The Dog

The dog is at the door now. In hindsight he’s always been there, ever since the call. The heavy panting as she drove along the highway, the smell of sun-baked fur outside the funeral home, a shadow loping between the headstones. When he turned up at the house she fed him scraps from the porch and called it enough.

The dog is at the door now. His nails carve permanent valleys into the wood. He whines to tell her that the scraps are no longer enough, that the delicate lines of ribs show through his coat. She pauses at the handle. If she lets him in, he’ll make himself at home. He’ll leave his fur behind with every shake, and with the rain muddy paws will track prints through the house. A thousand reminders of his presence. He’ll need food and water, and worst of all, he’ll need attention. She can’t bear to give him that.

The dog is at the door now. He hurls his emaciated frame against it, seeking acknowledgment through force. The wood groans with the weight of a much fiercer thing. The sharp whines, now haunting yowls. She can be loud too. She screams until it hurts, she makes threats she doesn’t mean, finally she bargains with him in a whisper. Go away, she asks.

He doesn’t.

Fissures in the door already collect the dog’s fur. Reminders that burrow like splinters into flesh, if left untreated they will become painful, oozing things. But opening the door is so much worse. Her cries turn to howls. His howl matches her own. It is with recognition that she invites him in.

He enters as if this is how it’s always been.

The dog is inside now. They will learn to live together, this they both know.