The Stray
by James Finn
part 1 of 2
Paul Given’s headache began moments after he had arrived at work. About the same time a very sick and undernourished golden Labrador pawed at the front door of his house.
Fortunately for the dog somebody was home, somebody caring, Paul’s wife, Carla. She heard the tentative scratching and the dog’s low pleading whines for attention.
Opening the door she saw the forlorn mutt laying on the welcome matt. Eyes turned up to meet her own, mouth open with laboured pants, tongue lolling restlessly to one side. It dropped its head back down as though the simple task of looking up was exhausting.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, squatting to her haunches. “Have you been abandoned?” She stroked its head. “You hungry? Want a drink?”
The dog seemed to understand because it was up on its feet, making its way inside; it stopped in the hallway and sat.
Carla looked doubtful. “I’m not sure whether you should really come in. You might have fleas or... other things. I think it’s better you remain outside, just to be safe.”
The dog let out a discordant noise as if in protest and slumped down.
“Maybe I should ring a vet or the RSPCA, you don’t look too good. Maybe some food and water might do you some good.”
The dog barked and then sat up with one of its front paws lifted.
“Okay, maybe you’re not that sick, but I better get you checked over, just in case.
“What’s your name? Do you have one? I’m sure somebody’s missing you.” Stroking the animal her hand come across a leather collar buried beneath a mound of knotted hair.
Parting its coat she saw a round tarnished silver name tag. The engravings upon it were badly worn making it only partly legible. She saw its name was either Ruster or Buster, but the first letter was difficult to make out. “So you’re a him then?”
A bark of confirmation.
* * *
Paul stood over the table staring blankly at the engineering drawing of the new inlet section of the sewer system. One hand massaging the back of his neck, the other his eyes. He felt awful. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“You all right?” Ron asked. “You look like crap.”
Paul looked at the engineer. “Got a banging headache. Had since I come in this morning. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Think you’ll last the rest of day? We got the meeting at three.” He looked at his watch.
“And it’s a little after two. They’ll want to know why we are behind schedule.”
“Because they have control of the budget that’s why.” He rubbed his neck again. “Yeah, I’m sure I can soldier through.”
“Good. Want some coffee to liven you up?”
“Yeah, why not...” The pain was immense. It felt like somebody had inserted a blender into his stomach. He doubled over.
“Paul! Buddy, you okay?”
The cramp eased as quick as it came, but his stomach felt shredded. Slowly getting to his feet. “I don’t think I’m going make the meeting, Ron. You’ll have to cover for me. Whatever I’ve got isn’t letting up.”
“Okay. Just keep me informed on your condition. I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but we really need the inlet finished before the deadline.”
* * *
Driving home Paul’s head thumped and the pain in his stomach had been replaced by a constant nausea. He really did feel awful.
Opening the front door the first thing he saw where a set of sharp teeth and heard the deep throated growl coming from behind them.
“Jesus! What the hell...”
“Buster, sit. Good, boy. It’s only Paul.”
“Carla, what the hell is a dog doing here?”
“Isn’t he gorgeous? His name is Buster. I found him on the doorstep.”
“But what’s he doing here? We can’t keep a dog, especially a stray. What it it’s got fleas or some sort of disease. Rabid maybe,” he was exasperated and to make things worse his headache was screaming at him and his muscles felt as though they were turning to water.
“This isn’t Cujo, Paul. And he doesn’t look rabid to me.”
“Yeah, but, how...”
“Anyway, what are you doing home?”
“I don’t feel too good...” he broke off. “I want to know what a dog is doing in our house, Carla.” It was as if his skull had broken up and the pieces were grinding into his brain.
He massaged his temples in an attempt to relieve the pain.
“Like I said, I found him on the doorstep. I brought him in, fed and watered him and gave him a bath. He was quite smelly.”
“You gave him a bath! What’s the matter with you?”
“If you’re going start shouting I don’t want to talk to you, Paul. Just because you don’t feel well, no need to take it out on me or the dog.”
He draw in a long deep breath and tried to compose himself. “Look, Carla, I don’t mean to shout; but can you please explain to me why we now have a dog and why you would have bathed him?”
“Well, I called the RSPCA and they said they’re closed today, a weekly training thing or something. Said they only come out in an emergency. If the animal is seriously injured.
They told me to keep him over night and bring him to them tomorrow. So I took him to the vet, because I was concerned about...” she lowered her voice, “you know... anything nasty.”
“Why are you whispering? It’s a dog. And why the hell did you take him to the vet?
How much did it cost? You should have taken him out and tied him to a lamp post or something.”
Carla became irritated and angry. “Never mind how much it cost. I paid, not you. And how can you even suggest abandoning him? I think it would be better if we didn’t speak, Paul. Not while you’re like this. Come on, Buster.” Carla led the dog into the kitchen slamming to door behind her.
What a crap day, he thought.
* * *
After cleaning the dirt, hair, and God knows what else out the bath, Paul was finally able to relax and sedate his taut and aching muscles in the comfort of hot water and herbal salts. He had taken a couple of Ibuprofen and paracetamol and felt a little better.
He’d called the doctor and had gotten an appointment for the following day, but in the meantime was advised to rest and drink plenty of fluid. Thankfully the pain was easing.
But he did feel exhausted. Carla’s icy shoulder didn’t help; all he wanted was a bit of sympathy and love. She’d offered him neither.
Stupid mutt! It was getting all the attention.
Head back, flannel draped over his face, Paul dozed fitfully; his arms outstretched out over the bath’s edge in submission the to soothing water.
He heard the bathroom door squeak open. “Look, Carla, I’m sorry about earlier, I was feeling crap and I’m under a lot of pressure from work,” he said from beneath the moist concealing fabric.
The response was not verbal, but rather come in the way of a hot, wet tongue licking his hand. He draw it back in disgust and pulled the flannel from his face. “Christ!”
The dog let out a deep guttural growl, peeling the skin back from around his mouth to reveal a savage set of teeth. Paul flinched back.
“Carla! Come and get this mutt out the bathroom!” He looked about for something to use as a weapon, but the only thing at hand was a large bubble bath bottle. He picked it up and drew in back in an arch ready to strike out.
“Paul! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Carla was standing in the door with a meat knife in her hand.
For a brief moment Paul had the terrifying feeling they were both out to kill him. She lowered the knife.
“What do you mean what am I doing? It’s that vicious thing! It managed to open the door somehow. And what are you doing holding a knife?”
“I’m cooking dinner. Buster can’t open doors, you probably never closed it properly. Besides, Buster is a friendly dog, Paul. Maybe he knows you don’t like him. Dogs can sense that kind of thing.”
Wrapping a towel around himself. “Well what chance has he given me? So far all he wants to do is bite me or show me how nice and sharp his teeth are.”
He felt something run down the inside of his nose and brought his hand up. Blood. A nose bleed. He looked at Carla, but she was already leading the dog back down stairs.
This was just marvellous.
After his nose bleed had stopped, Paul got dressed and headed downstairs. He gave the dog a wide birth, who was eating hungrily from a bowl (Carla had bought dog food).
The dog spared a distrustful glance towards him then continued eating.
Sitting at the dinner table he said, “Look, if you want to keep the dog then I guess that’s fine. But it needs to be a little friendlier. I don’t want to have to worry every five minutes that it’ll maim me.”
“He is friendly.”
“To you, maybe.”
“Maybe he’s just over protective. After all, I did bring him in and feed him and clean him up. He is lovely though, isn’t he?”
He looked over at the dog that was licking his lips and sniffing around his bowl for more food. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s got a bit of an appetite though.”
“I’d have to agree with you there. He doesn’t stop eating and he looks much better than he did this morning. He’s put on a little weight too. Talking about looking better, how do you feel, I saw you had a nose bleed?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t too bad. I thought I was on the mend, but I feel like crap again. My head, muscles, stomach. It doesn’t feel like the flu, it feels much worse.” He stabbed his fork at a couple of carrots, then decided he was not hungry.
“Perhaps it would be a good if you call the doctor again, ask him to come out and see you. Maybe he can prescribe something.”
“No, I’ll leave it for now. If it gets worse though... What did you say his name was again?”
“Buster or Ruster. I can’t tell because his ID tag’s worn. He must have belonged to someone at some point, and for along time too, if you go by the condition of his tag.”
“Any address or phone number on it?”
“No, just his name.”
Taking a piece of pork from his plate, Paul called the dog over to him. It came with slow reluctant steps as though he was holding a gun not a piece of meat. “Come on, boy. Want some food?”
Carla watched.
After sniffing to meat, the dog ate it from his hand. Paul stroked its fur and found the collar. Carla was right, you couldn’t see whether it was an R or a B and there were no other markings. He was about to drop the tag when he decided to turn it over. There were markings on the other side. Not letters, numbers, a date: 12/8/51. “There’s a date on his collar, Carla. And if the date is correct then this animal is over fifty years old.”
The pain was savage and Paul screamed out. The dog had bitten down on his feeding hand. In a desperate attempt to free himself from the dog’s locked jaws he punched the beast in the side of its face. It let out a yelp and ran off.
“How could you!” Carla cried. “You cruel bastard! I should report you.”
Copyright © 2005 by James Finn
