The Good Boy

by: Lena Abou-Khalil

          Charlie was my best friend. We did everything together. We would go to the park together, eat meals together, and watch TV together. Charlie was there when I did homework. He was there when I wanted to hang out outside. He was there when I was happy, when I was sad. I would tell him all about my day, and he’d listen and bark happily in response. Oh yeah, I suppose I should mention…Charlie was my dog. He was an Australian shepherd/beagle mix with white fur and black and brown speckles. His blue eyes were the color of a brisk winter sky. And his breath…oh god, his breath. He was adorable, but his breath was the worst smell that I’d ever experienced. Imagine raw onions, chopped liver, and human hair all thrown in a bonfire whose kindling was made of gym socks that had never been washed. Then the fire was put out with human vomit. There. Now you have a pretty good idea of Charlie’s morning, noon, and night breath.

          Stinky breath or not, I adored Charlie. I’d gotten him when I was eighteen, as soon as I moved to my own apartment. He’d been a rescue, aged approximately ten months. For two years, we enjoyed our time together. As soon as my classes got out, I hurried home to Charlie. If a friend and I were hanging out, I’d bring Charlie. If my friends wanted to go someplace Charlie couldn’t, then neither could I. Charlie was more important than anyone else, which is how I ended up with no friends by age twenty. But I didn’t care. Nothing mattered, as long as I had Charlie.

          Then, exactly two years after I adopted him, Charlie vanished.

          I still don’t know what happened. When I’d left for my fifty-minute sociology class, Charlie had been curled up on my bed, fast asleep. I’d rubbed his ears goodbye, then grabbed my backpack and headed out. It usually takes me about twenty minutes to walk to class, and that Wednesday was no exception. Twenty minutes there, and twenty minutes back. All in all, I was gone for an hour and a half. When I returned, I expected to see Charlie at the door, wagging his tail ecstatically. But he wasn’t. I checked the bedroom. Nothing. The kitchen, the bathroom. Nothing. The door was locked. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. Except for Charlie.

          I knocked on every neighbor’s door. With each tenant, my throat grew tighter, my heart beat faster. By the eighth door, I was sobbing so hard that I could barely speak. Nobody had seen him. Nobody had heard anything. I put up posters. I called shelters. I posted on social media. I even tried to get a local reporter to mention it on the news. He didn’t, but I suppose that it wouldn’t have mattered. I called the police, but there was no sign of a break-in. Nothing was missing except Charlie. They dismissed it, saying that he’d probably run away. But the door was closed. It was locked. The windows were all closed as well. And I live on the third floor. Charlie couldn’t have run away. And he wouldn’t have, either. He was my best friend. Charlie never would’ve left me.

          I was inconsolable. Many of my estranged friends would come to see me, bring me meals, try to get me out of my apartment. A couple succeeded, but probably regretted it pretty quickly. I’m sure I was a nightmare. Most days, I sat in my apartment, watching sappy movies and eating tub after tub of ice cream. That’s basically what my diet consisted of: ice cream, pizza, and ramen. I’m pretty sure I gained like ten pounds the month after Charlie vanished.

          I began to do worse and worse in school. The only good thing about Charlie’s disappearance was that it happened near the end of the semester, so despite my sinking grades, I still managed to pass all of my classes. Of course, during the summer, I almost never left my apartment. I rarely got dressed, and my hair ended up so tangled that I had to cut it all off. Short hair did not suit me, but it’s not like anyone was going to see me, anyway.

          By the time summer break was over, I had gotten myself together. Well, mostly. I was showering regularly, I ate salads, I cooked. My disastrous haircut had grown out, and I’d taken to wearing real clothes again. Don’t get me wrong, I was still miserable. But I was starting to accept that I’d never see Charlie again.

          It didn’t take too long for me to change my mind about that.

          Exactly three days into the semester, I thought I saw him running across campus. I didn’t get a good look, and I know that it could’ve been another dog. Hell, it could’ve been a large and weirdly-colored badger. Okay, maybe not the badger, but still. The incident made me upset, but I didn’t think too much about it.

          Five days later, I came home and found some dog tags right outside my building. They weren’t engraved and could easily have been dropped, but it felt like a taunt. I wish that had been all, but it only got worse. Less than a week later, I was rushing to class and tripped over a tennis ball. Charlie’s tennis ball had been his favorite toy. Also, who drops a tennis ball inside a school building? I’d finally started to get over my loss, and now these reminders kept popping up. It was almost like the universe was telling me not to forget, not to give up. I was both devastated and bolstered at the same time. It’s an odd combination.

          I saw reminders of Charlie everywhere. His favorite brand of food, which used to be a challenge to find, was now in every grocery store I went to. Almost every dog I saw wore an ice blue collar and leash – the exact color as Charlie’s. Piles of dog poop were everywhere, like everybody simultaneously stopped cleaning up after their dogs. And there seemed to be more dogs, too. Most of them Australian shepherds. And there were too many dogs wearing the same black and grey striped sweater that I’d gotten for Charlie. It didn’t even make sense. Who puts a sweater on a dog in ninety-degree weather and then takes them outside?

          I’m sure that almost everyone who’s lost a pet went through the same thing, but it had been over three months. I’d seen almost no reminders right after losing Charlie; they were only starting now. I heard dogs barking at night, during the day, in my dreams. I was afraid that I was going crazy. I think that I might have. Perhaps I imagined the dog hairs that still clung to my clothes, months after the dog had vanished. Maybe I was wrong about the color of Charlie’s collar. I might have misremembered the difficulty of finding Charlie’s favorite food. Perhaps my brain conjured up the sound of dogs barking at all hours. Maybe I was going crazy.

          I started waking up to a terrible smell in my bedroom, like someone had stuffed a decomposing skunk with anchovies and raw garlic, then drowned it in sour milk. The smell of Charlie’s breath. I coughed myself awake each morning, then staggered, gasping, to open a window. I smelled mystery farts when watching TV alone. Farts that reeked of dog butt. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t have classes on Friday, so on Thursday night, I packed a bag and got in my car. I drove and drove, with no destination in mind. When I got tired, I stopped in a small town called Bancroft for the night. Lying on the bed in a tiny motel room, I finally felt at peace. I fell asleep with the TV still on, the soft voices and bright lights lulling me to sleep.

          I dreamed that I was chasing Charlie. He was running, unleashed, down the street. I followed madly, screaming for him to stop. He never even looked back. He ran and ran, faster and faster and faster until I was a block behind. I was running through molasses. Tears streamed from my eyes as he ran and ran, towards the intersection. I screamed his name over and over, but he wouldn’t stop, he ran and ran and the cars wouldn’t stop and I begged them to brake, I begged him to come back but he didn’t and the cars didn’t and a truck barreled towards him and –

          I leapt to my feet, drenched in sweat. Falling to my knees, I sobbed and sobbed, gasping for breath. I crawled towards the window before realizing that the air here was pure. I should’ve been happy about it – no matter how much I missed him, smelling Charlie’s breath could never be construed as a good experience – but I wasn’t. I could never be happy.

          I thought about it then. I could get some pills. I wouldn’t be legal for a few more months, but I was sure that I could get some alcohol somewhere. Here, in this motel, my body would be found. What was holding me back? Friends? That ship had sailed. Family? Hadn’t spoken to them in years. School? I didn’t even care about my major. Career? Hadn’t thought that far ahead. The only real reason to live was to finish the last season of Scandal. Pretty pathetic answer, but it worked. I stayed in Bancroft for another day, then drove back home.

          I pulled into my apartment’s parking spot and tried to turn off the car, but my hands wouldn’t move. They were frozen to the wheel, glued there from my sweat and tears. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back there. The thought of coming home to the empty apartment, the nightmare apartment – it was too much. I began to feel dizzy and realized I was hyperventilating. I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs had another plan. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed, pounding my fists into the steering wheel, the dashboard, my own thighs. After accidentally turning on the radio, bruising my legs, and honking the horn approximately four times, my scream subsided and my dizziness faded into defeat. I dragged myself and my bag from the car and up the stairs. I fished out my key and unlocked the door. The stench hit me like a freight train flying into my nasal cavity. A train carrying the feces of thirty people who’d eaten a lot of beans and cabbage the night before. Oh, and the feces were on fire. It was so strong that I think I must’ve passed out.

          When I awoke, Charlie was standing above me, panting heavily into my face. Well, that explained the awful smell. Wait. Charlie? I couldn’t believe my eyes. I pinched myself repeatedly, but nothing happened. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. A hallucination? I reached out to touch him and froze. Could I bear it if he wasn’t real? Charlie solved the issue by moving forward to nuzzle my open palm. His fur was soft, his skin warm. He was real. I scrambled forwards and embraced him, crying tears of relief into his fur. He was real.

          Life returned to normal after that. Charlie was back, and nothing else mattered. I went to school as usual, hung out with a few people. Some of my old friends let me back into their lives now that I wasn’t insufferable. But it was different between us now. They were all wary around me – like they were afraid I was either going to snap or fall into despair again. Personally, I wasn’t planning on doing either, but I guess you never know. But the best thing was Charlie. For the first few weeks, I fretted about leaving him alone in the apartment. I started kenneling him whenever I left, but after receiving several complaints of his incessant crying, I returned to letting him roam around in the apartment. I don’t know what had happened before, but at a certain point I stopped being afraid. I stopped being protective. I stopped being alert.

          About five weeks after Charlie’s return, I woke up in the morning to his usual mouth aroma of pickled toenails mixed with camembert. After rolling over and gagging, I got up, threw a jacket on, took Charlie out for a quick pee, then went back inside to shower. I suppose I took a longer shower than normal; the floor was so cold that I was loathe to leave the stream of hot water. Finally, I braved the tiles and scurried to my room, burying my feet in the nice warm rug. Looking up, I noticed that the bed was empty. Charlie normally slept there until I was ready, but he must’ve gone to the kitchen for a drink or something. I looked in my closet and grabbed some clothes, but when I turned back towards the bed, I couldn’t stifle my shriek. Charlie was there, snoozing on my pillow. I could’ve sworn he wasn’t there a few seconds ago, but maybe he was just exceptionally quiet. I shrugged it off and got dressed. It certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing that had ever happened to me.

          Except that it kept happening. At first just once or twice a month, then once or twice a week, until he would vanish for a few seconds nearly every day. I took to scanning the whole apartment after my shower. I put a bell on his collar. Nothing helped. He’d just disappear during my shower, or when I made breakfast, or while I was in the bathroom. And no matter how many bells I put on his collar (I admit, at one point he had five), he’d reappear noiselessly. I’d had enough. I set up a camera on my desk, facing the bed, while Charlie was eating dinner. For whatever reason, I didn’t want him to know what I was doing. Not because I thought he’d catch on, mind you, but because I felt bad for spying on him. You don’t spy on your friends.

          After we got up the next morning, I turned on the camera (very discreetly, I might add). We went out for his morning pee, then raced back upstairs. He won, as usual. I took an extra-long shower, then did my customary sweep of the apartment. No Charlie. Back to the bedroom. I went to the closet like normal, loudly questioned what I should wear, then turned back to the bed. Charlie was stretched out across the bed, one foot twitching. Adorable. I got dressed, walked and fed him, fed myself, then snuck the camera into my bag and left for class. I drove halfway there, then pulled over and brought out the camera. I took a deep breath and played the video. I have to say, watching Charlie sleep for five minutes gets a little boring. After ten minutes, I was just about ready to give up. I’m glad that I didn’t, though. Twelve minutes into the video, Charlie vanished. Like he actually vanished. One second, he was sleeping with one leg hanging off the bed, the next, he was gone. I rewound and watched again, and again. Okay. This was getting a little disturbing. I kept watching. One minute passed, then two, then three. Five minutes later, I heard myself enter the room. A few seconds later, I heard my question. There. I’d reached the closet. Charlie should’ve been reappearing any moment now. But he didn’t. And neither did I. The timer kept going but the video was completely frozen. I kept watching, kept waiting. By this time, I was supremely late to class, but I didn’t care. I watched until the video ended. It went on for roughly the amount of time I’d taken to turn the camera off. It was probably just a malfunction. I decided to try again the next day. The same thing happened. The next day it happened again.

          Okay, at this point I was freaking out. In every other way, Charlie was completely normal. My beautiful, perfect dog. If this was the only weird thing about him, I supposed that I could deal.

          During one beautiful weekend covered in fall foliage, I took Charlie to an off-leash dog park to run around. He chose a boxer and a pit bull/lab mix to play with. I chatted with their owners a little while we watched the three dogs bounding around the park. The boxer’s owner was a little stand-offish, but the pittie’s person was super friendly. We flirted a bit until he asked for my number. I was four digits in when we heard a sharp yowl. Whirling around, we saw the pittie running away, his tail between his legs. The boxer stood her ground, growling with hackles raised. Growling at Charlie, who was happily chewing on a stick, completely oblivious to the distress of his new buddies. The pittie fled to his owner, yelping the whole time. He shot me a dirty look and left with his dog in tow. So much for that date, then. The boxer’s dad dragged his dog away, glancing back at my pup every few seconds. I was utterly baffled.

          Charlie was pretty hyper when we got home. I played with him, throwing his ball and playing tug-of-war with his favorite rope. He ran around, tail wagging, tongue lolling. After he yanked the rope from my hands and sat about destroying it, I decided to document the moment with some photos. I know a lot of people have photos of their pets on their phone, but my camera roll is about 98% photos of Charlie. I’m not even exaggerating. I know that’s on the extreme side, but he’s so cute that I can’t resist. Anyway, I snapped a few photos of him chewing on his rope. I took a couple pictures of him resting his head on his ball. I got a nice shot of his yawning mouth, complete with frayed rope bits hanging out. I checked over my photos a couples of hours later, hoping to find a new lock screen photo, but every single picture I’d taken was blurry. I’m talking “is that a dog or a porcupine” kind of blurry. What a disappointment. I guess my current lock screen photo of Charlie sleeping on his back would stay for a while longer.

          Charlie had a hyper period every day now. I started buying him more and more toys to occupy himself. I played with him every day after returning from class. I guess he got hyper because he was excited to see me? But he hadn’t really done that much since his puppy days. I started jogging with him sometimes, which he loved and I hated. Seriously. Jogging is the worst. But Charlie loved it and I loved Charlie, so the habit began.

          One day, we were playing outside. I’d finally braved the dog park again, but took him to a remote corner so we could play alone. We played fetch for ages. We started out with his ball, but after one particularly enthusiastic catch, his teeth punctured it. Also, it got stuck on his teeth. It was pretty funny, although I’m sure he didn’t think so. So after prying it out of poor Charlie’s mouth, we switched to throwing a stick instead. After maybe ten throws, I noticed that my arm was bleeding. Upon closer examination, I discovered two puncture marks on each side of my arm. It looked like a dog bite, but I’d never felt Charlie bite me. He might’ve by accident when I was throwing the stick, but I think I would’ve felt it. I decided to call it a day and brought Charlie home. After cleaning and bandaging my arm, I resolved to go out for a change. I called up some of my scarce friends and agreed to meet at a nearby bar. After changing and kissing Charlie goodbye, I hopped in my car.

          I have positively no recollection of what happened that night. My friends told me that I got super drunk. I may or may not have peed myself. My friend Shauna let me crash in her dorm room, since there was no way that I was driving that night. Mark went to my apartment to feed and walk Charlie, since I was also in no shape to do that. According to Shauna, I passed out about three steps into her room.

          The next morning, I had the worst hangover I’d ever had. Granted, I’d never really gotten drunk before, so that was no surprise. Shauna had left the trashcan right next to me, which proved useful since as soon as I woke up, I threw up what felt like everything I’d ever eaten. Ugh. I made coffee strong enough to impress a Brazilian and sipped it while trying to garner the courage to eat something. When Shauna got up, she told me everything that happened the previous night. Highlights included me dancing like a maniac, then tripping and falling, taking no fewer than four people down with me; singing loudly and out of key; and flirting with a cute guy only to burp noisily in his face. Let’s just say I’m glad I don’t remember that night.

          After Shauna’s story, I called Mark to thank him and ask after Charlie. Shauna mentioned that he’d volunteered to walk and feed my dog that morning as well, and I was eager to hear news of my boy. But Mark didn’t answer. Not once. And I called him like eight times, too. Shauna dropped me off at my car and I drove home, perhaps a bit faster than I should have. What if Mark had forgotten to stop by in the morning? What if he’d overslept? I knew that Mark would never purposefully hurt Charlie, but I had no idea how much he’d drunk the previous night. And, as I’m sure you can tell, I get a little overprotective of Charlie sometimes.

          When I got home, I found Charlie sitting at the door, his tail a-wag. I hurriedly took him out, but he had nothing in the tank. I guess Mark had stopped by after all. Charlie’s food bowl was still kind of wet, meaning that Charlie had been fed. I relaxed somewhat. My baby was alright. I, on the other hand, needed a nice warm shower.

          As I was toweling off, I heard a crash in the bedroom and winced. My hangover was not gone. I hurried over to investigate and found Charlie, his eyes golden and flashing, standing over the remains of my bedside lamp. He looked up at me, baring his teeth in a fierce snarl. I stumbled backwards. Charlie had never so much as growled at me. He stepped towards me, his ears pointed forwards, his hackles raised. I reached for the bedroom door and he pounced, knocking me to the ground.

          When I woke up, Charlie was licking my face, whining. Worried about me. I sat up and scratched his ears. What a good boy.

Lena Abou-Khalil is an avid lover of books, animals, and nature. If you’re ever in her presence, ask a question about cuttlefish to unlock an excited one-hour lecture with much bouncing. If you ever need to cartoonishly trap her, use fancifully flavored ice cream as bait. When she’s not at work, she’s enjoying the outdoors. When she’s not outside, she’s probably sleeping.