by Rebecca L. Monroe
You Forgot About Me
There was a time, before. He’d been young then, just him and Man in a largish house – each pretty much doing what they felt like. If he wanted, he could usually slip inside at night. If not, there was piles of hay in the barn, surrounded by the smell of horses. His thick coat was long and golden, though usually matted, and he was big for his breed. Big enough most other dogs didn’t mess with him when he took himself down the highway to town. He didn’t care for fighting. He only went to town when Man was gone too much and he got lonely. He’d had some close calls doing it. Coming home in the dark, drivers weren’t careful about a dog trotting on the side of the highway. Not everyone thought he should be in the grocery store or hardware. He’d been kicked out more than once. Most were nice, spoke to him, pet him, which was why he continued to take the risk.
That was before.
In the before, he drank out of the toilet. Man didn’t believe in water bowls. He ate whenever Man remembered to leave the door open to the dog food bag, usually sometime in the evening. Once in a while he would convince Man to play – a rough and tumble affair that left them both laughing.
That was before.
She began showing up around dinnertime. She was nice enough, would stop and caress his head, scratch the itchy spots on his chest and talk to him in a voice that made him feel silly with joy.
Like him, She had long hair. She was small where Man was large, quick where Man seemed solid and slower. Man had a darkness to him She did not, She a tenseness, Man did not.
They would eat dinner or leave – sometimes not coming back until late. Sometimes they would all go out together on the horses, him following. It made him feel complete inside.
She kept coming, sometimes staying for days and always She made him part of what was going on; petting and hugs until he began to look for Her.
She brushed him, carefully working out the knots and snarls pulling at his skin; easing a small pain he hadn’t known existed. She cut his nails, which he tolerated and gave him a bath which made him run around like crazy while She laughed in delight. At night, She made him come in when it was cold and bought him a soft bed She put in the corner of the living room. He curled up on it, satisfied. It was his place and he knew it. A water bowl appeared, and he began to get breakfast and dinner measured out. She gave him treats and toys, presented with such love he thought he would burst. He would take the toy, raise his head and trot around with it, mouth a wide grin, tail waving so She would laugh. He loved Her laugh.
Then She was there all the time. Man made room and things smelling of Her were set up in the house. When he went to town by himself, She came and found him, radiating such fear and worry he felt his heart crack. She stroked him, talking though he couldn’t understand the words. They made a trip to the vet and when the operation was over, he felt the restlessness slip from him. He was content to stay home.
Sometimes he would just lean on Her to feel Her presence, not caring if She touched him or not.
When She brought the first of Her things, She also brought an old cat. He knew by Her tone the cat was special, not to be chased. It came up to him, bumping against his chest and he whined, restraining himself. After a week he began to look forward to the bump and one day the cat crawled on his bed with him. He glanced up at Her, afraid it was wrong. Her face glowed with pleasure and love, and he relaxed.
Sometimes Man and Her fought and it made him want to hide, to fix it. Helpless, all he could do was watch and wait until the anger was gone. It always left but never all the way and he could sense the underlying barrier running between them, sometimes stronger, sometimes faint. He didn’t understand it. He only knew it wasn’t good.
One day She came home and called him to Her. He trotted over and then froze when She put down the small puppy. He felt his hackles rise and She spoke to him sharply. The puppy wiggled over, rolling on its back. Again, he looked at Her, at the puppy and back at Her. She was tense, waiting, hopeful. She too looked at the puppy and he saw Her tenderness. He sighed. It was a male pup and would need to be taught. Who better than himself? So, old as he was, he learned to play, roughhouse, be chewed on and go for long walks. She was there, weaving them together as She walked too. She taught them both and they helped the puppy settle and grow. At night he became part of a happy pile of puppy and cat on the bed the three of them shared.
They grew. The puppy matured and became his best friend. The cat, wobbly now with age, trying to follow them as best he could. She was the source of baths and nail clippings, She administered funny tasting juice on his food and the ache in his joints eased. On cold days She made them all stay in, and he grew to accept She knew best. She didn’t mind when, now, he had to wake Her in the middle of the night because he couldn’t hold it any longer.
Man was rarely around but when he was, they seemed intent on building the wall and the barrier grew, coldness its glue. After a fight, She would be sad and he and puppy would do what they could to cheer Her while cat curled in Her lap.
She went away one weekend, taking the horses, leaving the three of them with Man. At dusk, another woman came to the house. He and cat watched from the bed in the corner of the living room while puppy dropped the ball in front of the woman, trying to get her to play. She didn’t seem to see puppy. He knew she was wrong. She felt wrong and Man radiated wrong. The woman stayed until late the following day. Man finally remembered to feed them after the woman left.
A day later She came home. He and puppy and cat met Her truck before She’d shut it off, eager to be close to Her. She greeted them with pets and hugs and warm promises. He felt a gap in himself fill up.
He watched as She entered the house, pausing to pick up a scarf the woman had left, walking slowly through the house. She went to the bedroom and picked up something else, pain lancing through Her soul. He saw it and tucked his tail between his legs, whining.
Then they were gone; Her, puppy and cat. Their smells faded. The water bowl dried up.
He lay on his bed and waited.
Author Rebecca L. Monroe (she/her) lives in Montana in a log cabin by a river and has been writing for most of her life. She has over 100 published stories and a book of short stories Reaching Beyond published by Bellowing Ark Press. Along with writing, she loves to read, spend time with her cats, Luke, her Labrador retriever.
Artist Najib Joe Hakim is a working documentary photographer, artist and photography instructor. Hakim also serves as the President of the Board for the Network of Photographers for Palestine and is a founding member of Class Conscious Photographers. He is the recipient of the Rebuilding Alliance Storytellers Award for a trilogy of projects on Palestine; a Political Art Fellow at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts; and a past nominee for the US Artist Fellowship. Website: https://www.jaffaorangephoto.com/ .
Gulf Stream Magazine 