I sit on my front porch before school starts and eat my breakfast Popsicle. The sky is overcast. My breath, visible. I put my hands in my sleeves to hold the stick. A couple kids walk by, younger kids on their way to elementary school. Two girls and a boy. When they see me, the two girls whisper something and giggle before scampering off. The small boy shrugs at me and continues on his way. A minivan trails not too far behind them with a stressed-out mother hugging the wheel. They’re always watching.
Inside the house, Dad turns on the TV and puts the volume so loud I can hear it through the door. More children walk by, bullshitting and laughing until they notice me watching them. I wave, and they run away in the same manner as the others, almost right into my dog.
Unfazed by his near-collision, Brock saunters up the sidewalk to our yard. I don’t remember letting him out last night, but maybe I forgot to take him in. He looks worn out—his tongue flops out of his mouth and his head is so low that his nose almost scrapes the ground. He carries a wet-dog smell along with him. I retch from the stink.
“Hey boy.” I put my hand out to pet him.
He doesn’t come, not immediately. He stops a couple feet from me and takes a seat himself. He pants and looks around with darting eyes. An early-morning butterfly floats by. Brock becomes enraptured. He can’t seem to focus on it for long, like a drunk failing a sobriety test. He starts whimpering and looks to me, as if for advice, then back at the insect.
The butterfly bounces close to his snout and with sobering speed the dog chomps down on the bug, severing one of the wings. Pieces of it flutter to the sidewalk. Brock chews absently as the rest of the bug falls out of his mouth. Content on destroying the butterfly, Brock stands up and walks over to me. He licks my face, trying to get some of the sugar there. I shudder. I hold the remnants of the stick high so he can’t reach and I try to push him away. He slobbers all over me. The wet-dog smell becomes overwhelmed by his breath. There is a distinct smell of something dead on it. I imagine him tonguing dead butterfly pieces all over my face and push him off.
“Down.” I give him my best stern voice.
Obediently, Brock backs off and sits.
“Good boy.” I watch more kids pass, trying not to pay attention to Brock in front of me. It’s difficult; I’ve never seen my dog beg like this. Never seen him beg at all, actually. He whimpers again and bows his head to nibble on his scratches. It’s been days since the battle and the scratches don’t seem to be healing at all. They look worse and the skin is bare from my dog biting at it.
He’s not panting or whimpering anymore. He stares at me with black, unblinking eyes. He breaks eye contact to stare at the Popsicle.
“No beg!” I scold him with my finger.
Brock takes a step toward me and growls. He’s never growled at me before.
“No beg,” I repeat, but my voice fails me, and I whisper it.
Brock steps closer and bares his teeth. I stand up. He barks. I throw the stick across the yard, and he chases it. He picks it up and chews it with the side of his mouth, his face in a half-grimace. Jagged splinters litter the ground around his paws. He whimpers but continues to chew. He gnaws until the entire stick is in pieces. He looks back at me with his usual dumb-dog smile and his tail wagging.
“You’re welcome, fucking mutt.”
Brock keeps wagging his tail. I can’t stay mad at him. “I’m sorry,” I say and walk over to pat his head. He lifts his snout and licks my hand.
I go inside to get my backpack and do some adjustments to my hair. I wash my hands. When I come back out, Brock has left, leaving only the dead butterfly.