Sections 1-4

I

Dogs bark.

                My dog barks a lot. He barks at dogs, at cats, at rabbits. He barks at people on foot, on bikes, and on skateboards. He barks at the windows and he barks at the doors. He barks at his food and his toys.

                He barks at his tail.

                Some dogs have vicious barks, snarling barks. When my dog barks he is saying: “Hello! Let’s be friends! Do you want to play?” He has a lot of friends. He has old friends, young friends, big friends, and little friends. Standing on his hind legs with his paw on the top rail of the fence, he can look a grown man straight in the eyes, and tower over a child. He like to hug, and people like to hug him.

                Today he was barking at a new family across the street.

                Katya seemed to understand his barking more than her parents did. She came to the fence, petted him, hugged him, and threw sticks into the backyard which he eagerly fetched and brought back.  Katya’s mother smiled. Her father, or, rather, her step-father yelled, something about going onto other people’s property. I was gardening. I could see her. In fact, I probably could have touched her. If I wanted her off my property, I could have told her myself.

                She looked down, muttered “I’m sorry” in heavily accented English, and walked away. I smiled and told her she could come back and play with him anytime she wanted.  That’s when she told me her name was Katya, and she was nine. I told her my son is five, and that he’d be home from preschool soon. Oddly preschool goes later than does elementary school. I have never quite understood that.

                The house Katya lived in had long been an eyesore in the neighborhood. I stood at the fence in the backyard, my dog had his paws on the top rail and looked as though he was talking to my neighbor, George. We were all of the same height, and from a distance you might have thought it was three people.  George commented on the new roof, the new windows, the brickwork, the fence, the repaved driveway. The house was no longer an eyesore.

                But it didn’t fit. This was a neighborhood, a town, of picket fences. “Who needs a six-foot high fence,” George wondered aloud. I didn’t know. “Maybe,” he offered, “he believes that old saying ‘good fences make good neighbors.’”

                “Maybe, but they make lousy communities.” I sipped a beer. My dog seemed a bit jealous. It wasn’t hot, really, it was only June and June was never quite hot. For a dog, though, especially such a large dog with a thick coat, it was hot enough. He dropped down from the fence and wondered toward his water, lapped a bit then sank into the shade.

                I hated June. I always hated June. It wasn’t summer, and it wasn’t winter. It was just rainy and cold and, well, June. Some people like June. But June screamed yard work. It screamed house work. It screamed through soggy, foggy days “do summer chores in the rain and cold.” I hated June.

                Worse yet, June has Father’s Day. I’ve always hated Father’s Day.  Mother’s Day. Easter. Christmas. New Year’s Day. I didn’t quite hate Thanksgiving, though. Not quite. Of course, as a child I didn’t hate Christmas. I probably didn’t even hate Easter or Mother’s Day, as a child. But now I’m not a child. Instead, I have a child. That changes everything.

                 “Well…”

                “Well…”

                We both knew what that meant.  Back to the chores. For me that meant repairing the gardening box that had been damaged by the snow plows sometime over the winter. It happened almost every winter. I couldn’t move the gardening boxes though, since so little of my yard actually got sun all day long. The backyard got plenty of sun, of course, but if anything threatened to grow, my dog dug it up.

                My watched buzzed at me. I was old enough to still wear a watch. It was 3:45. I put things away and got ready to pick up my son. It was one of the few things I didn’t hate to do.

 

II

                Adare was exuberant. He rushed to the fence calling “papa, papa.” It was one of the two ways Adare greeted me when I picked him up. The other was a sour look followed by the exclamation that he was not done yet and was not ready to go home.

                I preferred exuberance.

                I preferred exuberance because Adare had been sullen longer than any child should be sullen. I didn’t blame him for being sullen. I’d been sullen. I’d been irritable. I’d been angry.

                I had been very difficult to live with.

                But Adare regained his exuberance. He laughed. He ran. He screamed. He screamed while he ran. He declared I was the monster and he ran from me, telling other children in the park�"children he knew and children he did not know�"to run from me because I was a monster and I would eat them if I caught them. They laughed. But they ran. And they screamed as they ran. Sometimes they ran together. Sometimes they ran in different direction. Sometimes they stopped, looked at me, and giggled through a “na-na-a-boo-boo you can’t catch me” and then they’d turn and run, laughing, screaming.  I got tired long before Adare did, long before the other children did.

                Some mothers kept a close eye on the children. Some did not. Some demanded their children never get out of their sight. It is very hard to escape a monster who is going to eat you if you cannot leave your mother’s sight. A blond girl made that very point to her mother. Her mother was unimpressed, even when she added “it’s Adare’s papa; he likes to eat children’s toes with barbeque sauce. Adare told me so!”

                I did not know the girl, or her mother. I did not know if Adare knew the girl from school, or had just met her. I did not know if she actually believed that I eat children’s toes with barbeque sauce, or not. But I was pretty sure Adare told her I did.  An older, but not much older, girl sat next her mother and frowned. Finally she spoke: “mom, why does Annie play all the time, it’s all she wants to do.”

                “It’s fine to play Katie, you just have to stay where I can see you.”

                The rule was clear, but Katie showed no desire to join the game. Annie turned to me and laughed “na-na-a-boo-boo” and ran. Her mother’s eyes followed here. Katie’s eyes focused on the ground. I crouched to her level, “don’t worry about Annie, I only eat one big toe at a time.” Katie almost smiled, but the girls’ mother did not. I tuned to see a boy I was supposed to chase not terribly far away. He pointed, screamed “monster” and ran. I gave chase.

                One by one the children’s mothers called to them announcing it was time to go home, to dinner, to this or to that. The game subsided. Adare noticed it was cold. Running children rarely notice the cold, or the heat. But now he noticed.

                “I want soup” he announced as we walked toward the car.

                “You’re in luck,” I said, patting him on the head, “as long as you are willing to look at your chicken and call it soup.”

                Adare squinted at me. He turned his head slightly, and said “calling chicken soup doesn’t make chicken soup.” He shook his head. “I want soup,” he repeated as he climbed into the car.

                At home, we ate chicken.

 

III

 

                Saturday started as most Saturdays do. Adare announced it was a home day, then he asked if it was a home day. When I confirmed it was a home day he triumphantly proclaimed that he knew, all along, that it was home day.  The sun shone brightly through the windows, bright enough to convince a five-year-old it must be warm outside. It was almost enough to convince me it must be warm outside, except that I had already opened the door to let the dog out. I knew it was chilly. The dog had discovered it was chilly, came back inside, and flopped on the couch. He covered the whole couch, and provided a living blanket for Adare.

                In spring and summer, at least in the months that correspond to spring and summer, the outdoor market bustled with activity.  On a day like this, the most crowded spot was just inside the shelter doors, next to the fireplace. It was, after all, only June. Adare played with fire trucks, and a friend he just met, in front of the fireplace. I bought some celery plants, a mint plant, an oregano plant. I bought some chicken and some bacon. Adare ran out to the stall and greeted the couple who ran it, then took some maple syrup. I had just bought maple syrup. No wonder he was their favorite customer. I smiled, “you have this to look forward to.” Mary was visibly pregnant. I also offered her the stroller, car seats, and any other baby equipment that resided in my basement.

Adare had stuffed his maple syrup in my bag and begun running around a tree. Other children took up the activity.  Parents looked on, glad their children spent their energy running around a tree at the market rather than running through the kitchen at home. The market manager was not pleased. She demanded the children stop immediately. She looked at the parent and announced “someone might get hurt” when a mother of three muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear, “and so..?.”

Adare took my hand “I don’t want to be her child” he said, frowning and furrowing his brow into his “mad face,” a face which always made me laugh.

                Another child’s mother looked at Adare, “she doesn’t have children” she quipped.

                “Clearly” I turned to Adare. “You can run around the tree at home.”

                “But Bear will chase me”

                “And he’ll probably catch you.”

                A girl overheard, looked up at her father, and exclaimed “they have a bear at home that’s going to eat him.” Her father laughed, saying “I don’t think so.’

                “Bear is our dog” Adare volunteered. “He doesn’t eat people.” The girl looked relieved. “Do you want to come to our house and run around the tree with me and Bear?” She no longer looked relieved.

                “Maybe another time,” her father interjected. We parted ways. It was a small enough town that we could very well see them again. Adare and I walked home.

                As we turned the corner to our street I noticed something: silence. Bear was not barking. If ever we walked toward downtown, Bear lay in the corner of our yard and waited for us. When we appeared, he began barking wildly. Today there was not barking. We reached the end of the block, our house, and Adare shot around the corner to the other side yard to check on Bear. I followed more slowly.

                Katya was at the fence, vigorously scratching his ears. No wonder he had not greeted us.  I wondered about her father, guessing she had gone to the side yard to escape his notice.  Adare ran up to Katya, no matter that he’d never seen her before: “do you want to run around the tree with me?” She looked at me for permission, then backed away.

                “I’ll go home” she said, turning away and going to the sidewalk so it might appear she’d never been off the sidewalk, “He’ll be home soon.”

                Adare looked a bit confused, as Bear put his paws on his shoulders and nuzzled him. “Who’s going to be home soon? We’re all here.” He scratched Bear. “Can we take Bear on a walk?”

                Sometimes it is good that five-year-olds have short attention spans.

 

IV

 

                Some people stopped to see Bear before they went to see Tank. Other people stopped to see Tank on their way to see Bear. Tank was a seven-year-old version of Bear. Or Bear was a two-year-old version of Tank.

                I usually took Bear for his walk about the same time Tank was out for his walk.  Bear was always more excited to Tank than Tank was to see Bear, but Tank tolerated him as an older brother might tolerate a much younger sibling being exuberant over the small joys in life he had long since come see with childhood ennui.

                The woman, maybe my age or a little younger, who walked Tank was always happy to see Bear. She rarely looked at me. When our eyes did meet, I felt my stomach sink with knowing attraction. She always quickly diverted her eyes. We never talked about anything but dogs. It was better that way.

                I did not know her name. She never asked mine. She was one of those rare people who understood that once you know someone’s name, the door has been opened to know far too much about them. We didn’t not want to know too much about each other. We knew where each other lived, because of the dog in the yard. That was enough.

                The truth is, of course, that we knew much more about each than just that. She knew that I had a son. She saw him playing with the dog. She could easily distinguish Adare from the other children who played with Bear because he darted in-and-out of the house and referred to Bear as “his dog.”  If she thought about it, she might have realized that she never saw Adare’s mother. She might never have thought about though.

                I did realize that I never saw anyone at their house except her and Tank. I realized that Tank spent much more time inside than did Bear, even though she had a bigger yard. Perhaps Tank tolerated hearing children walk by the house without being outside to greet them. Perhaps he preferred to be inside. Perhaps Bear would be that way when he reached seven. Perhaps she was home a lot more often with Tank than I imagined she was.

                We both knew it was better not to give voice to what we knew. Or what we wondered.

                Instead, we stopped periodically on our dog’s walks to let anyone passing by pet them, to tell people they are Great Pyrenees dogs, to laugh lightly when someone refers to them as small horses. I usually respond by saying my 5-year-old son tries to ride Bear.  Perhaps some wonder why my son would only try to ride Bear and not Tank. Perhaps they assumed this was because Tank was visibly older. Some people would joke about not being able to find a white dog in the snow. I had never had trouble finding Bear in the snow; I could not speak for Tank.

                Occasionally, someone would ask if Tank and Bear were father and son. It was a reasonable question. She always answered that question before I could, so I stopped even trying. She would just say they aren’t even related. People would look surprised.

                But those were only strangers, and they lived, mostly at the bottom of the hill. On the top of the hill, where we lived, people simply came up to us and talked to Bear, or Tank, or both. They rarely talked to me, or her, much less to us. They seemed to understand, as we did, that all we had in common were large, white dogs. And that it was best to leave it that way.