Vinyl Cafe Unplugged (3 page)

He looked at Arthur in horror.

“YOU?!!?” he said.

Arthur as much as shrugged as he walked out of the room.

Sam thought it was funny.

Morley said Dave was overreacting.

Stephanie said, “Why don’t you just buy new socks? What’s the big deal?”

Dave said, “That is not the point. You are missing the point.”

Maybe, if someone had taken his side, things would have turned out differently.

But no one took his side, and that night Dave worked out what Arthur was costing them. Food, vet bills, shots, boarding when they went away (except they never went away because they didn’t want to leave Arthur), potatoes.

“You know what he has probably cost us in potatoes?” said Dave. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator, a pencil and a pad of paper. Morley was on the phone and waved him quiet. When she hung up, Dave began again.

“Where’s the cost benefit here?”

Sam and Stephanie were watching television.

“Shhh!” said Stephanie.

“No one wants to hear this, Dave,” said Morley as she left the room, adding, over her shoulder, “Why don’t you work out what
I
cost?”

Dave said, “This is not a healthy relationship.”

Stephanie said, “That’s for sure.”

Dave said, “If you had a roommate who behaved like that dog, you’d call the police. Or a lawyer.”

No one was paying attention.

That night when he and Morley were reading in bed, Dave put his magazine down and said, “Name me one useful thing Arthur can do.”

Morley sighed and rested her book on her stomach. “He can shake hands.”

Dave propped himself up on an elbow.

“Listen to me. You know what he is? He’s a wolf. He’s just a small evolutionary step away from a wolf. Are you telling me you want to live with a wolf who can shake hands?”

On the weekend Dave went to Canadian Tire and came back with a doghouse made of extruded plastic. It was the last one left, white with dark plastic wood trim in the style of a Swiss ski chalet.

On Sunday night, Arthur went out into the yard. Into the doghouse.

“It’s where a
dog
belongs,” said Dave, coming back inside, washing his hands.

Not Arthur. Not, where
Arthur
belongs. As if he didn’t know Arthur’s name. As if they hadn’t lived together for five years.

Dinner was morose, cutlery rattling coldly on china—everyone eating silently while Arthur stood by the back door and whimpered.

“No one say a word,” said Dave.

On Monday, Dave arrived home with a huge bag of beef bones. He threw one into the backyard and the rest into the freezer. Arthur fell onto his bone with wolfish delight.

“See,” said Dave, to no one in particular.

But at dinner Arthur was back at the door.

Whimpering.

They were all hunched over their plates. No one wanted to make eye contact with Arthur. No one wanted to look at Dave.

Sam was pushing his food around his plate half-heartedly. When he reached for the milk jug to refill his glass for the third time, Morley stopped him and said, “Eat your fish first, Sam.”

Sam said, “I hate fish.”

Morley furrowed her brow. “You don’t hate fish,” she said.

Stephanie snorted. “He usually feeds his fish to Arthur.”

Sam hit Stephanie.

Dave smiled triumphantly.

Tuesday night at supper when Arthur appeared at the back door, he was holding his paw up to his chest. He looked like a beggar.

Morley said, “He looks pathetic. He looks like he has been beaten up.”

Dave shook his head. “He’s faking. Don’t pay any attention.”

Arthur turned and limped back to his doghouse.

Dave said, “I’m not falling for that.”

Supper was turning into an ordeal.

On Wednesday Dave said, “He’s just trying to get our sympathy.”

Sam stood up abruptly. “I can’t stand this,” he said. “I hate sausage.” And he left the table.

Morley looked puzzled as she watched Sam storm off. “He has always liked sausage before.”

Dave reached over to Sam’s plate with his fork, speared one of the sausages and brought it over to his plate. “People used to believe that early man domesticated dogs.” He pointed at his son’s plate to see if anyone else wanted anything. “You know what they believe now? They believe that wolves took a look at human campfires and garbage piles and they recognized a good thing. They figured out ways of getting close to the fire without being eaten. They started to wag their tails and whimper—just like Arthur. These are just innate behaviors that have served them on their climb up the evolutionary ladder—behaviors that have helped them mooch off us.”

He had Sam’s last sausage on his fork. He was waving it between his wife and daughter. “Are you sure you don’t want this?”

Morley stood up and walked away. She was going upstairs to talk to Sam.

“I’m serious,” said Dave, raising his voice as she disappeared. “You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out it’s better to curl up by a fire than fight it out in the wild. This is the latest research. We’re being exploited by a wolf !”

“Arthur?” said Stephanie, who was the only one left at the table. “You’re nuts.”

“Theoretically,” said Dave, “Arthur could turn on us at any time. He could drive us out of the cave.”

On Thursday night when Dave took Arthur for his walk, the limp was more pronounced.

On Friday, after a block, Arthur sat down and wouldn’t budge. Dave had to carry him home.

“Maybe,” he said, “I should take him to the vet.”

It was eleven-thirty at night.

“There’s an all-night place,” said Morley. “I took the guinea pig there once. Please call me if it’s serious.”

As he was heading out the door, Stephanie came downstairs with Arthur’s blanket. She handed it to her father. “If you put him to sleep, I’m leaving home.”

When Dave arrived at the clinic, there were two people in the waiting room. One of them, a young man with green spiked hair and a black leather jacket, was sitting stiffly in his seat holding a small cardboard box. Every few minutes there was a scuffling from the box and it jerked about in his lap. The other person, a man in a charcoal suit, was slumped back and staring at the ceiling. He looked like someone stranded at an airport—his tie was loose, he needed a shave. He was holding a turtle the size of a dinner platter in his lap.

The receptionist looked just as tired. His eyes were heavy and dark. He needed a shave too. He handed Dave a form and said, “It’s seventy-five dollars for an examination. Treatment, if he needs shots or anything, is extra.”

Dave paid the seventy-five dollars.

The receptionist said, “The vet is trying to save a budgie. It could be a while.”

He stood up and looked over the counter at Arthur and he brightened for the first time.

“Hello there,” he said softly.

Arthur, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the moving cardboard box, twisted around. His tail began to wag.

The receptionist walked around the counter and kneeled down, scratching Arthur behind the ears. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. You’re a good boy.” Arthur rested his head on the receptionist’s knees.

The receptionist smiled and looked up at Dave. “I had a dog just like this when I was a kid.

“You’re a good puppy,” he said turning back to Arthur. “It was just the greatest dog in the world. I was sick once and it wouldn’t leave my room.” Arthur was lying down now and the clerk had his hand buried in his belly. “My parents had to bring his food upstairs to my room. He wouldn’t leave. You don’t get that kind of loyalty from the people in your life. No matter how much they tell you they love you.”

He stood up suddenly. “You fill out the form,” he said. “I have to weigh him.” He took Arthur away.

As Dave watched Arthur limp off, he felt an intense wave of affection for the dog. He turned and began to scratch his name onto the form. Suddenly the notion of banishing Arthur to the yard seemed cruel—as foolish as sending one of his children to sleep in the garage. No wonder Arthur’s leg was bothering him. He wasn’t young anymore. The chill of the night ground would make anyone’s legs ache.

The receptionist was back in under a minute. He handed Dave Arthur’s collar. He was shaking his head.

“He had his front leg shoved right through this. I don’t know how he managed that. It was so tight I had to cut it off. It’s amazing he could even walk.”

Dave took the collar and stared at it stupidly.

The vet walked into the front office and looked around.

“Who’s next?”

Arthur was standing by Dave, holding his paw up, examining it as if he had never seen it before.

Dave looked down at his dog and then back at the vet.

But the vet wasn’t looking at Dave, he was already bent over, patting Arthur. Looking down at the top of the vet’s head Dave noticed a dramatic comb-over.