MATT ROWAN
Dog's Best Friend
BARNARD'S BREATH SMELLED like burning dog hair. He just knew it.
“It’s more like a burning dog hair factory, and how are you so sure it’s not because you don’t brush that mouth out, very often? You brush those teeth, clean that tongue, roof-of-the-mouth, and -- guess what?-- you feel better.” That was Barnard’s best friend Jerry.
A year earlier, Jerry had been masquerading as Barnard’s dog, a St. Bernard also named Jerry.
In fairness to Barnard, Jerry had made a convincing dog. Jerry had convinced not only Barnard but his previous owner, too -- a man who’d clung to the handle “Old Pete” like it was the only thing that made him real. “You call me ‘Old Pete’ or you don’t call me nothing at all and I’ll be seeing you again, in hell.” Barnard purchased Jerry from Old Pete, who’d said he was done owning dogs because Jerry would shit everywhere and it smelled terrible as you’d imagine, worse even.
Plus the hair. There was a ton of hair. Jerry shed a ton, even for his breed. Even for the fact that Jerry wasn’t a dog but a man affecting the behaviors of a dog.
Old Pete said he would have shot Jerry by then if all his guns hadn’t gone missing. But since they had totally and 100% disappeared or been stolen, and since the dog wasn’t responding to the beatings he meted at regular intervals, Old Pete thought about his alternatives, one of which was giving Jerry away just to whoever showed up first. But instead, he sold Jerry to Barnard for something like twenty-seven dollars and some smokes, which Old Pete said was the least he was owed.
Barnard should have been more surprised when Jerry finally betrayed the fact that he was human and not canine. But the truth was, a part of Barnard had been expecting it. Jerry’s face, while like a dog’s, was missing something that said it was without a doubt a dog’s face. Instead it looked like a human was staring back at him through a dog mask.
Wasn’t Jerry crazy, though? Didn’t he need to be locked up? Questions plenty of guys might ask. But not Barnard. He thought, here’s a man with identity issues. For some reason that was what he thought about Jerry’s being, in actual fact, human.
Jerry’s secret was emphatically revealed the day Jerry surprised and subdued a home invader. It had been a huge advantage in previous fights (usually with dogs) that Jerry weighed about 190 lbs, plus the weight of his dog suit. The home invader was different, a beefy 260 lbs and 6’7”, which when pitted against either your average-size dog or human, was pretty formidable.
Jerry had wrestled to some local renown in high school. He could definitely hold his own against the home invader. But in order to do so he’d need to behave most un-dog-like. Jerry maintained a good, low center of gravity and fired down at the intruder’s ankles, from which point he cinched the home invader up in a very workmen-style full nelson and wrapped his hind legs around the home invader’s, tightening his hold whenever the intruder attempted to move.
Despite his confusion, Barnard had the wherewithal to help Jerry further restrain the home invader. They tied the invader to a chair and sent him down the basement stairs, which certainly broke a few of his bones and ultimately rendered him concussed and unconscious.
After that, Jerry crept out the front door, to the street, whereat he halfheartedly signaled at passing cars. Apparently, he was planning to hitchhike someplace. He was still mostly dressed like a St. Bernard, save the dog head, which was pulled off during the scrum. Motorists weren’t stopping.
“So why’d you do it, pretend to be a dog, Jerry?” Barnard said, meeting Jerry at the curb.
“I have my reasons. I don’t have to tell.” Jerry replied. Barnard nodded. Jerry added, “I mean, I don’t get my jollies being a dog, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I wouldn’t have guessed that,” Barnard said.
“Fine, you really wanna know? It’s because I started losing my hair. And that just became me losing things. I lost my girlfriend, my job, my parents and then, in a way, my mind. I thought, what about being somebody else? And then I thought, nah, not somebody, something. And then that’s when I thought of my St. Bernard, Bessy, from when I was a kid. She was so great that Mom and Dad had her fur treated and preserved after she died. It was in an old trunk in the attic. I thought, I’ll give up being Jerry the man and be Jerry the dog. I dressed myself up in Bessy’s fur. I found Old Pete, had a note in my mouth that said my name was Jerry, and I was looking for a good home. And he took me in and beat me soundly with a fire iron that very night. So after that I shit around everywhere and took my lumps for it, till he couldn’t stand it no more and shucked me. I should have just run off, but I liked messing with him. His beatings weren’t so bad, mainly given he was such a weak person, not only in mind but in body, too. You met him. You know.”
“Wow, Jerry,” Barnard said. “Wow.”
“Now I have to go, don’t I? Or I have to kill you. It’s one or the other, right? After revealing the truth of my terrible secret?”
“How about just being Jerry, the human being, for a while?”
Jerry, bald as he was, couldn’t find a good reason not to be himself again, at least for a while. The dog thing, interesting as it was, could only go so far.
The home invader was kept in their basement, where his bones and brain did not heal properly, not even with the benefit of many years.
“It’s more like a burning dog hair factory, and how are you so sure it’s not because you don’t brush that mouth out, very often? You brush those teeth, clean that tongue, roof-of-the-mouth, and -- guess what?-- you feel better.” That was Barnard’s best friend Jerry.
A year earlier, Jerry had been masquerading as Barnard’s dog, a St. Bernard also named Jerry.
In fairness to Barnard, Jerry had made a convincing dog. Jerry had convinced not only Barnard but his previous owner, too -- a man who’d clung to the handle “Old Pete” like it was the only thing that made him real. “You call me ‘Old Pete’ or you don’t call me nothing at all and I’ll be seeing you again, in hell.” Barnard purchased Jerry from Old Pete, who’d said he was done owning dogs because Jerry would shit everywhere and it smelled terrible as you’d imagine, worse even.
Plus the hair. There was a ton of hair. Jerry shed a ton, even for his breed. Even for the fact that Jerry wasn’t a dog but a man affecting the behaviors of a dog.
Old Pete said he would have shot Jerry by then if all his guns hadn’t gone missing. But since they had totally and 100% disappeared or been stolen, and since the dog wasn’t responding to the beatings he meted at regular intervals, Old Pete thought about his alternatives, one of which was giving Jerry away just to whoever showed up first. But instead, he sold Jerry to Barnard for something like twenty-seven dollars and some smokes, which Old Pete said was the least he was owed.
Barnard should have been more surprised when Jerry finally betrayed the fact that he was human and not canine. But the truth was, a part of Barnard had been expecting it. Jerry’s face, while like a dog’s, was missing something that said it was without a doubt a dog’s face. Instead it looked like a human was staring back at him through a dog mask.
Wasn’t Jerry crazy, though? Didn’t he need to be locked up? Questions plenty of guys might ask. But not Barnard. He thought, here’s a man with identity issues. For some reason that was what he thought about Jerry’s being, in actual fact, human.
Jerry’s secret was emphatically revealed the day Jerry surprised and subdued a home invader. It had been a huge advantage in previous fights (usually with dogs) that Jerry weighed about 190 lbs, plus the weight of his dog suit. The home invader was different, a beefy 260 lbs and 6’7”, which when pitted against either your average-size dog or human, was pretty formidable.
Jerry had wrestled to some local renown in high school. He could definitely hold his own against the home invader. But in order to do so he’d need to behave most un-dog-like. Jerry maintained a good, low center of gravity and fired down at the intruder’s ankles, from which point he cinched the home invader up in a very workmen-style full nelson and wrapped his hind legs around the home invader’s, tightening his hold whenever the intruder attempted to move.
Despite his confusion, Barnard had the wherewithal to help Jerry further restrain the home invader. They tied the invader to a chair and sent him down the basement stairs, which certainly broke a few of his bones and ultimately rendered him concussed and unconscious.
After that, Jerry crept out the front door, to the street, whereat he halfheartedly signaled at passing cars. Apparently, he was planning to hitchhike someplace. He was still mostly dressed like a St. Bernard, save the dog head, which was pulled off during the scrum. Motorists weren’t stopping.
“So why’d you do it, pretend to be a dog, Jerry?” Barnard said, meeting Jerry at the curb.
“I have my reasons. I don’t have to tell.” Jerry replied. Barnard nodded. Jerry added, “I mean, I don’t get my jollies being a dog, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I wouldn’t have guessed that,” Barnard said.
“Fine, you really wanna know? It’s because I started losing my hair. And that just became me losing things. I lost my girlfriend, my job, my parents and then, in a way, my mind. I thought, what about being somebody else? And then I thought, nah, not somebody, something. And then that’s when I thought of my St. Bernard, Bessy, from when I was a kid. She was so great that Mom and Dad had her fur treated and preserved after she died. It was in an old trunk in the attic. I thought, I’ll give up being Jerry the man and be Jerry the dog. I dressed myself up in Bessy’s fur. I found Old Pete, had a note in my mouth that said my name was Jerry, and I was looking for a good home. And he took me in and beat me soundly with a fire iron that very night. So after that I shit around everywhere and took my lumps for it, till he couldn’t stand it no more and shucked me. I should have just run off, but I liked messing with him. His beatings weren’t so bad, mainly given he was such a weak person, not only in mind but in body, too. You met him. You know.”
“Wow, Jerry,” Barnard said. “Wow.”
“Now I have to go, don’t I? Or I have to kill you. It’s one or the other, right? After revealing the truth of my terrible secret?”
“How about just being Jerry, the human being, for a while?”
Jerry, bald as he was, couldn’t find a good reason not to be himself again, at least for a while. The dog thing, interesting as it was, could only go so far.
The home invader was kept in their basement, where his bones and brain did not heal properly, not even with the benefit of many years.
Matt Rowan lives in Chicago, IL, with a talented female writer and two talented chihuahuas. He co-edits Untoward Magazine and Horrible Satan and serves as fiction editor of ACM: Another Chicago Magazine. He’s author of the story collection Why God Why (Love Symbol Press, 2013). His work has appeared, or soon will, in mojo journal, Rubbertop Review, Gigantic, Pear Noir!, Atticus Review, Necessary Fiction and SmokeLong Quarterly, among others.
