The Dog Books: Eight Tails in Noir

By Arthur Day

Eight offbeat and quirky short stories featuring a canine perspective on the human condition sure to appeal to many of the nation's 43–million-dog owners.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483584102

Arthur Day

Arthur Day was born in Baltimore but raised in Connecticut. He currently splits his time between homes in Simsbury, Connecticut, and Greensboro, Vermont, with his wife and an old English bulldog named Rocco.

Book preview

love?

Scratch Me Where It Hurts

Is there a creative way to die?

Chapter 1

Another visiting time. The usual parade. Close enough for eye contact. Far enough to avoid commitment.

It works both ways.

Today was different. She looked at me with eyes that said hello. I said it back. She wanted to continue the conversation, but the guy she came with pulled her to the next run. Then the next and the next till she was gone.

What of it.

A couple of days later, I was enjoying some shuteye when there was a voice at the gate. I figured she’d be back.

I’m looking for a guy that knows his way around, she said.

Her eyes shimmered like water in a dark bowl. The black lips and nails and spiky hair went with the eyes. So did the tattoos and mini and fishnets and spiky boots. I was getting interested.

But the fancy fur coat didn’t work with the ensemble. It said money — I got it and I like it. Nobody’s perfect.

I wanted to offer her a drink, but the bars kept me from being social. So I sniffed her hand and let her scratch me through the bars. It takes guts to stick your hand through the bars in this joint, and she had them.

She told the scrub to let me out, so we could discuss things in private. He took us to the Visitor’s Room and went away.

I was going to introduce myself but she already had my rap sheet. Pit Bull mix picked up on the street. Male. Age - 3 to 5, maybe. Color - brown and white. Weight - 50 lb. Neutered - so somebody once owned me. Scars – yes. Teeth – mostly. Attitude – sullen. Prospects - zero.

She asked what I did to get by. Till they put me inside, that is.

I told her. Whatever is necessary. And I did it better than most.

She asked if she could trust me. You look dangerous. Maybe I like that.

I wasn’t going to lie. I prefer honesty in a relationship. I also prefer food and a warm bed. So I told her what she wanted to hear.

She needed to demonstrate who’d be in charge. Sit, stay, that kind of crap. I obliged. I’m not stupid.

After that, she opened up a bit. Told me her name was Monica. Lives in a expensive apartment, mid-town. She paints. Has a boyfriend. He travels. So she wants some protection. That’s where I come in. I thought this might work.

She did the paperwork. Most of the time, the shelter tells people to wait a day. You’re making a big commitment; we don’t want the animal back. With puppies, that’s good advice. But they’re happy to see guys like me walk out. Makes the scrubs feel safer.

So they pushed some needles in me. She paid my bail and we left.

Chapter 2

We hadn’t discussed if I was housetrained. From the look of her apartment, you’d wonder what difference it’d make. I found what passes for a tidy spot near the kitchen. She went for takeout.

Dinner was Chinese with a side of something from a can. She said she’d stock up tomorrow on what the shelter said I should eat. I don’t care. I’m no foodie.

Then we talked about names. I didn’t have one, at least none the shelter knew about.

She went through a list while I chewed on what used to be a lamb shank she found in the back of the frig.

Harry? No, you’re not hairy. Just as well, I hate vacuuming.

I could tell.

I had a dog when I was a kid. Big guy, named Frank. Bigger than you, but laid back. Sat with me while I drew.

I wasn’t opposed to being Frank II, but Monica had already moved on.

Roscoe? Spent some quality time with a Roscoe in art school. DeSean? Spent more quality time with a DeSean after art school. No. I don’t live in the past.

Just as well. I didn’t care for either of those.

I like those old medieval names. Aethelstan, Beowulf, Oxnard. Guys in chainmail, women in wimples. I drew village scenes when I was a kid. Dragons raising hell, carrying off damsels. But you don’t look like an Aelfgar or a Leofric.

I wasn’t going to disagree.

Something dignified, now I’m in this upmarket place with an upmarket boyfriend. The stiffs in the building won’t freak out so much if you have an old fashion WASP name. So what about English royalty? William? Henry? Edward? Yah, that’s it — Edward and I’ll call you Eddy when we’re alone.

I was fine with that. What the hell.

Chapter 3

Jason is a wimp, plain and simple. No match for Monica. What’s she see?

He showed last night with a suitcase. Same guy from the shelter.

What’s that thing doing here, he asked, holding the suitcase in front of him like it was a shield. Looked nervous and smelled nervous. Good call on his part. I thought we’d agreed you’d get one of those little white dogs.

LWD’s: cuddly with an attitude. Sound and indignation at the first sign of trouble, but no bite unless you’re the size and shape of a rat. On the street, we call them appetizers. She made the right choice.

Monica made some gestures telling me Jason wasn’t a threat. I already knew from the cologne and pink glasses frames he was wearing. Still good to have official confirmation. So I went back to my spot. But I kept an eye open just to be sure.

They had a long discussion about deals and money and orders. She seemed pleased with the news but no cash changed hands. I’ve seen it done many times.

With the amount of wine and weed consumed, I figured they’d be going at it all night. Monica was game, if stripping to an old Burlesque standard is a signal, but he didn’t rise to the offer. Claimed jet lag and rough approach to LGA. At least I got to see more tattoos and piercings. I liked what I saw.

His excuse next morning was an important meeting. Still found time to preen at the mirror. I don’t expect him tonight. He took the bag with him.

Monica had a long shower so I was hurting when we finally got out. Barely made it to the park. She apologized. Said it wouldn’t happen again. Better not. I won’t be responsible for the consequences.

She made up for it with a big breakfast: bacon, eggs, toast. She had yogurt and a banana and lots of coffee. Then she said I could watch her work.

I felt like napping but I’m new to the relationship, so I obliged.

Her studio’s in a corner room. Bare wood floors, tall windows and lots of light. Several easels; numerous canvases, both blank and drying; paint tubes, mostly crimpled and near empty; brushes everywhere, mostly in assorted glass jars; pencils and charcoal; paper; art books; multicolor smudges on jars, chairs, tables and floor. You’d call it lived-in. She said this was her front-end studio, where she gets inspiration, does the layout, works with color. She has another place where she finishes things and stores them till show time. My nose had told me everything I needed to know about this room when I arrived last night. So I passed the time sniffing here and there while she got organized.

Monica said she’d be doing a Long Island Beach order today. Not how it looks today. Eighteen hundred sometime. It wasn’t long before she had women in long white dresses and big hats on the canvas along with little kids in bare feet and rolled-up pants splashing in the background. The scene was atmospheric, she told me. Diffused light, like there was a fine mist that mellowed the lines and colors. Looked like a place I’d be willing to spend time.

She’s a fast worker and had most of the painting done by noon. I admit I dozed off, so maybe I lost track of time. She needed a break and some air. Could be why I nodded off. The fumes here are stronger than a grease pit in a hack shop.

We walked a few blocks to a grocery, one of those storefront places with narrowaisles and a single checkout stand and linoleum floors that were already worn out before the digital age. Windows papered with ads for the lottery and yoga classes. Smell of vegetables that might have been fresh last week. A sign on the door said I wasn’t welcome, so she left me tied to a parking meter.

I should a brought my cart, she told me when she came out. She had two plastic sacks and a big bag of kibble. Monica was showing signs of wear after a block or two and hit on the idea of tying the sacks together and draping them over my shoulders. Said it was only fair since it was my stuff. So I played mule while she carried the kibble over her shoulder. It would’ve worked if I were a few inches taller. She changed plans just before the sacks would have torn apart.

Chapter 4

We’ve found a routine, of sorts. Just the two of us. She even scratches me, which is nice. I visit the park on the way to the coffee place, where Monica gets her triple-usual while I scan the passing scene from a lamppost. Pedestrians give me a wide berth. Back to the apartment for breakfast — she knows my favorites by now — then she retreats to her studio while I get some shuteye. The fumes aren’t so bad in the living room. I wander into the studio if I’m in the mood for a scratch or if I feel nature calling, which isn’t often. I have excellent control. Then we hit the park before dinner.

We’re still an item in the elevator. Neither of us fit in. You have your business types — lawyers, bankers, brokers — riding down in the AM with their eyes glued to their devices. Half the time, they don’t notice us. When they do, they’ll tense up. Except the horny guys who want to look cool when they see a hot babe like Monica. A few even have the courage to say hello, but not enough to try to pet me. Just as well. I don’t like well-dressed strangers.

Things are different in the afternoon. Way too early for the morning crowd to return. Instead, we get the seniors, going out to an early dinner or coming back from shopping or a visit to the doctor. They’re the worst. Look at us like we’re death, murder, the plague, rolled into one disgusting, frightening package. Monica thinks it’s funny. She likes to wind them up. She’ll say to me ‘I told Skull you won’t fight again unless we get 60% of the gate’ or ‘do that to another old lady and I’ll cut you.’

It didn’t take long for Monica to get a registered letter from the property manager. She tossed it.

Monica’s been going gangbusters on the painting. She’s run out of storage space in the studio. We’ve got canvases in the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, hallway, even the shower, which is why she’s stopped bathing. Hope that gets reversed, real soon.

Monica has a special meal she prepares when she’s really into being creative. It’s the painting that’s creative, not the food, which is something she invented in art school when money was tighter than her halter-top. Mixture of corkscrew pasta noodles, imitation crab and curry powder, with frozen peas for color. Cooks the noodles in boiling water. Puts the pretend crab and peas in a colander and pours the noodles over them to warm things up, then mixes in the curry powder. She’ll make a vat in the morning and snack from it while she paints. Offered me some. I told her it was nice to share but I’ll stick with dry kibble.

We haven’t been blessed by Jason presence again but there have been calls. Business matters, judging from the lack of emotion. Short, to the point. After the last one, she told me we’d be going out later.

Chapter 5

Jason parked a small van at the building’s service entrance. It’s well after midnight because they don’t want to be observed. Monica brought me down in the elevator and told me to sit in the vehicle while they load it. Don’t be shy if some creep tries to walk off with anything, she said. Right in my wheelhouse.

Jason started filling the van with stacks of canvases wrapped in blankets. He’s still nervous in my presence. Didn’t offer a warm greeting or kind expression when he came up to the apartment. Then, he wasn’t all boy-friendly with Monica either. Just ‘are you ready, babe.’ Didn’t ride down with us in the elevator. Said he had to make a call. I could sense Monica was disappointed but she’s too tough to let it show. Like me.

Monica carried a wooden box that looked like a fat briefcase with each trip to the van. She told Jason not to lay anything on them because the canvases inside were still wet. It took three trips to load the van before we drove off.

I settled behind the front seats and decided to zone till we got to wherever we were going. And wherever it was took some time to reach. Smells of decay, rot, garbage, junk. Water, like a river, nearby. And dark. Nobody on the streets that you could see, which is the way the nobodies wanted it. Kind of place where you don’t stroll unless you like being mugged. Or you’re the mugger or in trade. Kind of place I was living till they picked me up, except I didn’t know this part of town.

Wherever we were heading had a big service door that Jason had to unbolt and roll up before he could drive the van through. While he pulled down the door, Monica got a flashlight from the van and let me out. It might have been a factory or a warehouse, years ago. High-ceiling and cavernous, cracked concrete floor, rusting steel columns, sound of water dripping somewhere, frayed wire hanging down here and there, piles of rubble, clerestory windows filled with glass brick, some of which were cracked or missing. I wouldn’t call it homey.

Monica led the way to a metal staircase along the back wall and told me to follow. I had no problem with that. She fished out a right of keys and opened a few padlocks and some more deadbolts on a steel door that took effort to pull open. Once inside, she switched on a light.

The place might have been the office. It was on a mezzanine level, overlooking the factory floor, with several windows embedded with steel mesh that let the boss keep tabs on the workers without getting his shoes soiled. Somebody had been living there, and from the untidy look, my guess it had been Monica.

Jason carted up the canvases while Monica retrieved the wooden boxes. Put the Tonalists over there, against that wall, she told him. And the Hudson Valley stuff goes into the next room.

How soon before these are ready, Jason asked.

When they’re ready. I have to roll the canvases and dirty them up some. You know the drill. Besides, the Naïve are still drying, so it’ll be weeks before I can touch them.

But I got galleries lined up, Jason said. I don’t want to lose any deals.

We don’t do this right we get nothing. Besides, I want your services. It’s ages since I had a good fuck.

What, here? This dump? On that old grubby mattress of yours?

Easy. God, you’re a wimp. We go back to the apartment. You think I want to be here any more than necessary? Just let me get Eddy set up for the evening.

I didn’t like where this was going, but what could I do? Monica soon returned from the van with some bowls and kibble. You’re pulling guard duty tonight, my sweet.

What if he, you know, has to go, Jason asked. What if he aims at the artwork?

Serve ‘em right for locking me in this dump. But I wouldn’t do it. Deliberately, that is. I have taste.

So Monica took me out to the street, where I obliged. Then she took me back to the office, or workroom, or crash pad, or whatever it is.

You know what to do if any creep breaks in, Monica said as she closed the door behind her. I did.

Chapter 6

I’ve spent better nights on the street. In the winter. In the rain. During gang fights. During Police Actions.

First, there were the sounds. Windows rattling. Joists creaking. Water dripping. Small things emitting squeaks. Bigger things scurrying among the rubble. Those sorts of things don’t bother me. I’ve