Fiction, Kevin Finnerty
Dogs are like young children. They’re all cute and adorable. Except the ones that aren’t. And they’re like kids because everyone thinks theirs are unique, the best. When they aren’t. But mine were.
We recently got a new dog. Kurt wouldn’t accept “No” for an answer no matter how many times we said it. My wife and I finally relented and agreed to get him a rescue dog. We were a family in need of a rescue. Marz is a lab mixed with something. He’s about two-thirds the size of a pure breed with streaks of white fluffy fur through what would otherwise be a coarse black coat.
Marz behaves as if he were 110% retriever. He has an endless amount of energy and loves nothing more than having someone play “soccer” with him in the yard.
You’re the striker, he’s the goalie. He tries to stop your penalty kick with his face, his paws, his body. You can fake kicking to the left and he’ll follow your feigned step, but dart back to the right if you ultimately kick that way.
Save or score, he always grabs the slightly deflated ball with his teeth and runs it back to you, placing it at your feet before returning to his position before the imaginary goal.
Let’s go again.
And so I kick and kick and kick, thinking at some point Marz will tire. But it’s always me. The game ends because I tire, I can’t outlast him, I can’t beat him.
Marz never gets mad. He knows play will resume later in the day or tomorrow and he knows he’ll be ready.
I was the family holdout on getting Marz. I wasn’t sure we could handle the addition. But Marz is a good dog, a great dog. And he’s returned the symmetry to our family: two kids, two dogs.
So I can’t really explain why I end our games the way I do. After failing to wear Marz out, I kick the ball as far as I can, which is quite a distance these days. I don’t have to worry about neighbors anymore. We don’t have any. Not close enough to complain about a ball landing on their property anyway.
Flay the pug watched our latest game from behind large, sliding glass doors. She cocked her head to the side when I entered.
You didn’t have you’re “A” game today, did you?
“It was a decent effort considering it was Kurt’s turn in the rotation.” I haven’t watched baseball in years, but my mind always defaults to the sport I used to love the most.
Skip wants to see you.
I couldn’t always understand what dogs were saying. Years ago, Michelle would translate, though she did so more in summary form. Saying things like “she wants to know if you’re going to take her with you” when Flay positioned herself in the center of the bedroom and watched me pack my bags before I left for a conference.
My wife never suggested she could hear our dogs’ actual words. My skill developed later in inverse proportion to my desire to engage human beings in conversation.
Michelle looked at me disapprovingly when I entered the kitchen. She’d observed how I’d ended play time with Marz. Like a sore loser. Fortunately, dogs are more forgiving than humans.
“Got to tire him out somehow.” I felt my shirt and realized it was full of sweat even though I hadn’t been wearing a jacket while playing outside in northern Minnesota in October.
“It’s cruel. He’s running as fast as he can because he doesn’t know you’ve had enough.”
“Kurt should take over. It’s his dog.”
“He’s everyone’s dog. Just like Flay.”
Flay sat between us, alternating glances. We were in the kitchen after all, and she knew good things happened there.
In her younger days, Flay probably would have joined us outside, even if she didn’t understand the point of the game. But after thirteen years, she realized she was only granted so many steps in life and wasn’t going to waste any of hers unnecessarily. The first year or two after we abandoned the East Coast, she enjoyed the freedom of additional green space, but those days have passed her by. A small patch of grass was enough for her now.
I scratched the underside of Flay’s neck. She closed her eyes and smiled.
“It’s not where I thought I’d be either, but things happen.”
I left Flay to check out the knocking at the door even though I knew whom I’d find: Marz with the ball in his mouth.
“Kurt, you should go out and play with Marz.” I spoke too softly for my son to hear in the living room. My thoughts were occupied trying to figure out how the young dog had learned how to use the ball as a tool to knock.
When I opened the door, Marz bounced inside looking to find another human to play. Michelle shook her head. Marz understood not to waste time appealing any further. He moved onto Kurt, who sat on the floor, back against the sofa, focused on his handheld electronic game. Marz placed his nose less than a foot away from my son, surely close enough that any boy could see, but Kurt gave no indication. I wondered if they were playing their own game to see who could outlast the other. If so, they both proved more able than me.
“Kurt.”
Michelle gave me a look. No doubt she believed my intervention both unwise and unnecessary, but I felt I still had a role in this family. I moved as close to my son as his dog on the opposite side. Kurt offered me no more recognition than he did Marz.
My daughter passed us on her way to the kitchen. “Kurt, you see that animal a foot away from you?”
“Yeah, I see Marz too.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “Yeah, Marz is the dog you begged us to get for almost a year.”
“I never begged.”
“You begged, you whined, you pleaded, you promised, you cajoled, you . . .”
“What’s ‘cajoled’ mean?”
“Flattered.”
Kurt smiled. “That’s a good word, I’m going to use it.”
“Anyway, remember how you said you’d take primary responsibility for Marz?”
“Kind of.”
“You kind of remember or think you promised to kind of take responsibility?”
“Yeah.”
“When you stare at your game while we talk, I can’t tell if your answers are nonsensical because your attention is diverted, or if you’re being intentionally wise, or ignorant.”
“Me either.”
I turned for support from the other family members. Michelle sighed and silently told me she’d advised me to stay out of this. Julia threw up her hands as if to say younger siblings get away with all sorts of things parents would never tolerate from first-borns.
Marz remained unfazed. He held his position with the ball at his feet.
“Kurt, take Marz out to play.”
“You just did.”
“Obviously, it wasn’t enough.”
“Obviously, however long we play with him will never be enough.”
“You need some help, Dad?”
Julia had always been a problem-solver. As a little girl, she loved puzzles, riddles, and board games. As a preteen, she figured out how to adapt to the changes to our family much better than her old man.
Until recently, she’d been something of a tomboy. A few months ago, she would have just picked up the ball and led Marz outside. Played with him for a few minutes before conveying a clear message: enough is enough. But once she started high school, Julia began to care more about her appearance. Her jeans now had holes in strategic places, rather than where they were actually worn.
I held up my hand, determined to try once more with my son. “How do you know?”
“Because I play with him every day. So do you. He never tires.”
“Maybe not completely, but he’ll be more tired than he is now.”
“That’s not how you treat Julia and me.”
When I didn’t respond, Kurt placed his game between his legs and turned to me for the first time. He must have seen my puzzled look.
“You don’t let us wear you down. Other than to get Marz. You establish rules we have to follow. I’m doing that with him.”
Kurt picked up the dog’s ball and his game and headed upstairs to his bedroom. Marz pranced after my son.
“You can’t let him boss you around like that,” Julia said, snapping me out of my simultaneous admiration for, and disappointment with, my adopted son.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
Julia’s quivering lips told me there was more to say, but the additional words only came after she lowered her voice and moved closer to her mother.
I was no longer the intended audience of her daily tales. This year, as a freshman, Julia informed me that she’d rather wait for the bus by herself or get a ride from a friend, than have her father drive her to and from school each day, as I did Kurt, and as I had always done with my daughter since we moved here, miles from the nearest classroom. Without explanation, Julia said she wanted to do something different. She apparently didn’t mind if both of us were left out in the cold.
“She’s in high school now.” Michelle had tried to fill in the details my daughter had left unspoken.
“I know.”
“She wants, and needs, to spend time with her friends and classmates.”
“Doesn’t that happen at school?”
“She’s not supposed to talk in class. That’s where she listens to her teachers.”
“What about lunch? Hallways? After school activities?”
Michelle put her hand on my shoulder. Even though she had to reach up to do this, I felt the condescension. “Why do you care? Her school is in the opposite direction as Kurt’s. Now you can spend more time with your son without having to rush.”
“It was one of the few times I got to speak with her.”
“She’s here every night.”
Yes, she was home every night, but Julia spent that time talking with her mother or teasing her brother or texting her friends whom she’d just left.
I entered the kitchen and the muted conversation between mother and daughter stopped abruptly, then changed course.
“The key is you want the chicken to be golden but barely cooked through initially. You set it aside and work on the mushrooms and sauce, then finish everything together.”
“I can do it,” I said.
“Julia wants to. Anyway, it’s not your turn.”
I was a passable cook. I now prepared about half our meals. I provided sustenance.
Michelle had once been an amateur chef who provided food for taste and enjoyment, more than mere nourishment. Back then, Michelle was a wife and mother, but not a nurse. That was when I’d been a regular member of the workforce, a tenured faculty member, and a much less frequent preparer of sustainable, if not particularly savory, meals. I was a father, an income-producer, and a griller.
I decided to take a break from teaching around the time I concluded our family could not spend one more painful minute in Jersey, but my semester sabbatical became a year-long pause and then a multi-year separation from work. When I tried to go back, some potential employers expressed sympathy with my initial decision, not so much concerning the length, especially when I’d not written anything, or at least anything publishable, during my stint away from the classroom. One or two might have given me a chance, but those places wanted me to leave our rural home and come to them. To their city or bustling college town. That wasn’t possible. We were safe here.
Michelle saw what was happening before I did. She gave up her dream of becoming a professional chef and went back to school, earned another degree, and immediately went to work. She saved us. What was left of us anyway?
I taught online from time to time. It wasn’t much, but it, well, wasn’t much.
Each day mother and daughter became more alike. Sure, Julia was slimmer with red highlights rather than sandy ones, but the two stood the same height, enjoyed the same hobbies, and offered me the same silent stare on multiple occasions on a daily basis.
“You working tonight?” I attempted to peer at their meal preparation, at the items on the kitchen counter, but Michelle and Julia simultaneously shifted their bodies closer together or apart whenever necessary to block my view.
“I’m subbing for Amy.”
Michelle often planned elaborate meals on Thursday night because she usually had to work the weekends. Those were the shifts left for the relatively new, even if not relatively young, nurses. It was a matter of seniority, and those with the most chose the best days and times. Newbies also were told to report to work whenever a longer-tenured nurse called in sick.
“I thought you had a study date?”
My daughter glanced up from the cooking instructions Michelle had written and stared at me with consternation at my continued presence. “I can study here.”
“Wasn’t a boy you liked going to be there?”
“Mom . . .” Julia slapped her jeans with both her hands and pushed past me.
Michelle opened a box of mushrooms and washed them a handful at a time. “You need to give her some space.”
“I thought you said I needed to share more of myself with her.”
“I did. A year and a half ago.”
“Well?” I threw my arms out wide.
Michelle dried her hands. She may have interpreted my gesture and smile as sarcastic. That’s not what I intended.
“You can’t check out, then immediately be allowed to be close.”
I put my hand on Michelle’s wrist. She seemed to be offended. “I can do this.”
Michelle tapped my chest and went after our daughter, leaving me alone with Flay.
You cook good enough for me.
I was happy at least one member of the family understood. I opened the refrigerator and ripped off a piece of broccoli and gave it to Flay as a thank you. She happily chewed, then asked for more. I held up one finger before giving her another stalk. When she was through, Flay watched me for a minute to be certain I hadn’t changed my mind, then left with neither bark nor whimper.
I didn’t have to play with Marz the next day. I could have forced Kurt to do it when he came home. Part of the reason for having a pet is learning to take care of another living being. Part of the reason for having a dog is learning that they are part of the family, and we do things for other family members that are not in our own self-interest. Maybe these were the reasons I found myself outside with our latest addition before noon.
Kick, block, return. Kick, block, return.
After ten minutes engaged in the rote activity, I began paying more attention to my playing partner. Each time, Marz brought the ball back, dropped it at my feet, wagged his tail, smiled.
Isn’t this fun for you too?
I didn’t know the answer to Marz’s question. It was kind of fun, but it had been so long since I had had fun or at least could acknowledge having fun. Still, how could anyone not love this animal? Not only was he telling me he was happy, but he wanted me to enjoy our game just as much as he.
After some delay, Marz barked to get my attention.
Play, don’t think.
“Shhh! Michelle is still sleeping.”
Marz barked again.
Play, don’t think.
I resumed our game with greater focus but didn’t try to wear him out. When I told him we needed to go inside, he appeared to understand, even if he didn’t agree with the decision.
He dropped the ball just inside the door, then followed me as I puttered about the house until I sat in our breakfast nook. Marz lay flat on his stomach at my feet and allowed his tongue to fall from his mouth.
“Yeah, I know I couldn’t get one past you. You’re a hell of a goalie.”
“He’s not gloating.” Michelle passed me and poured herself the last cup of coffee. She wore a well-worn bathrobe and slippers. She was still attractive in an I-don’t-care-how-I-look sort of way. “He’s trying to figure out what you’re going to do next.”
“Maybe he should tell me.”
“Maybe he will.”
Michelle ran her hand across the back of my neck before she took a seat beside me.
I took this as a sign that we hadn’t wakened her or that she wasn’t mad if we had. “How was it last night?”
“Uneventful.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Makes for a longer, slower night. But, yes, that’s good in the grand scheme of things.”
I grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table. While I polished it against my sleeve, Flay suddenly appeared at my feet. I took a bite and spit the chunk at her. Flay scooped it off the floor and began chewing it the way our son chomps on bubble gum. With mouth open more than necessary, emitting more sound than required.
The enjoyment of such a simple part of life put a smile on my face until I observed that Michelle had lost the affection she’d shown earlier. I held the apple out to her. “Want a bite?”
Her chest rose and fell slightly. Her silent sigh was the response my question deserved. Minutes of silence followed until she told me she was going to take a shower. I shared another piece of the apple with Flay. When I reached the core, she was through with me.
She trotted to our bathroom. I knew she’d sit directly before the glass door and supervise Michelle’s shower. She’s not a voyeur. She thinks she’s her protector in her exposed state. There won’t ever be any Psycho scenes in this house. Not with a thirteen-year-old pug on guard.
Michelle spent the evening knitting. She took up the habit after we moved here. She says she finds the activity calming, peaceful. Sometimes I think it makes her look older, but whenever I find myself thinking that, she looks up as if she’s heard me and tells me to relax, so perhaps the activity just reminds me that I’m older and need to find an age-appropriate hobby myself.
Flay snuggled beside Michelle, almost in her lap with the yarn. Marz sat on the floor beside Kurt. Both dogs lifted their heads whenever I got up. At first, they might have believed I might be retrieving more food, but eventually were just responding to my lack of calm.
A little after 9:00, our front door swung open so violently that everyone lifted and turned their heads.
“You guys won’t believe what happened.” Chloe was eight inches taller and two years older than Julia. She considered our place her second, if not primary, home.
I jumped to my feet. “Is Julia all right?”
“What? Sure. Jules saved the day.”
Our daughter slid out from behind the shadow of her friend, dropped her wool hat on the table, and took a seat.
“What happened?” I asked.
Despite her initial excitement, Chloe became distracted by the two dogs, both of whom trotted to greet her like a member of the family. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? These seniors came into the restaurant and started harassing us.”
Julia unzipped her jacket and shook it off. “Low’s exaggerating.”
“Am not. They were loud and obnoxious.”
“Only after you egged them on.”
“Only Chase. And how was I supposed to know they’d start breaking stuff?”
“Cool.” Kurt hadn’t taken his eyes off his game but obviously was listening.
“Breaking stuff?”
“Just some glasses, Dad. And not on purpose. They started tossing them to each other across the place. They caught most of them but a couple fell to the floor and they took off.”
“Yeah, and then the cops came.” Chloe crossed the room like a giraffe. She and I are the same height, but her legs are proportionally much longer than mine, so they appear to pull the rest of her body along. “I don’t even know who called them. I wanted to tell them it was an accident, but Jules wouldn’t let me.”
“There’s camera footage.”
“Right, so Jules came up with the plan. She said she saw what happened but didn’t know who the guys were.”
“I don’t.”
“I do.”
“That’s why I told you to let me talk to them.”
Michelle moved beside our daughter. “Did you call your manager?”
“Yeah, she freaked out but calmed down when she heard there wasn’t much damage. She just asked us to clean and lock up the place. That’s why we’re home early.”
“I thought we should try to find those guys, but Jules just wanted to come home.”
“What would you have done if you found them?”
Chloe shrugged her shoulders in response to my question.
Michelle placed her hand on Chloe’s back. “Your Mom know you’re here?”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s date night.”
“Your parents out for a night on the town?” I asked.
“No, look, I can’t go home for a while, okay?”
Chloe picked up Flay and placed her on the part of the couch I’d been occupying. She curled herself in a ball around the pug.
Julia got to her feet and smacked my arm.
“What?”
If no one tells you what’s going on, how are you supposed to know what to say and not to say? Not for the first time, I wondered if Chloe wished she had been younger like Kurt when we moved here and if she could have become a member of our family. Of course, things would have had to have been different. She had parents after all, though they were the sort of people who long ago concluded raising a child was a burden and had shifted primary responsibility from themselves to society.
Lucky for her, Chloe had a good friend in my daughter. Someone to look out for her, to guide her, to help her through any number of circumstances, despite being two years younger. I wasn’t sure what my daughter got out of the relationship, other than rides.
Saturday afternoon, I went outside to thank my son because he and Marz had been playing for a long time, but I didn’t see either of them in the normal field of play. I turned about, confused, until I heard a noise.
Every man who becomes a father soon learns he’ll hear one word more than any other for the rest of his life. It’s repeated so often it shifts from the sweetest sound to background noise.
“Dad.” (Recognition.)
“Dad.” (Loving admiration.)
“Dad.” (Look at me.)
“Dad.” (I want your attention.)
But no parent ever wants to hear:
“DAD!” ( I NEED YOU NOW!)
That’s what I heard Marz say right before I ran into the woods worried about the condition in which I’d find Kurt. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt. Surprisingly, he didn’t even appear the least bit frightened by a black bear some fifty feet away.
Marz continued to bark even after I arrived, but his tone changed, as if now sending a warning to the animal whose presence threatened my son.
It’s three against one now. We’re stronger than you are.
I’m not sure what I’d done to instill such confidence. I hadn’t a gun or any weapon, though I scanned the ground for a stick or rock, something to protect my son, to scare away the intruder. Though as far away from home as we were, I’m sure the bear perceived the situation differently.
Despite my arrival, the bear didn’t appear filled with a level of fear that matched Marz’s confidence. Maybe it was curious what Marz’s barking would bring, and upon seeing me thought: That’s it?
Its lack of progress toward us, or any indication of retreat, suggested I had no effect on what it would do.
“C’mon, Kurt, we need to go back home.”
“Did you bring a leash?”
“No, don’t you have one?”
“I never take one when I take him out in the yard.”
“Are we in the yard now?”
“Define ‘yard.’”
“’Yard’ as in the lawn on our property.”
“This is grass. I’m not sure whose property this is.”
“The yard ends where the woods begin.”
“Under that definition, I’d say this is not the ‘yard.’”
“You’re damn right.”
“So I’m supposed to bring a leash whenever I take Marz to the woods.”
“You’re not supposed to take Marz, or even yourself, into the woods without your Mom or me.”
Kurt stared at me as if this was new information. Then we both looked at Marz to see if he was aware of it. It did not appear as if either the dog or the bear was fazed by the human discourse.
“Should we text Mom?”
“Why?”
“To tell her to bring a leash.”
“No, Kurt. You’re going to grab Marz by the scruff and pull him back home. I’ll keep the bear at bay until you’re in the clear.”
“How?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
My son looked at me dubiously as if I needed to provide additional information. I’m not sure if he was more concerned about my well-being or his own.
“Go ahead. Don’t run but walk briskly. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
I side-eyed the bear as Kurt departed and thought of all the things that could happen, that I did not want to happen, and what I would do if one of them were to happen.
Attacking me and me fighting back was easy. Well, maybe not easy, but the normal reaction to such action anyway.
It was harder to figure out what would happen if the bear decided to rush past me towards my son. I concluded I’d run after it and shout. And hope Marz would protect Kurt at least until I got there.
Luckily, none of these events took place. I remained in place with my legs twitching, trying to see what the bear was doing without looking directly into its eyes. When I concluded Kurt had had enough time to return to our property, I waited another couple of minutes before retreating. I walked backwards for a bit before turning my back, praying I’d be able to hear the bear coming if it decided to attack.
Michelle met me halfway between the woods and our home. She held the largest knife we possessed above her shoulders until we were two feet apart. Much longer than one would have expected for her to recognize her husband of two decades.
“Did Kurt tell you what happened?”
“He’s okay, you’re okay. That’s what matters.”
“I’m going to have to teach that dog not to stray.”
“You’d be better off teaching your son where to go and where not to go.”
“I thought we’d be safe here.”
Michelle handed me the knife. I didn’t feel any more powerful once it was in my hands. Perhaps she did, having been relieved of a burden. I always thought she handled our losses much better than I. But she’d been Tom’s mother and Seaver’s dog Mom just the same. She had every right to worry something bad could happen again. Even here.
We’d fled a crowded borough just outside of New York City for a sparsely populated town in Minnesota. We were just a foursome when we arrived. Michelle and Julia, Flay and me. I never expected that to change. I certainly hadn’t thought of additions. I just wanted to protect the remaining family we had at that point.
Michelle thought nursing would provide a way to help those in need as we’d recently been. But the need she found here more often concerned meth, opioids, and other systemic challenges, not sudden emergencies like the loss of blood or collapsed lungs.
Kurt was five when we took him in because someone had to. He had nowhere else to go. Two years later, we legally became his parents, not just his guardians. Once more, there were no alternatives. By that point, we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I slept in Sunday morning to be certain I was rested. I made myself a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and fruit. I wore my game face the entire time I got ready and barely glanced at Marz. I wanted to pump myself up and psych him out. This was the day I’d outlast him, show him who was the boss.
Right before it was time, I stood in front of Coach Flay to see if she had any final words of encouragement.
You’re kidding yourself, Old Man.
“No, I’ve got this. I’ve got a plan to wear him down.”
It happens to all of us. You have to accept it.
I wasn’t ready to be bested by a dog, young or old.
I let Marz race to the field while I took my time getting there. I didn’t waste energy with unnecessary movements. No feigned shots, as I wasn’t worried about tallying goals. Sometimes I purposefully kicked the ball a little too high or a little too wide just to make him fetch. His words were always the same when he returned the ball to me.
That one doesn’t count.
I never disputed the fact. I snorted and resumed the long game I was playing. After twenty minutes, I paused and took a drink of water from the bottle I’d brought with me. I smiled as Marz panted, his tongue flipping about.
Kick, block, return. Kick, block, return.
When I needed more water, I heard footsteps behind me and saw Michelle approaching with Marz’s dish. I was about to protest her assistance, but Flay was with her.
At least play fair.
I watched Flay move in front of Marz and inspect him the way a doctor examines a fighter with a cut over his eye in the ring.
Flay met my eyes when she headed back to the house.
He’s good to go.
Michelle wouldn’t look at me.
I’d like to think I could have continued to play for a full hour, maybe longer. I’m pretty sure I could have. I’m not saying Marz couldn’t have. I’m not saying I would have won. I have the feeling he would have played until he literally dropped dead.
There was no physical sign that told me we’d reached the moment that enough was enough, but as I stood over the ball I came to a recognition. I also knew without turning around that not only Michelle and Flay were watching but also Kurt and Julia.
I realized some things I’d once known but had forgotten: sometimes you have to be the adult; you don’t always have to win; and, most of all, it’s all right to admit you’ve suffered a loss.
I put my foot on top of the ball and rolled it back towards my family. Marz started to run after it, albeit without his usual endless energy. I blocked his path and got down on the ground.
I put my arms around him. Like most dogs, he doesn’t value hugs the way humans do. He’d rather play or be given food. But he tolerated it this time. Maybe he knew I needed it.
“I’ll get you a treat when we get inside. After you have some water.”
The others soon joined us. I hadn’t expected Chloe to be there but wasn’t overly surprised when I heard her voice. “I thought you had him.”
“No, never did. Never will.”
“You’re in great shape. My parents are both fat slobs.”
“Everybody has strengths and weaknesses.”
“I haven’t seen you play like that since . . . Tom. And Seaver.”
I could hear sympathy in my daughter’s words. I knew I would have cried if I looked at her, so I squatted before Kurt instead. “That was different. Let Marz relax the rest of the day, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And don’t let him take you out into the woods anymore.”
Kurt looked up at his mother. “I won’t.”
Michelle approached me from behind while I was brushing my teeth. She reached up and placed her hands on my shoulders. I thought maybe she wanted to make love.
I wasn’t in the mood.
I wasn’t angry. In fact, I’d decided I needed to return to being a better husband and father. I was tired, but that wasn’t the reason either. I just wanted to do something good before the next time. So that Michelle might act out of love and desire, not just need.
When Michelle patted me a couple times, I realized I’d misinterpreted her act. I then worried she was going to deliver the opposite message and say we were through.
“Are you okay?”
I turned. I was wearing a t-shirt and boxers. She wore PJs. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I …”
“Listen, you do know what happened, right?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I know.”
“I was.”
“You told me what happened. What is this about?”
“What did I tell you?”
“You serious?”
“Very.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted me to go through this routine. “Tom and Seaver were playing. Seaver ran out into the street, and Tom chased after him. They were both hit by a car.”
“That’s what you think?”
“That’s what you told me.”
“Follow me.”
Michelle took my hand and led me to our bedroom. There was a wooden chest at the edge of the bed. Michelle used it to hide everything in the room she wanted out of eyesight, to give the impression of order. I thought she was going to open it and take out some object she had been keeping secret for years, but she placed her hands on my hips and guided me on top of it.
“That’s not what happened.”
What did she mean? Was she going to tell me my son was alive and that he’d just needed to go away for a bit?
“Tom was playing ball with his friends.”
My wife paused and stared, I presumed to see if I recognized the story.
“One of the boys hit one toward the street. Tom raced to catch it. He didn’t pay attention to where he was. He needed to catch the ball.”
No, it had been Tom and Seaver playing. Seaver ran into the street. Tom saw the car coming. He just didn’t know one was also coming in the opposite direction.
“He ran out without looking. Seaver barked, then ran after Tom. I came rushing to the door when I heard the barking because it was so different than normal Seaver.”
“No,” I said. Even though I had not been there. Even though I went directly to the hospital. Even though the scene was cleared by the time I returned home the next day. “He was trying to protect Seaver.”
Michelle placed both hands on my cheeks. She stared into my eyes looking for a memory I did not want to have. She began to sob.
“Seaver tried to protect Tom. We all knew he was your favorite.”
How I loved them. My son and my dog. Were they my favorites? I’m sure I would have denied it had I been asked. And it might not have been a lie if I did. It wasn’t conscious. I just loved them so, so much.
I didn’t decide when my son was born that I’d always wanted a boy and would therefore love him more than Julia.
I loved my daughter. I loved Julia. I liked her too. She’s a wonderful, wonderful child.
But my Son. Tom was everything I wanted to be. Smarter, more athletic, more socially poised. More fun, more kind, more perfect.
And Seaver was this man’s best friend. Playful, loving, protective.
I failed both of them. I thought I lost Tom because of Seaver, but that wasn’t the reason. Why’d he chase one random ball in one meaningless game among friends, other than because his Dad told him time and time again to be his best, to play his hardest, every single play, every single time?
And why did Seaver have to protect Tom? Because I was not there to do so.
I hugged my wife. “I’m sorry.”
The problem with having favorites, or a problem with having favorites, is you implicitly blame others for not being your favorite, for the choice, if it were a choice, you made.
Maybe I’d known it all, all along.
Over Michelle’s shoulder I saw Flay looking up at me and I mouthed my apology to her as well.
My wife pulled away and saw me looking at our pug. Our eyes met. I thought she was waiting for an explanation.
I looked back at Flay.
It’s okay, I understand. I miss them every day too.
That’s what she said. I’m sure.
Kevin Finnerty earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago. His stories have appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Mulberry Literary, Newfound, Variety Pack, The Westchester Review, and other journals. He is the proud Dog Dad of a pug named Shakespeare.
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