Niagara Moments Magazine For The Arts

             Carl locked the door to his office on the second floor of Jack’s Barber Shop.  He held on to the old wooden railing as he made his way down the cool, dark stairway.  Smells of hair tonic and cigars wafted up from below.  He stopped in the side doorway of the barber shop to watch Jack stooped over the shampoo basin, lathering the head resting on the edge of the sink.  A lazy ceiling fan stirred clumps of hair around the yellow linoleum floor.

            “You give the best shampoo in town, Jack,” Carl said.

            Jack turned his head and smiled at Carl as he pulled the hose out of the holder at the back of the sink.

            “How’s the numbers game?”  Jack asked.

            “Slow,” Carl said, “no one wants their tax returns done in July.  How’s the hair business?

            “Steady.  Folks like to feel a breeze on their heads when it’s hot as hell.   Are you off now?”   Jack helped his customer up and wrapped a white towel around his head.

            “Herb?  Is that you under the turban?”  Carl laughed.  “Herb, the Sultan of Perth Ontario.”  Carl walked over to the two men.

            “Bow when you say my name or I’ll have one of my servants chop off your head.”  Herb wiped drops of soap and water from his forehead.  He plugged the unlit stub of a soggy cigar into his mouth and stood up. 

            “Ever since high school you’ve thought you were royalty.  And ever since high school you have been a royal pain in the ass,” Carl said, as he bowed before Herb.

            The three men laughed, at ease in each other’s company and their long friendships.

             “Heard about the divorce, Carl.  Jeez.  Sorry to hear.  You and Anne had a long haul.  What was it, 20 years?”  Herb unwrapped the towel from his head, his half-moon of springy grey hair circled his bald patch.  He passed the wet towel to Jack. 

            “Thereabouts.  22 years, 7 months, 5 days.”  Carl rubbed the stubble on his chin, wondering if he was in the mood to have Jack give him a shave.  “That’s what you get for being an accountant.  It’s all about numbers.”

            “Yeah.  I know what you mean.”  Herb pulled the cigar stub from the side of his mouth, the tip wet and flat.  He stared at it for a second before plugging it back in to his mouth.  “Numbers?  My favourites are 38, 24, 36.”

            The three men laughed.  Herb elbowed Carl’s ribcage, leaned in closer.

            “Well, you’re a bachelor now.  You fucking lucky dog.  Another go at ploughing your seeds.”

            “Sowing.  Sowing my seeds, Herb.”

            “Right.  Ploughing comes before the sowing.”

             Carl turned to leave.

            “See you Monday,” Carl said,  “the weather forecast for the weekend is good and hot.  Maybe I’ll drive out to the country.  Got to get rid of the smell of hair and pencils.” 

            Carl loosened his blue tie as he walked to his car.  He reached to open the driver’s door.  With one swift motion he removed his tie and stuffed it into the pocket of his pants.  He hated wearing ties.  Anne had always insisted that he wear one.  He guessed that she had thought it made him look important.   Not important enough though, not enough for her.  He hoped her new husband would be important enough, impotent enough.  Carl chuckled at his own joke.  He felt better. 

            Carl drove to his condominium off of highway 10, all of the windows rolled down, the wind blowing his hair in all directions.   A red light forced him to stop.  He squinted to see a handwritten sign nailed to a telephone pole.  FREE PUPPIES.  JOHNSON’S FARM.  Carl frowned with the effort to picture the Johnson Farm but an image of a puppy flooded into his mind instead.  Maggie.  The first time he saw her she was eight weeks old and chasing her stubby tail.  He was eight years old and chasing anything that moved.  Carl’s parents had thought a dog would help him get rid of all the energy he had that somehow never got fully spent up in a given day.    The sharp blast of a car horn startled Carl.  He looked up at the green light and glanced in his rear view mirror, locking eyes with a red faced farmer in the truck behind him.  He waved an apology and put his foot on the gas just as the traffic light turned to yellow.

            After washing his dinner dishes, Carl opened a beer and turned on the television.  He sat staring at the screen deep in thought, his right foot tapping the floor.   Carl looked at his watch, his eyes turned back to the television.   A dog was running in slow motion across a field of daisies, it’s eyes fixed on a bowl of kibble on the horizon, the kibble glistened in the sunlight.  How much of that stuff does a dog that size eat, Carl thought.  He looked around his living room, the comfortable furniture he had inherited from the divorce looked old and tired, the colours faded on the arms and headrests. 

          Two large framed pictures hung side by side on the wall over the television.  One of each of his girls.  Their college graduation pictures, braces off and million dollar smiles.  Carl raised his can of beer to them, “Good luck my beauties.  Don’t let them break your hearts.”  Carl sighed and took a long swallow, thoughts of Maggie surfaced again.  Twenty-five years later and he could still remember the feel of her fur in his fingers, the pull at his insides when she would sleep on his bed, snoring on her back, all four paws dangling in the air.  She had died by his side in his bed when he was a gangly eighteen, her body stiff and her glazed brown eyes wide open.  He’d cried like a girl.  The sight of Maggie’s chewed up toys and balls lying on the floor of the kitchen had caused Carl’s stomach to lurch.   His mother had quickly gathered up the toys and blankets into a cardboard box and dropped them off at the animal shelter in town.

            Carl drained his can of beer as he walked to the kitchen.   He opened the refrigerator and peered in at the one remaining beer and a bowl of leftover pasta.  At least he thought it still looked like pasta.   Anne had been afraid of dogs for some reason that was left unexplained.  She would walk to the other side of the street if one was coming towards her.  “They can turn on you, all dogs are wolves at heart,” she had told Carl whenever he would get excited at the puppies in the window of the pet shop at the mall.  “We have to consider the children, what if a dog turned on them when we were out.  And the smell of them.”  Anne would shake her head in disgust.

            Carl reached into the refrigerator and took the cold can of beer, bumped the door closed with his hip.   Good old bloody Anne.  She had been the gatekeeper in Carl’s life for too many years and he had let her, for the sake of peace.  “What the hell,” he shouted,  “what the bloody hell and why not?”  He put the unopened can of beer on the kitchen table, went into the living room and grabbed his car keys from the top of the television.  He didn’t need a jacket, it was still hot outside.

            The country road to Johnson’s Farm was a single lane of dirt and patches of tall grass, clouds of sand and dust raised up behind the car.  Carl slowed at each farm as he looked for the sign.  He slowed the car and turned into a dirt driveway.  A large willow tree overpowered a white farm house on the south side.  Protecting the house or attacking it, Carl thought.  He followed the road behind the farmhouse and braked suddenly for a rooster standing in the road leading to a weathered barn.  Carl honked his horn.  The rooster strutted towards the car, chest puffed out, neck extended and wings flapping.   Carl honked again.  The enraged rooster flew up and landed on the griddle hot hood of the car, peering sideways into the interior before it tap danced and slid off the car, squawking and flapping his wings as Carl opened his door.  Giving the front tires an angry glare, the rooster sauntered towards the open barn door as Johnson walked out to greet Carl.  

            “Hot as blazes today eh?”  Johnson took off his Budweiser baseball hat and wiped his forehead with his arm.  “The stock feel it, they won’t move fast in this heat I can tell you.” Johnson blew his nose into a brown handkerchief, examined the contents and stuffed it back into his pocket. 

            “Without a wind, the heat is worse.”   Carl turned to look around the farmyard.  “We have to remember days like this when it’s 40 below and we’re sick of the snow.

            Johnson nodded.  “Agreed.  Yeah.  We have to deal with what we get, eh?”  Johnson raised his eyebrow at Carl. 

            “Right,” Carl said, “I saw the sign in town.  About the dogs, the puppies.  Any left?”  

            “Geez.  We had five.  Three male, two bitches.  All of them took expect one bitch.  She’s no good.  I should have drowned her when she was borned.  Back leg is deformed.  It’s short like.  She walks funny, up and down, like a penguin.  She’s no good to anyone.”  Johnson pulled out his handkerchief again, coughed and spit the phlegm into the folds,  jamming the handkerchief back into his pocket.

            “Too bad.”  Carl looked towards the barn door, the rooster stood before the dark entrance watching the two men.  “Could I have a look at the pup before I go?”  He tried not to think about the image of a wiggling burlap sack being dropped into water, bubbles surfacing.  Then blackness.

              “Surely you can.”  Johnson led the way to the barn, his steps slow and sure.  Hurry up old man, hurry, Carl thought, perspiration prickling the back of his neck.

             “Don’t get your hopes up none.”  Johnson turned to talk to Carl out of the side of his mouth.  “She’s just a plain mutt.  Don’t know who the father is.  Mother’s not saying.”  Johnson chuckled as he led Sam into the barn.

            Hay and clumps of dirt covered the barn floor, the mossy smell of manure hung in the still air.   The light was bad and Carl had to squint to help his eyes adjust as he followed Johnson to a stall with a wooden gate.  Johnson opened the gate and whistled into the stall, looked down at the floor and whistled again.   A lump of hay moved and Carl bent down to get a closer look.  There she was, looking up at him, black fur and black eyes, black as the bottom of a pond.  He couldn’t move.  The puppy stared up at Carl,  her tail vibrated as hay and dirt fluttered behind her.  Carl’s mouth went dry and he had to swallow hard.  Three times he swallowed.  Carl dropped to his knees and extended his right hand.  The puppy stood and limped over to Carl’s fingers, growling while she licked them.  Carl carefully picked her up, feeling her tiny ribcage between his fingers, the black fur soft and airy.  He kissed the top of her head, nuzzled her ear.  The puppy bit his nose, her sharp little teeth holding on.

            “Ow,” Carl howled.  He held the puppy away, looking for signs of meanness in her.  Her tail wagged so fast it was a blur.  Carl put the puppy under his arm and stood up, checking his nose for blood. 

“I’ll take her off your hands.”  Carl walked past Johnson to the barn door, making a mental note to stop at a pet store on the way home.  Where the hell had he put the old towels he used to wash the car?  If he remembered correctly, the old blankets from last winter had to be in his bedroom closet.

            “Hey mister.  Whoa mister.”   Johnson caught up to Carl.  “You sure?  You’re going to have some vet bills, a lot of bills you can bet on that.”  Carl made his way down the road to his car, the puppy tucked under his armpit like a football.  Johnson shrugged and followed him to the car.  The rooster stood on the hood of the car violently pecking at the windshield, reminding Carl of Anne when she hadn’t gotten her way and wouldn’t let go until she had.

            “What do I owe you?”  Carl used his free hand to reach for his wallet.

            “No.  Nothing.  You’ll need your money.  She needs seeing to pretty soon.”  Johnson coughed, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief.

            “Thanks, Johnson.  Appreciate it.”  Carl walked towards the car, opened the door without engaging eye contact with the rooster.  He placed the puppy on the seat beside him and started the car.  The rooster flew off the hood of the car, screeching loudly as it landed heavily in a cloud of dust.  Carl glanced at the passenger beside him.  She was shredding a ball of old Kleenex with her paws and teeth, bits of wet tissue stuck to her whiskers.  Carl turned the car around, waved at Johnston and the rooster and drove down the road, past the farmhouse and the willow tree, its heavy green strands waving in the breeze.