THE HUNDRED & SECOND DAY . . .
(Monday, September 21, a clear
morning)
MACK:
Me and Boo are
spooning in the bed. He’s snoring to shake the world, his bad
breath all up in my face, and I can’t let him go. His tail, man. He
wags it in his sleep.
They’re taking him to
the vet first, to get him all checked out, but he’ll be with them
tonight, the Vaccuccias. By about dinnertime, Wash said. His first
dinner inside a real home.
I wonder if he’ll
remember me. Better he doesn’t. Nothing cuts you worse than a slow
fade. I wake him up, and he strips my foot of its sock and gets me
to chase him. We go out to the rooftop. The sky’s clean blue on the
other side of the cage. We play Frisbee wrestling till Thompkins
and Wash show with Thompkins’s assistant, the nice woman who came
that first day. I put on my tough face and clip the leash to Boo’s
harness. I point to the door. “Go on now, Boo. Go.”
Boo cocks his head,
gives his paw.
I tell him again, and
he gives me his other paw, and then I remember, I never taught him
that command, go. I make my face hard. “Git.”
Boo cocks his
head.
Thompkins’s assistant
takes the leash, gives it a gentle tug. Boo looks over his shoulder
at me while the assistant leads him out. When the dog hits the door
he trots off, tail whirling. He doesn’t look back.
Thompkins hurries out
after the assistant. Wash hangs back for a sec. “You all right?” he
says.
“Psh, yeah, man. This
ain’t nothing. I’m cool.”
“You want me to get
you a nice cold Sprite?”
“Nah, thanks, I’m not
so thirsty, Wash.”
Wash nods and follows
after Thompkins.
I wait till I hear
the barred door crank shut, and everything is quiet. I slump down
the wall and cop a squat in the corner, and I can’t think of
anything to do but hurt.
That nervous guard
peeks in. “Morse?”
“Uh-huh?”
“You got a
visitor.”