Our Best Friend

I couldn't imagine life without my dog. Through fractured relationships and multiple failed career paths, I could always count on Jake. When I fell for Susan, Jake fell for her too. Kids have eluded us, but that was no matter. He was the brightest retriever you could ever have met, both in coat and intellect. I missed him. He was with Susan's mom for the day, just whilst we moved our stuff into the new place.
"At least we know we're safe here, right?" chuckled Susan, as she hauled the last box off our little Ford Escort and through the doorway of our new house. Our first house.
"It seems quiet too."
She was right. To the left, row after row of identikit white houses stood behind neatly trimmed lawns. To the right, a junction joined four identical roads, each one with their own set of copies lining the pathway. To say this was a dog friendly area was an understatement; letterboxes were shaped like dog-bones, bright red dog mess bins were dotted every 100 yards or so and dog grooming vans sat in driveways decorated with statues of Bulldogs and huskies. The only pedestrians were, you guessed it, dog-walkers. The relative silence was a breath of fresh air compared to the maelstrom of commuters and transients that whirled past our bedroom window 24/7 in the city.
"It's almost going to be too boring."
She was right. Less drugs. Less cops. Relative calm. A promotion to retail middle management brought an actual salary with it. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Still, it was a bitter pill. A life of shift work and uncertain hours finally behind me in favour of a future in which I foisted that life on others? Social mobility felt uncomfortable.
"Grunt work's done."
Susan dusted off her hands and admired her handiwork. The possessions of our shared life lay haphazardly in battered boxes with faded Ikea logos. Then, the first smile of fun after a job well done.
"Let's go get Jake."
We bundled back into the Escort, and headed for Susan's mom's. Walking up the worn stone pathway, we heard Jake's excitable yap through the peeling pale green front door.
"He's been no trouble." lied Susan's mom, as Jake bounded up to greet me with an almighty lick.
"Just ran 'round the garden in circles for a few hours, chasing the butterflies."
That was believable. Jake was an inquisitive dog. he loved patrolling his kingdom, nudging pebbles out of their decorative pots and into everywhere they shouldn't be. And everybody knows a grandparents house is where cheeky children go to get spoiled rotten. A quick cup of coffee later and we were back out on the road.
We stopped at a supermarket, a local chain we didn't recognize. As we parked up, the difference between here and the city was obvious. "Must be a dog friendly area." I muttered, not for the first time that day, as we weaved our way through the throng of pet and master. Healthy dogs of all breeds trotted across the Tarmac forecourt, faithfully following happy families of all sizes and make-ups.
"None of those dogs are wearing leads!" screamed Susan.
"Seems kinda reckless to me," I muttered.
Jake slobbered down the open window. He barked excitedly.
"Well this guy's clearly home, ain't he?!" Susan preempted my argument.
"Let's bring him inside! Look! Everyone else is!"
She was right, of course. Inside, the supermarket was a thinly disguised warehouse. A cardboard display for premium collars stood at the foyer, buts its mascot was far from the bug-eyed cartoon mutt that usually accompanied dog treats. No, this dog was a preened stallion, that kind of dog that other dogs wanted to be. The ideal of dog. I looked around. It was all dog stuff.
"Are you sure this isn't a pet shop?" I asked.
"I mean, this is great, don't get me wrong. But we need human food."
And just as I said it, I saw it.
A gleaming silver meat counter covered the entire back wall of the supermarket, 12 feet tall and manned by a heavy-set man in crisp butcher's whites. beautifully marbled beef, plump pink chicken breasts and thick pork medallions lay among fresh herbs, sat upon giant cubes of ice. Instinctively, my mouth began to water. It was a marvelous display. Jake thought so too.
"Howdy!" boomed the butcher.
"And what can I getcha?"
But as I opened my mouth to answer, I realized. He wasn't asking us. He wasn't even looking at us. He was talking to Jake.
I cleared my throat, trying to get the butcher's attention. No dice.
"Uh, can I get 500g of mince, and four of your finest sirloin steaks, please."
"Of course you can, sir!" exclaimed the butcher. Jake wagged his tail fervently, slavering.
"For now or to go?" asked the butcher as he packaged our meat, with his eyes still fixed on our dog.
"Uh, to go please?"
Susan and I exchanged looks that could be best summed up as "What the hell?".
With our goods packaged, the butcher made his way down from his podium. He gingerly placed our goods in front of Jake. He bowed deeply, nodded at us sternly, then made his way back to the serving area.
"For you, sir."
I scooped up our meat before Jake could get his snout into it.
"Let's get the rest of our groceries somewhere else, " I muttered to Susan.
"There must be a Wal-Mart around here or something."
We headed straight to the checkout. No queue. It was a busy supermarket. they were clearly hot on productivity here. We placed the package on the belt.
"Good afternoon!" exclaimed the checkout boy warmly. A young guy, he must have been around 20 years old. His neatly combed hair was slicked back with pomade. He pressed a few buttons into the till, bagged our meat, and looked over at us expectantly.
"Have a nice day, folks!"
"Sorry, I'm confused. How much do I owe you?"
"There's nothing here for human consumption. The meat's on the house of course, for Our Best Friend." He bowed at Jake, his eyes closed in reverence.
"Huh. And what is for human consumption?"
"Oh, you guys must be new around town. Aisle 11."
"I'll grab it," I said.
I was curious now. I strode down the aisles, counting them off as I went. Nine, ten, eleven. There it was. Stacks upon stacks of cans with white labels and a black font which read FOOD. I scoffed. This had to be a joke. Growing ever more curious, I grabbed 2 cans and jogged back to the checkout.
"An excellent choice," remarked the checkout boy.
I could hold my tongue no longer.
"Is this a pet shop?"
"There's a no such thing as a pet shop. Owning animals is immoral. You can't merely buy a dog. You have to deserve one. That'll be 8.50." 
I paid him in a ten and told him to keep the change.
That night, Susan and I sat across from each other at the dinner table. We stared at the FOOD cans.
"I can't believe there wasn't a Wal-mart around or something."
"That had to have been a joke, right? Like a weird, small town gimmick gone too far. It's probably really funny with cultural context."
Susan was always the scholar. I opened my can.
"Smells like beans."
It was beans.
"Steak and beans it is then. Brings me back to my student days. Anything with anything!"
A dog barked. Or rather, a tinny, crackling recording of one. It played again.
"Is..." 
I hesitated to finish my thought.
"Is that the doorbell?"
Susan broke out in peals of laughter.
"That is hilarious! We should probably answer it."
Behind the door was our next door neighbor. She was an elderly woman, as fragile as a crisp autumnal leaf. She furrowed her sweaty brow.
"Where is he?! Or she?! Apologies, apologies."
I just stared at the old lady as she attempted to introduce herself through the grip of fever.
"Our Best Friend, Our Best Friend! Of course you have a Master, of course you do."
Her shriek dropped to a whisper.
"You wouldn't survive the night without Our Best Friend."
She leaned inwards, and Jake bounded through my legs to see the cause of this late night commotion.
"Oh! A beautiful boy you are. A most beautiful boy. May your first watch be calm."
The old woman smiled.
"You are blessed. Sleep deeply. Good night. Enjoy your lives."
"Good night."
"Who was that?" asked Susan, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth.
"Oh, just the next door neighbor."
Jake remained at the front door. His ears perked and his head tall. He remained frozen there as I continued my night time routine, and that is where I left him. A new house, I figured. Just a quirk.
My sleep was broken by the sound of something skittering against the walls. A single bark from Jake silenced the rats or foxes or raccoon or burglars, and I fell back to sleep.
"C'mon Jake, breakfast!"
Susan's call for mealtime snapped Jake out of his watchful state, and the loyal Labrador plodded into the kitchen.
"You know he was standing watch all night. Just staring at the front door."
"It's a new house. He's out of his routine. Relax. He'll get back into it."
But he didn't. Night after night, Jake stood watch. The scratching continued, the skittering, the subtle assault on our house, always killed by a single terse bark.
After a solid week of distracted sleep, I decided to stay up. A midnight cup of coffee. A back door ajar. Jake ran through the house and out into the night. The dog had ventured to the back of our garden, just beyond where the inside's light could reach. A cacophony of barking. Using the light on my cell phone, I ran out.
Jake was gone.
I ran back into the house, calling out for Susan. The bed was empty, with the covers thrown off and the imprint of her body still visible in the mattress. The bathroom was empty. The lounge too.
Susan was gone.
Outside, something scratched at the walls. 
The front door never felt so heavy. I wrenched it open. I needed help. I needed someone who knew. Barreling across the road, I hammered my fist into the old woman's front door.
"You! You know whats going on here! Open the goddamn door!"
The woman opened the door a crack.
"Get out of here."
"No," I hissed.
I wrested the door from her grip. Standing in the doorway, the woman cut a pathetic figure; bony and bent. She scratched her forehead. It was then I noticed the drying blood under her fingernails.
A muffled bark.
"I needed a dog," she said weakly.
I charged through the woman, shoulder-first. She took a tumble. Hard. I ran up the musty carpeted stairs. There he was. Dining on fresh meat.
The crone was uncharacteristically quick. She clambered past me and set upon Jake. The gleam of a blade. She held the knife at the oblivious dog's neck.
"I'LL KILL IT! DON'T THINK I WON'T! I NEED THIS DOG!"
My throat ran raw as a single word ripped through it.
"WHY?!"
"I WON'T GO BACK OUT THERE!"
The woman was hysterical. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her tight grip on the knife knuckles to turn white. Her hands shook uncontrollably.
"I NEED MY HUSBAND BACK!"
Stupidly, I thundered forward. In that moment, I was willing to rip that bony old woman apart. As my hands touched her neck, the woman plunged the knife into Jake's belly. He convulsed wildly as thick red blood and black bilious viscera flowed out from him,  staining the faded floral carpet. Jake died in her bony and loveless arms. Soon she died in mine, her thin skin hemorrhaging under my furious grip.
That was then.
Tonight, I am out there. I just need a dog. My broken fingernails smear blood against bare brick wall. I just need a dog. My bruised knuckles burn in the midnight cold as I rap them against back door windows. I just need my wife back.
I see a dog.
Category:Animals
Category:Mental Illness