by Gayla Chaney

First, there is a gentle nudge, then a little playful poking; his nose behind my ear, his breath in my hair, his tongue on my neck. “Not now. Go away,” I mumble.

Under different circumstances, this might be considered foreplay. But this morning, it is only Rudy needing me to wake up and let him outside. He is gentle, but if I don’t respond soon, he will start to bark.

I never set out to get a dog. He just sort of happened to me, like gray hair or a factory closing or junk mail. Rudy showed up on my porch six months ago, a black and white cur, hungry, cold and whining, whose lineage was impossible to discern. I told him, “Go away…shooo…go home, dog,” with as much success as I am having this morning. I ignored him for two days. I put up signs: FOUND DOG. And finally, after a week, I gave him a bath, put an ad in the paper, and issued him what I assumed would be a temporary name: Rudy.

There was a time in my life when I would have called the pound when no one showed up to claim a stray. I would have said to myself and to anyone else that might have been around, “I don’t have the time or space or desire for this.” Ironically, when I had that kind of will and self-determination, no dogs bothered parking on my front porch. Timing is everything.

Rudy was sent by the dog angel at just the right moment, when all my defenses were down. When I hadn't believed that I could alter the smallest detail of my life, because I'd used all the energy I could muster just to brush my hair and teeth before going to work. There was no strength left to resist a dog.

It is Saturday, and I had intended to sleep late, but Rudy is whimpering. I will put him in the backyard and I will get back in bed and place a pillow over my face so the room will look dark and I will go back to sleep, I promise myself, as I push open the screen door for my dog.

Rudy is delighted to be outside, squatting quickly before bounding off to bark at his neighbors through the chain-link fence that stakes out the property lines. There is a Boston Bull Terrier on the east side and a large part-Shepherd, part-hyena on the west side, as well as a couple of cats over the back fence, all of whom immediately know that Rudy is out.

I stumble back to my bedroom, hoping Rudy shuts up quickly. It’s not that I need more sleep. I’ve had almost eight hours which is more than I ever get during the work week. But I want more sleep because it seems like a reward, one I think I deserve. I put the pillow in place over my eyes and attempt to drift back to wherever I was before Rudy slobbered dog kisses down my neck. This is my power: resisting the pull of the day to come alive and participate in grocery shopping, laundry, writing out checks to pay bills, and the endless list of time-robbing preoccupations labeled necessities of everyday life by the sadists who run our society. Sleep, I think to myself, is my own form of civil disobedience.

I doze off and on for another hour before acquiescing to the call of the day and the sounds of activity outside. I hear the pounding of a basketball against concrete before it slams against a backboard in the driveway next door and a lawn mower start up down the street. I head for the shower because water in my face is like an official notification that I am no longer dreaming.

I shower and while my coffee is brewing, I go out and get the paper. I give a little wave to the two neighbor boys playing basketball, and they holler, “Morning, Miss Westin.” I smile, thinking what good kids they are, and then I realize I sound like my grandmother, crediting them with virtue simply because they greeted me.

Axe-murderers could have manners, I remind myself. I know for a fact that habitual liars can have manners and good looks, too, and at certain times, showing up on my front porch like Rudy when I have little resistance, can worm their way back into my life by saying something as inane as, “I thought you might like some company tonight.” It’s presumptuous, it’s arrogant, and it’s unoriginal. How does he know that I’m not expecting someone else or on my way out to meet a friend or suffering from a bout with food poisoning? Probably because time and time again, I open the door and invite him in.

In the light of day, I much prefer Rudy’s company. Dogs are noble, loyal, honest, and reciprocate love and affection with total devotion. I think it should be the highest compliment in the world to be called a dog. I think if anyone ever calls me a dog again, I’ll turn and tell them, “Thank you.” Of course, sometimes “thank you” sounds like “fuck you” if you say it really fast.

Rudy is scratching at the door to come inside. He loves to watch me eat breakfast and for being so attentive, I give him the crust from my toast. “You’re such a good boy, Rudy,” I say as I read the headlines.

I used to feel completely overwhelmed reading the morning paper when someone other than Rudy shared my breakfast table with me. Fate dictated we all were victims of circumstance, like an abandoned wheelbarrow, exposed to the elements season after season, doomed to rust, unable to move or change a thing, destined to simply wait. And for what? Someone to come and pull it out of the rain, to rescue it from the effects of time and nature and exposure to things it couldn’t escape.

It’s hard for me to picture what I did without a dog. Rudy is good company as well as being a great distraction, always nudging me for a gentle pat or a scratch behind the ears. Feeling needed is a thread that pulls us along when we might otherwise choose to stop. Or stay in bed all day. Or make ridiculous phone calls to someone who is like tasty poison, flavorful dishonesty. I might as well pour syrup over broken glass and then shovel it into my mouth with a spoon. I don’t ever want to be that hungry again.

Rudy looks up at me, his tail wagging. He wants to go out, but he wants me to go with him. He trots to the front door and then circles back to the kitchen, letting out a playful yelp to signify his intentions. I get the leash.

“Come on, boy,” I say. “Let’s go.” We head for the door. He gets so excited when we go out together. We walk around the block, smiling and nodding at neighbors who are washing their cars, working in their yards, performing their Saturday rituals.

Rudy is the best company I could ask for today with the sun glaring down so bright that everything seems to sparkle with clarity, so bright that I need sunglasses. I don’t know what I’ll do tonight if the doorbell rings after I’m already in bed, someone strategically arriving too late to go out, suggesting that I need his company because he was unsuccessful at finding anyone else that needed it. Saturday nights are difficult, attempting to have a little pride and resist him on principle, or if he doesn’t show up, wondering where he is.

Rudy pants with his tongue hanging out his mouth and his eyes focused straight ahead. “You’re a good boy,” I murmur as I reach down and pat him gently. Rudy turns to look at me, his brown eyes meeting my own, and what I see in them I interpret as an unrelenting, unambiguous, canine commitment. Love? Perhaps. Rudy licks my hand and for the moment, for this one sunny, Saturday morning moment, I can’t think of anything better than this.

*****END*****