I leave the car window cracked. Hair’s asleep in back. My daughter named him. I thought it short for Harold or Harris or even Harry. It’s not short for anything, she told me, or I think she told me. Strands get mixed up. I thought we were getting a cat. A cat would have been easier.
Hair always sleeps through these visits, even when there’s another dog barking. It’s a loud, throaty bark. Comes from behind the cracked door, behind the face peering at me, unshaven, eyes bulging and rheumy. There’s a sharp tang of sweat and hops. That, and something bilious, a trace of vomit. Days old? Hours?
Hair used to eat my vomit. These days I’m the one to clean up after him, now that he’s old, now that he’s lost most of his teeth.
The door opens wider. The man’s fatter than I remember. I’ve put on weight, too, but in a good way. I jog now and cut back on sugar, though I still sneak coffee. From behind the man comes a shovel-shaped head, no longer barking. A rottweiler. The man pats it, calls her Baby. She glares at me and looks nothing like Hair.
Hair has a mass on his lungs and should have died two years ago. He’s incontinent. Has to sleep on puppy pads. My daughter has a cat now. Her mom got it as a sixteenth birthday present. She posts pictures of it on Instagram, but I forget its name, if it’s a girl cat or a boy cat.
The man has a limp. I want to ask if I caused it, but I don’t. I don’t remember causing it. Another strand mislaid. The man asks, Want a drink? and pulls out a can of beer. I shake my head, the back of my throat wrapped in cotton. I start to ask if there’s coffee, then say, no, just water. The water is cloudy, smells of eggs. I drink in long, ragged gulps and focus on the photos on the wall of a woman, gray-haired and small-boned. His wife. She was in the passenger’s seat and came out okay. Only had a broken ankle. I’d read she’d died a few years back. Cancer or something. I should know this, but I don’t.
I take out my phone, show him pictures of Hair as a puppy, his mongrel tongue lolling to one side. Next, my daughter, aged five, arms spread wide, her shadow penciled out behind her, a giggle threatening to burst from her lips. I used to always make her laugh; I remember that. The man says, She don’t really favor you, does she. His breath is hot. Smells worse than Hair’s. He finishes his beer. Crushes the can. His knuckles are bruised and cut.
Hair once cut his gums biting into a tin of dogfood. I woke to blood everywhere—wasn’t sure if it was mine or not—and Hair still gnawing on the can. He was stupid like that sometimes. I peeled back his lips, saw the damage and cried. Hair never made a sound. He never does.
Baby growls and bares her teeth, but her tail wags. The man’s back in his kitchen. You’re not gonna preach at me, are you? he calls and returns with another beer. The can spits open. Foams. Pearls of sweat form on my lip.
I show him the last picture, the one I always end with. A black-and-white, the face in front and profile, the left eye a swollen mass. They stitched it up after booking me, reset my nose then too. It’s the nose that throws them all off. That was you? they’ll sometimes ask. The man just grunts. Maybe he remembers, maybe not. The mouth in the mugshot sags. The whole face about to slide out of frame.
Hair was a year old then. He would’ve starved that week had he not eaten my leather ottoman and whatever mice crept through the ripped screens. He drank bowl after bowl of water when I finally returned, then licked my wounds, his tongue rough against the abrasions, and I wanted to howl.
I put my phone away and stand. The man still sits, can on his knee. The bad one. He says, You wanna make amends? Write me a check. You know how much they charge to clean Baby’s teeth? A dog ain’t nothing if she ain’t got her teeth. He smiles. His bridge work is sloppy. Already browning and it’s only been ten years since I paid for the reconstruction, the stitches, the speech therapy, the lawyers. Well, not me. My insurance. What did I pay? What did I truly pay? Thanks for the water, I tell him.
Sometimes they threaten to call the cops. Sometimes they won’t open the door. Sometimes they open the door and shove me, hit me, my eye purpling and swelling to the same blurred shape of the photo. I deserve that, I always tell them. What I want to say: More. What I want to say: I need that.
Don’t fuckin touch her, the man says as Baby snaps at me. Catches flesh. Not a bad bite, but it burns. I told you, he says, already rising to his feet and swaying. I suck at my hand. Taste salt, taste iron. I’m reminded of whiskey, though I know that’s not right. A corrupt memory.
Back in the car, Hair wags his tail. The car stinks where he pissed. My hand throbs. I know I should clean it, put some Neosporin on it, but I don’t. Instead, I let Hair sniff and lick the wound, his tongue cooling it, taking the sting out too quickly. He’s a good dog, Hair. The best dog.
Joshua Jones Lofflin’s writing has appeared in Best Microfiction 2020, the Best Small Fictions 2019, the Cincinnati Review, CRAFT, Paper Darts, SmokeLong Quarterly, Split Lip Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Maryland. Find him on Twitter @jnjoneswriter or visit his website: https://jjlofflin.com/
SPOT IMAGE CREATED BY WARINGA HUNJA
HMS is an arts & culture nonprofit (Hypertext Magazine & Studio) with two programs: HMS empowers adults by teaching creative writing techniques; HMS’ independent press amplifies emerging and established writers’ work by giving their words a visible home. Buy a lit journal (or two) in our online store and/or consider donating.