Mr. George

from Children of Vallejo

 

The only sound was the thump, thump, thump of the basketball echoing off the walls of the deserted gym. Nick set himself at the free throw line, bounced the ball three times and let the shot go toward the basket. The ball clanked off the rim and bounded away to the left side of the court. Nick sprinted after it, then shot a short jumper that also missed. He chased the ball again and then returned to the foul line to start the process all over again. He was rusty and most of his shots missed the mark. After all, this was baseball season and he hadn’t touched a basketball for a couple of months. Baseball practice had ended an hour ago and all of his teammates had long since showered and left for home. This was a Friday night and the locker room had emptied out quickly. But Nick was in no hurry. In fact, he was putting off heading for home as long as possible.

            The door to the locker room swung open and Coach Wight stuck his head in. “Shane, come on. Get your shower and let’s get out of here. It’s Friday night!”

            “Okay, Coach,” Nick replied. He grabbed the basketball and headed for the door. Coach waited until he was in the locker room then hit the switch to douse the lights in the gym.

            “Are you okay, Nick?”

“Yeah, Coach. I’m good.”

“Well make it fast. I need to get home.”

Nick showered and dressed quickly. He packed his gym clothes and baseball gear in a small duffle bag and headed for the exit, exchanging waves with Coach Wight as he left. It was a warm April evening and the sun had dropped below the horizon as he headed across the campus toward Georgia Street. Hogan Junior High was situated at the corner of Georgia and Rosewood, about a half-mile from home. Nick headed west on Georgia toward the corner of Russell Street. It was a short hike, requiring only a few minutes, but again he found himself slowing his pace, taking as much time as possible.

He was mad at himself, upset over the fact that he still cared so much. He was fourteen years old and a guy his age shouldn’t care so much about a pet dog, especially a mangy little mongrel like George. But he couldn’t help it. He had raised George from a pup and the little mutt had been part of the family for eight years. Now he had been missing for five days and Nick was beginning to believe that he’d never see him again.

This wasn’t the first time George had taken off and been gone for a day or two, but never for this long. It was the family’s practice to let George out at night to wander around the neighborhood, lifting his leg on every bush, tree, and fire hydrant. He would be gone an hour or so and then come trotting up the walk and scratch at the front door to be let in. Once or twice a year, he would stay out—AWOL as Nick’s father put it—and come limping home a day or two later. Nick’s friend Brent would always say, “He’s just out chasin’ the ladies. When he gets hungry, he’ll come home.” And sure enough, he always did. It never occurred to the family that perhaps George should be neutered.

George was a gift from Nick’s cousin Dorothy who owned a female Doberman mix named Penny. Penny had black and tan markings and a sweet disposition, and as is often the case where there are no children in a family, she was pampered like an only child. When Penny turned up pregnant, Dorothy promised Nick the pick of the litter. The father, as it turns out, was a little terrier mutt and the family joke was that he had to stand on a box to get the job done. There were six puppies in the litter, three males and three females, and they were immediately dubbed “Doberman-Terriers,” as though this was a reasonable and customary pairing. Of course, Dorothy promptly named all six puppies: Suzy, Bubbles, Annie, Humphrey, Max and Mr. George.

George was black with white boots, a white belly, and a white tip on his tail. But his distinguishing characteristic, the one feature that separated him from his brothers and sisters, was a right ear that flopped over while the left ear perked straight up. Nick knew at first sight which puppy he would take home.

He taught George every conceivable trick—sit up, shake hands, roll over, play dead, and so on—and did so with ease. Nick attributed this to native intelligence. The fact was that George would do anything for a Hartz Mountain Dog Yummy. One day Brent’s father Cal was watching Nick put George through his paces. Cal said yeah, that’s nice, but he’d seen a friend’s dog who would balance a treat on his nose until told to get it, then flip it up in the air and catch it on the way down, and could George do that? After they left, Nick went to work and within ten minutes, George had the new trick mastered. Anything for a Yummy!

Nick reached the corner of Russell Street and turned left toward home. Just one short block to go. He thought of the rainy-day game he and George had devised and played over and over again. Nick would toss a Yummy into his bedroom at the back of the house and George would scamper after it, slipping and sliding on the waxed linoleum floor. In the meantime, Nick would head for another part of the house to hide and wait for George to come and find him. As smart as he was, George had no sense of smell, and it would take several minutes for him to find where Nick was hiding. It was a great way to fill a rainy afternoon.

Whether it was hide and seek, chasing after a tennis ball in the backyard, or trotting alongside Nick as he ran around the block, training for whatever sport was in season, there was no better companion than George, and that’s the way it had been for nearly eight years.

Nick was close to home now and he began to brace himself for the worst. George had a wicker basket bed that sat in the front room at the base of the window where he could look out through the glass and monitor everything that passed on the street. He was always waiting there for Nick to come home from school in the evening and he’d race to the door for a tail-wagging greeting. Nick knew if he headed up the walk and didn’t see George waiting in the window, it was over: after five days, it would be time to give up.

He reached the house near the end of the block and headed for the front door. The front window was empty. Nick opened the door and quickly headed toward his room at the back of the house. His father sat in the front room reading the newspaper, but Nick passed through without speaking. His mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner and again he passed by without a word. He entered his room and closed the door behind him, then dove onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow. He tried to tell himself that he was too old for this, that he shouldn’t be crying over a mongrel dog, but that didn’t stop the tears. Several minutes passed before he could compose himself. He rolled over on his back and dried his eyes. He would have to pull himself together before sitting down to dinner with his parents.

Nick heard his father’s footsteps approaching the kitchen, and then his baritone voice speaking to his mother. “I don’t want that dog in the house until he has a bath. Make sure Nick bathes him first thing in the morning.”

“I know, Daddy, we’ll tell him at dinner,” his mother replied.

Nick jumped off the bed and raced for the door of his room and from there to the kitchen where his mother stood over the sink. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

            “He came home today, honey. Just came dragging up the front walk. He’s in the garage. He’s filthy dirty and he’s going to need a bath—”

Nick didn’t wait for his mother to finish. He went to the garage door and flipped on the light switch as he opened it. And there was George, curled up in his bed in the garage, too tired to do anything but thump his tail weakly as Nick came toward him. He knelt beside the bed and looked at the exhausted little mutt. His white markings were nearly covered in mud, there appeared to be dried blood near his left ear, and he smelled like an outhouse.

“God, look at you … you little shit …  where have you been? … chasing the ladies, just like Brent said … I should beat the snot out of you … I thought you were dead … you’re not goin’ out at night like that anymore, do you hear me? … no more … I thought you were dead …”

            Through this monologue, tears clouding his eyes, Nick was gathering George onto his lap and into his arms. His father would be angry and he’d have to change clothes and scrub down before dinner, but he didn’t care. He wondered if there were any Yummies in the house.

 

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