Things Withered (26 page)

Terry ran her hand down Andy’s back. His hair was smooth and soft until she got to his tailbone, where it became coarse. Even through the thick hair on his barrelled chest, she could feel the rumbling of his stomach. She repeated the action on his underside and then again, carefully over each of his limbs. The dog stood passively for her as she did this. Other than the rumbling, wet noise in his abdomen, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the dog.

But obviously, something
was
wrong. The room smelled of vomit. For the third morning in a row she had woken to a retching dog and a mess. His stools were loose. His stomach was rumbling.

Her own bedroom was off the dog run. It would smell too, probably. She didn’t mind so much lately, probably wouldn’t even notice it by the time she went to bed. Elton used to comment if the dogs had made a mess, but Elton hadn’t been around in months. Not since Auntie Julie had come to stay. It seemed hard to remember. Three months? He had a good attitude, Elton. When Terry got caught up sometimes, he would tease her.
Life is just moments, til you die, Ter. Just moments.

Terry sat back on her haunches, at a loss. There’d been no change in diet (although that would be the next step), and while there had been two new dogs in the kennel, they were kept apart from her two. None of them were suffering anyway. She shrugged despairingly and put her hand on the dog’s back.

They were normally so healthy and vigorous; she didn’t know what to think. So far her Amos showed no signs of tummy trouble. She would wait and see. Terry ran her hands over Andy again, with affection. Playfully he nudged his face under her hand when it got close, in spite of it all.

They were beautiful dogs, her babies, perfect examples of their breed with shining black hair and the barrel chests common to Rottweilers. She didn’t like “Rottweiler”; it was too austere and Germanic to describe her dogs. She preferred the more affectionate “Rotties” for her two; it went better with their personalities.

Amos was her little girl, and she looked just like the Rottie
Carl
from the children’s books. You could—Terry could—see her smile when she was happy. That happiness was somewhat unpredictable. Andy was the baby, just under two and still puppy-like, although of them both, he had the better temperament. Amos was harder to please.

The two of them scuttled around her on the tile floor in the back room where she’d been keeping them since Julie moved in. Julie was afraid of the dogs.

When Terry stood up to leave, Amos jumped up, her front paws pressed against Terry’s shoulders.

“No, no,” she said. “Down, Amos!” The dog whined in her throat but dropped to the floor, nails clicking on the tile. She paced around in the circle. Terry mumbled a
good girl
and picked up the bucket that held the stinking water she’d used to mop up the vomit.

Andy panted and sat down in the corner on his bed. In the kitchen they each had a mat. If she needed space or if they got out of hand she said
mat!
and they went. It worked the same with
bed
in their room. But she hadn’t said
bed.

“Big fella? Sore tummy?” Andy panted and grinned and his big brown eyes never left her face. As if he wanted to understand. Amos flopped down beside him.

“I’ll take care of it, okay? I’ll take care of you. It’s okay. S’okay.”

Terry latched the small hook and eye closure that separated the dogs from the rest of the house.

“I want coffee,” Julie said as soon as she saw Terry.

Terry dumped the contents of the bucket into the bathtub in the trailer and rinsed it out with clean water. She put it away in the cupboard by the back door and put the mop out on the back porch, head up, to air dry.

“I want
coffee
,” Julie repeated when Terry came back into view.

“You can’t have coffee, Julie. Doctor said.”

“Just coffee for me, for Auntie Julie,” Julie said.

Terry ran water into the small sink in the kitchen. A few dishes were piled up from the night before, and there were Julie’s breakfast dishes: an egg cup, a saucer from an old tea set that she had taken a liking to.

“I can make you a pretty tea. But no coffee,” she offered.
Pretty tea
was what they called the raspberry tea Terry kept in the cupboard since Julie had come to live with her. It was red when brewed. Pretty.

“Please? Just coffee for me. For
Julie
.”

Terry shook her head. She squeezed soap into the running water. It lathered immediately, clouds of white bubbles. Outside she could hear the neighbour kids playing.

“Julie, coffee upsets your system, remember? Remember what Doctor said?”

The old woman quieted down for a moment, perhaps thinking about what Doctor might have said.

Terry washed the few things there, the saucer, their mugs from the morning, their teacups from the night before. The dog dishes from breakfast.

Across the street the older boy—Damon—was throwing a basketball against the metal pole of their basketball hoop. Each connection made a loud, tinny clang. One—clang—two—clang—three—clang—four—the littlest one, Tristan, yelled at his brother. Something
wasn’t fair
. Damon ignored him. He just threw the ball.
Clang.
Until her head ached.

Terry remembered something she wished she hadn’t. A silly thing. Nothing. Three months earlier the woman across the street, Damon’s mother, Marguerite, had a baby. Terry had wrapped up a small blanket (with a repetitive pattern of two Rotties snuggling, adorable as hell) and a little outfit bought at Sears for $10.95 and dropped it off for them. In a nice bag, on the door. Not to bother them. She’d so far received no thank you card. It was a little thing, a silly thing and it didn’t matter. Just once in a while it popped into her head. Marguerite. Margarita. Like the drink. Did her parents name her after the drink?

“I’m older, you have to mind me,” Julie said, firmly.

“I’ll make you tea.” Terry turned away from the sink and wiped her hands on the towel beside the stove. She plugged in the kettle.

“You’re mean to me!”

“That’s not fair!” Tristan screamed across the lane. “Not fair not fair not fair—”

“Boys!” Terry called through the window all the way across. “How about quit with the banging? Would ya?” At that distance, her voice strained, sounded pressured, hard, unpleasant. She smiled broadly, benignly, in case they could see through the window, and they would see she meant no harm. But they weren’t looking. Had they heard her? The ball hit the pole once more and bounced on the driveway.

Damon yelled, “Sorry, Mrs. Bondi.”

They’d heard her. She didn’t call out a correction.
Miss
.
It’s Miss Bondi.

There were six dogs currently in the kennel. Terry kept all sorts. She wasn’t fond of Retrievers—they struck her as slave-like and diminished when humans were present—but she had a big golden one that she kept regularly; he was here. The Retriever’s owner travelled frequently to the city and the dog had always been kept at Terry’s, boarding sometimes a near equal split of fifty-fifty with the owner. Difference was, of course, Terry was paid. She didn’t like the breed, but she had become accustomed to this one’s ways and they were familiar with each other now. No problem.

There was a Newfoundland—a gorgeous animal, but this one was standoffish; there was a smallish Bulldog and a Terrier, Max. She wasn’t fond of Terriers either, but Max was a confident, courageous dog and she respected that. And the two Rottweilers, new dogs that she was keeping for the first time. Nice enough so far. Huckley and Ryan. They hadn’t answered to their names.

That was all she had right now. She had room for sixteen dogs. It took about eight regular to keep the kennel going. It was slow now, but would pick up once summer was in full bloom and folks started going away again.

In the afternoon while Julie had her nap, Terry cleaned out the stalls and let the dogs mingle. She tried to keep her mind on her work, but it wandered. It did, lately.

Across the street Marguerite had brought the baby out to play in the yard. They were all out: the two older ones, Damon and the girl—April—the little one, Tristan and the infant. The infant’s name was on the tip of Terry’s tongue, but hung there stubbornly.

They were playing a game, mom too. Whatever it was, it involved a chant of sorts: periodically one of them screamed
Ollie Ollie all-in-free!

They all played until the baby cried. Then it was just the children.

Marguerite saw Terry and waved a hearty hello.

Terry waved back.

The other Rotties, she kept them apart from the rest of the dogs because on their first day, while they were still in the intake run, the larger of the two—Huckley, she told them apart by size—bent low at the neck when he saw the Newfie. He bent low and growled long, aggressively. Rotties were absolutely a universally misunderstood dog, few people were more certain of that than Terry, but there had been true menace in his growl.

Terry kept the new ones in the intake.

After two, before Julie was due to wake up from her nap, Terry let Andy and Amos out. She opened the door and lifted the latch to their room. She coaxed them out the big door, which led to the kennel yard. They went out reluctantly, sticking together. She followed them.

Amos fussed around Andy, sniffing behind him as he walked, running up alongside him, sniffing his front. Mothering him. Poor Amos, she was nervous and frantic.

Niecing
him. Terry smiled. Niecing sounded like something you did surgically.
Auntie Julie, turn over, I’ve to niece you now. Won’t hurt a bit.

Terry smiled and absently rubbed her hand over Amos’s snout. In her throat she made the noises that were just between her and her dogs. Calming things.

Rum-umm-um-ummmm
.

Julie had come about four months earlier. She was Terry’s aunt, her mother’s sister, her mother long dead. Everyone who had cared for Julie at one time or another, was long dead.

Poor Julie
, she had been when Terry was growing up.
Oh, Poor Julie.
Poor Julie’s particular disability was invisible. Deprived of oxygen at birth, her brain had begun life with the full expectation of a normal course of things, but this was not meant to be. But, to the average outsider, she appeared just plain and simple, helpless; some people just were helpless. It was more complicated than that, more medical, more clinical. And as she had aged, she required more care. This care had fallen to Terry.

She was happy to do it, of course. Julie had known Terry all her life and was comfortable with her.

The children screamed. A new game. No more Ollie Ollie. Now it was some sort of tag that was
hysterically
funny. Terry kept an eye on Amos and Andy even as she cleaned things up around the yard and the kennel. She shovelled shit and moved pails about, filling them, emptying them, filling them again.

When one or other of the children shouted, poor Andy tensed beside her. He was still looking ill and his eyes were striped with red veins, like a road map of the city.

Eventually he threw up in the yard, before Terry had even finished filling the water trough in the back of the kennel. She heard him retch over the squeal in the pipes. She looked up and out through the kennel window saw Marguerite scolding Tristan for something. The girl, April, tossed a ball against the side of the house.

She heard: “If you don’t behave, we’ll go in. I
mean
it.”

But they didn’t go in.

Andy retched his breakfast.

Sometimes Julie had seizures. They’d called them “episodes.” When Terry was growing up she was made to sit quietly when Julie had one of her episodes. She had to sit on the sofa and wait with everyone until it was over. Her grandmother in particular was adamant that no one move.

Sit still
, her grandmother would say, if she squirmed.
Sit or I’ll go crazy
.

They were clannish, even now. Except it was only she and Julie now.

Marguerite caught Terry on her way back into the house, Terry still in her knee-high boots, covered in dog shit and smelling of same. Her t-shirt was thin in front from the endless paws and heavy bodies of dogs held there in restraint or compassion or friendship. She had not put on a bra that morning. Everything about her hung, embarrassed or wet or dirty.

The baby was perched on Marguerite’s left hip, and the woman listed to the right as a result. She walked with a kind of lurch, likely common to mothers with infants of a certain age. The child clung with sticky fingers in the front of Marguerite’s own braless t-shirt. Terry stopped to greet her. She put down the pail of water she was carrying back to dump behind the house and put a hand up over her eyes, to shield them from the sun.

“Hullo there Terry, howerya?” Marguerite said. Behind her, across the street, the children watched, quiet for the first time that day. The older one, Damon, absently dribbled the basketball on the concrete drive.

Conk-ca. Conk-ca. Conk-ca. Conk-ca
.

“Hi,” Terry said.

“I’m so glad I caught you before you went in! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” she said, her voice unnaturally high. “I just
had
to talk to you.”

Marguerite spoke without pause, a stream of words. Terry listened to what she was saying, nodding when she should, again and again. She noted the girl’s eyes and how they drooped at the corners, and how they were underscored with heavy bags and how her skin looked a little dull. How dull her hair was. It was distracting. When the conversation seemed to be at an end, Terry nodded more vigorously.
Yes. Yes. Absolutely.

“Is that okay?” Marguerite asked at the end. “I mean it’s scaring the kids, you know? I want to be compassionate and all, but maybe close your windows or something when she gets on it. You know?”

Terry leaned in close to Marguerite and looked into her eyes, around the rims and into her iris. Marguerite said, “You’re not mad?”