ordered a couple of beers and appetizer samplers with the conch fritters and shrimp. I planned on a piece of key lime pie for dessert. We were killing time, or at least Bob was, waiting for his honey, while I was seriously looking for my honey, or sweetheart, or even a ball-buster, at this point. It had been so long since I’d been with a woman, I probably couldn’t tell the difference. The dog was wagging and looking hopeful at each person who passed by, almost like he was trying to help, except he didn’t discriminate between the girls and the boys. In Key West that’s in no way unusual, but I was still holding out for female attention.
We drank our drafts and nodded at people who stopped to give the dog a pet. It was “Hemingway Days” week and we remarked on the huge number of white-bearded, beer-bellied, sweating, middle-aged men with their tolerant wives. There were a lot of compliments on the dog, and I said thanks, thanks, thanks, and felt proud that the scrawny pup I’d picked out at the Humane Society had grown into such a beauty. It said something for my powers of selection and care.
“Gawd damn, that’s a motherfucking, good-looking dog.” The words bellowed from the mouth of a tall, string bean of a guy in a backwards baseball cap. “A gawd-damned, motherfucking, good looking dog.” He stooped low and scratched behind the dog’s ears.
“Thanks. He’s a good dog.”
“He is, sure is. He’s a motherfucking, good-looking, son of a bitch, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” He stared at me with defiance, like I would be one to argue.
“Yeah, he’s a nice dog.”
The guy took the dog by his collar and buried his face in the dog’s neck, and I could feel my lips move toward forming a word, but I held back. He murmured into the fur, “Gawd damn, motherfucking, good looking, gawd damn…”
I looked at Bob and we agreed with our eyes—here was one drunk redneck that we’d have been better off to avoid. But it was too late. He straightened up and sat down on the empty chair next to the dog, his fingers working hard behind the ears.
The dog tilted his snout at me, tongue hanging out the side, and those shining black eyes got rounder. I swear we were thinking the same damned thing—grin and bear it.
A laugh came from the next table. There was a pretty brunette with a nose ring watching the drunk manhandle my dog. Her pupils were so large and dark, they might have been dilated—like most of the eyes in Key West on an evening—but it didn’t matter. I was ready to fall in and drown. She was braless under a thin sleeveless T-shirt cut off just beneath her tits, some lovely tan ribs showing above the table. I already wanted her for a lifetime. I wondered how she could have sat down and ordered without my noticing. I searched behind her for the guy that must be on his way from the restroom or buying a pack of cigarettes, but there was nobody, and no other drink on the table.
I wasn’t sure why she was laughing, but I looked at her and laughed along, like I was having a grand time sitting there with the drunk, instead of being fucking annoyed. She winked and toasted the air in my direction and I almost lost my breath as I took in her beautiful teeth, two perfect dimples, and innocent eyes sparkling brighter than all the Key West stars, even when you’re out on a boat.
I felt a thump on the table and went back to where I didn’t want to be. The redneck was waving at the waitress behind the cash register who was either blind or ignoring him. “Gawd-damned, gawd-dog. What’s it take to get a beer around here?” He whacked the table top with a broad motion and Bob and I both grabbed our glasses.
“I hear Captain Tony has a good band tonight,” Bob said. “Maybe you’d have better luck over there.”
The guy looked at Bob and ice crystals formed between them, fast, despite the tropical air. “What’s a problem, buddy? You mind me sitting at your table? I only come to say what a motherfucking, good-looking dog your friend here’s got. You have a problem with that?”
My stomach clenched. Bob had been a linebacker at OSU, although he spent all his time on the bench. His hands were on his thighs and his posture had a spring-loaded quality that looked like trouble in the making. The dog had gotten bored and curled himself on the concrete, rhythmically licking his balls. I pointed at him and leaned closer to the drunk. “Know why he does that?”
The guy looked at me like I was the one cruising with the lights on dim.
I decided not to give the punch line. I shrugged. “Just wondering if you knew.” I heard the girl sputter into her beer and start laughing. It sounded like some beer might have come through her nose, but I didn’t look. The drunk gave me a nasty, sick look.
I took the dog’s leash and tugged him up. “I’m going to take the dog around the corner for a piss,” I said to Bob. I turned and stopped, hoping like hell the drunk would follow and I could lose him and loop back before the girl got away. With any luck she had food coming.
The drunk looked at me dumbly. “Come on,” I said, “He likes you. Let’s take this motherfucker for a piss.”
Once up, the dog pulled and I followed slowly. I was not about to take the guy by the hand, but finally he rose and stumbled after us. We walked around the block to a parking lot with a fringe of grass, and the dog raised his leg. I watched as he squirted the white parking stone, remembering when he used to squat and dribble, wishing he was still a pudgy and cute female attractant. The guy and I stood watching in silence while the dog finished and scratched the scrubby weeds. I motioned towards the Hog’s Breath Saloon. “Hey, buddy, here’s a few bucks. Get us a beer, would you?”
I pushed the money at him and he took it from my hand finally and bounced his head in a loose sort of yes. As soon as he had put one foot in front of the other, I took the dog and ran. His nails scraped as we took off across the sidewalk. When I got back to the table, Bob had finished up the appetizer plate. The other table was empty. All that in less than five minutes.
I was close to tears. “Where’s the girl?” I asked Bob.
He looked to the side and around the cafe. “What girl?”
I didn’t bother to answer. Sat down hard. Sweat was creating a prickly itch around my balls and I reached under the table and scratched. It was just like me, jumping up to save the day, when Bob could take care of himself perfectly well. A scuffle might have led to conversation. I’d let the woman of my dreams slip away. I gulped my beer. It was warm, as I deserved.
The sun had slunk below the buildings, and Bob suggested we walk the dog over to Mallory Dock. I agreed. The dog could sniff legs and enjoy all the petting while we celebrated the sunset by viewing braless women in T-shirts. Bob and I cut across the wide lot of tourists toward the silhouette of Will taking his nightly tightrope walk near the edge of the dock and some bruiser struggling in chains. Behind him the orange ball hung three-dimensional over the horizon. It was a sight, for sure, but I wondered how these guys could perform their acts night after steaming night. Some of them had been there for over twenty years—Will and the bagpipe player over thirty. The bagpiper had been wearing that heavy plaid skirt every night since the day I arrived. Poor sucker, but then he probably had a braless babe at home, like everybody did but me.
I had missed out on a real chance this time, since the girl had obviously enjoyed my sense of humor. Then it occurred to me—Key West was a small town, and she was dressed for a night out. There were a limited number of places where she could go, and I could rule out the gay bars and many others, considering her age and style. All I had to do was search. She was looking for company, and I had to find her before somebody else did.
From that thought on, I wanted to burrow through the crowd as quickly as possible and get back to the bars. I let the dog pick up speed, and he began pulling and winding around tourists. He was strong and I had to reel him in close to keep from leash-burning people’s calves as he made his turns. Bob glanced at us with annoyance, but kept up and didn’t comment. The dog whipped me around a card table set up for Tarot readings and nearly knocked it down. I grabbed a leg and steadied it, but the cards flew off. I bent to pick them up, trying to hold the dog with one hand and stack the cards on the asphalt with the other.
I glanced under the table at the pair of shorts above, some white, veined legs at my eye level. “Sorry, ma’am. So sorry. I hope I haven’t mixed up your whole future.”
I was wondering who would pay for this weird stuff anyway. I stood and stacked the cards in the center of the table. And there she was behind it—my fantasy princess, my nippled beauty, my only possibility—reading cards for a lady in a sailor hat.
“Your dog is psychic,” she said.
My mind did a quick turnabout and snapped into spiritual acceptance before my face could reveal any doubt. I succumbed to instant belief in animal communication and Tarot cards. I felt my consciousness spread to embrace karma, crystal balls, numerology and astrology, charms, tea leaves, aromatherapy, acupuncture, and angels. Especially angels. I was a believer.
The dog began to buck and nearly took the table over. I was yanked forward, cursing my former God, and the crowd surged together between me and the two women, like the Dead Sea joining. I was yanked forward in the direction opposite of where I desperately wanted to go. I had given him too much leash, so that he was able to lever off the legs of the tourists and zigzag through the crowd. I cursed myself for the ridiculous idea of adopting a dog to attract female companionship.
I stepped on feet and walloped into hips. With a frantic dodge and grab, I maneuvered so not to trip an old tourist couple as they made their slow, hot progress across the dock. “Sorry, sorry. Excuse me, sorry.” I kept the apologies going, as I got the dog under control, but tears were behind my eyes, in fear that my female vision of all physical and spiritual desire would again not be around when I got back.
Finally, there was a clearing in the crowd. I saw up ahead that the dog had been making a streak for the trained housecat act. Dominique had a black one poised to jump through the fiery hoop and the dog was mesmerized. We hadn’t gone far, but the crowd was thick and I couldn’t see through to the girl. Bob was nowhere. I stood there panting and the dog glanced at me, considering his next move. I gave the leash several turns in my hand, so I had his neck tight, and let go a few harsh words. I probably hurt his feelings, but I didn’t care. I started back toward where the girl was.
“That’s a mother-fucking, good looking dog.”
I pivoted, still out of breath, expecting to see the drunk and wanting to pop him. It was a different guy, a big six-four, maybe two-hundred-and-fifty-pound kind of guy with big shoulders and long arms. He stooped and gave the dog some walloping hard pats on the back. I stood baffled at what it was all about, this dog again eliciting words of obscene praise.
A voice came from behind, and amazingly, my angel stepped out of the crowd. “Hey, take it easy, buddy,” she yelled at the ape. “How would you like to be pounded on the back like that?”
“I’d like it fine. Here, girlie, I’ll bend down so you can reach.” He bent over, but the girl turned her back to him.
“The stars are lined up right tonight,” she said, and I took that to mean she felt lucky to see me again. She laughed and her nose ring danced in the low rays of sun.
There were no stars yet, of course, and she could have been sarcastically referring to the weird repeated compliment on the dog, but I agreed.
She put out her closed fist over my hand. “You dropped your keys under my table.” They fell into my palm, and I slipped them into the deep pocket of my shorts without breaking eye contact. Bob and I had left the key under the mat at home, but I wanted a reason to be indebted to her.
“Thank you. Thanks.” I gulped some air. “Hope I didn’t mess up your business.”
She shrugged. “It’s all fate, one way or another. I’m finished for the night.” She smiled.
I nodded, saturated by her huge liquid eyes. The big guy was staring at me over her shoulder, drunk and working up an attitude. He was standing on the dog’s leash. Key West was fucked sometimes. I didn’t want to waste more precious minutes, and I didn’t want him whacking on my dog again, either.
I looked around for something to distract him, but the square was a conglomeration of distractions so thick there was nothing outstanding to remark on. I decided to go for honesty.
“Buddy, all I want to do right now is take this beautiful woman for a walk down the street and say the nicest things in the world I can and hope that she wants to get to know me. I never had a chance with a girl like this in my life.”
I didn’t dare turn to see the look on her face. I knew I’d given out way too much information and she’d realize I was a putz and could never get a woman—all the rest of them knew something, so why should she waste her time?
The guy put his hands up flat on both sides of his head, like he was in a holdup, disarmed, and I saw that my words had magically hit on a male code that he could understand. “I need to take my dog with me.” I pointed to the leash under his heavy boot, and he lifted it in an exaggerated move and stood there balancing. Just then the sun slipped beneath the water, and the nightly wave of applause rolled over the crowd. The guy bowed, taking credit for the beauty of the universe. I put my arm around the girl and turned, letting out a grateful breath, and we both followed the dog away from the dock, winding through inebriated tourists.
When we got back to her table, I folded up the legs and stuck it under my arm. She said she lived on Eden Street and took the leash from my other hand and walked the dog, who had finally worn down. I tried to set a slow pace beside her, dreading when she would say thank you at the doorstep, and it would all be over.
It was a short walk, very short. I propped the table against the porch rail and she passed me the leash and stood there, a one-second hesitation. I saw the word “Thanks” forming on her mouth in slow motion and her tongue touch her teeth, “Th—”
“Can I buy you a beer at The Bull?” I said it too fast, like the classic dickhead I was.
She chewed her lip. “Okay.”
I told her I was Lenny, and the beautiful name Alcira flowed from her lips.
As the night cooled and the smell of jasmine took over the atmosphere, we walked down the cracked sidewalks, stepping over roots and ducking under low-hanging trees and bushes together. We passed under a balcony, where the scent of weed mingled with the perfume of the flowers, and she said something about drugs in Key West, but I missed it. My ears had turned themselves off as my eyes became magnets to her lips, the plumpness, softness, the way they moved across her teeth when she spoke. I didn’t even mind the nose ring.
We stopped outside The Bull and I looked for a place to tie the dog. Hard rock, the musty smell of old beer, and an overflow of bikers poured from the open doors and floor-to-ceiling windows. I pointed ahead, and we looked at each other and continued walking.
“Let’s pass on that place. I’ve got stuff at home,” I said, feeling brave in the drunken evening air. We strolled away from the crowd to where the sidewalks were cracked and the houses needed paint, my neighborhood. I walked Alcira across the dingy wooden porch and reached under the mat for my key, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and wondering how long I could keep her there. I put the dog out back, brought her a beer and sat down next to her on the ugly green couch, roach-burned by former tenants, thinking I should have tossed a sheet over it.
She took a few sips from her bottle, then rose and slipped onto my lap like a cat. My arms went around her and my mouth to her throat. It was so easy. I heard her set the beer on the glass-topped end table.
“What else you got?” she asked.
“Uh, wine?”
“I hoped maybe you’d have a little X. I’m coming down.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Grass?”
“Sorry. But I don’t mind if you smoke.”
“Didn’t bring any.”
I was probably one of the few guys living in Key West without some sort of stash. It struck me that I wasn’t her usual type, but I started kissing her neck again, ferocious yet tender, and after a few seconds she settled against me and began to tongue my ear.
Suddenly the dog became loud out in the yard, as if he knew I was finally getting some. Did he realize I was responsible for having him neutered? As my mouth went hard over Alcira’s, the bastard hit a high-pitched yelp that cut like nails.
Then came the neighbor’s guttural blast, almost as loud as the barking: “Fuck dis, mon! Shut dat motherfuckin dog up! Shut it the fuck up!” A door slammed.
There was silence for an instant and I felt something break, the spell of the night. I tried not to know it. The dog started up. Alcira drew back and looked me in the eye. I knew I should go out and bring in the dog, but I held on, praying for calm.
“That mother-fucking dog,” I said.
We both began to laugh. We shook and howled and guffawed, holding each other by the shoulders, until all the loneliness of my lifetime tumbled down and disappeared between the cushions of the ugly couch, like small change. We couldn’t stop snuffling and snorting, and the sounds of our laughter sent us into high abandon. She yanked off her shirt—as if it would help her breathe—her tits bursting out like sunset from under a cloud, her flushed nipples erect and magnetized toward my mouth. She draped herself over me and I dragged my lips over her chest, tasting her sweet saltiness. I began to believe that I did owe that mother-fucking dog something. I owed something somewhere.
Until the dog started barking again, I hadn’t realized he had stopped. I buried my ears in Alcira’s soft breasts and ignored him. He got louder and more irritating. I could picture him out there, his head and shoulders aimed at the door, ribs expanding and then his diaphragm punching out the air, all his energy forced into his lungs and throat. His ego was hurt. All night he’d been a star until I locked him in the backyard.
There were footsteps on the porch. Somebody stopped outside the screen door, on the other side of the wall next to us.
“Shut dat mother-fucking dog up.” It was almost loud enough to rattle our beer bottles on the glass table.
I took Alcira’s head in my hands and she steadied and stayed quiet. The dog was woofing wildly out back. Alcira’s huge pupils shone. It was the two of us and the dog against all the assholes in the world. I thought of letting the dog in through the kitchen and out the front, but I was afraid I would lose him. I stood up to face the fucker on the porch.
Something banged the doorframe. “Hey, mon, I know you’re in dere.”
The latch wasn’t even on. I stepped to the door and my eyes stared straight into a bare tan torso, a washboard if I’d ever seen one, then moved up huge shoulders to white teeth in a smooth coffee face and long floating dreadlocks nearly touching the porch roof.
“What can I do for you?” I said. I expected him to fling open the door, stoop, and grab me by the neck.
“Look, mon, I’m tryin to get my little high on, and your fuckin dog is—” He stopped, his eyes looking over my head.
I turned to see Alcira pulling down her shirt behind me and wondered if she’d shown a flash of tit. Her nipples were big as peanuts under the thin cotton.
“Sorry,” I said to the guy. I was about to use the same pity line that had worked at the sunset, but I’d lost Mr. Dread’s attention. I wondered if a rough tap on his chest would be helpful, but my hand didn’t move.
Alcira was beside me at the screen. “You got a nice fat splif over there, mon?”
“Oh, yeah, I surely do, girlie. Surely, I do.”
The next few seconds passed in a blur of shadow, a touch of breeze. Through my haze of disappointment I felt, more than saw, the door opening and Alcira passing by, the glint of nose ring as she turned and smiled, his arm going around her shoulder. Footsteps trickled down the porch, and I thought how light on his feet this Jamaican was for such a big man.
As I walked through the living room to let in the dog, Alcira’s abandoned beer caught my eye and I picked it up and drained it. My companion for the night was worn out and dropped down on the terrazzo. I started to hate myself for not letting him in when he belted out that first bark…or not nailing the Jamaican, a number of errors. The dog raised his head and nuzzled my hand, and I thought how lucky I was. He was a mother-fucking beauty, smart—and loyal. I was glad I’d waited to name him until I appreciated the depth of his soul.
“M-F Dog” first appeared in Florida Gothic Stories, edited by Anne Petty, published by Kitsune Books, May 2010.