About the Dog

By Robert Aquino Dollesin

Molly, man, she's been poutin' all morning. Got herself locked in her room and won't come out for shit.

Every time I rap against the door, she just says, "Go 'way, Harper. Go 'way."

Then, 'bout noon she comes boltin' past the sofa, haulin' her suitcase and sayin', "Keepthefuckindog. Keepthefuckindog." Again and again, just like that. One streamin' pauseless phrase that's got me glancin' up from the shit I'm rollin'.

"Molly?"

"Keepthefuckindog," she says again, louder.

Now the front door's flung open and Molly's pacin' the porch. My dog, a fat basset bitch I call Pokerface, who's sprawled on the carpet next to my feet, stares up at me with her big red unblinkin' eyes.

"What the fuck, Molly?" I say, staggerin' off the sofa. That's when all my shit spills off my lap: the dope, high-grade Columbian, the Zig-Zags, and even the plastic stars-and-stripes rollin' machine I snaked off Habib at the corner store.

I got to hold the arm of the sofa to keep from crashin' onto the floor. "Fuck," I say, and Pokerface, still gazin' up at me, just kind of grunts.

Molly's got her arms crossed, got her suitcase on the slats of the wooden porch, got the toes of her shoes tappin'. I stumble to the door and lean against the frame.

"What's up with this, Molly?"

She whirls to face me. "You, Harper, you—" Now she's jabbin' her finger in my face, tryin' to spit the words out, " —you, Harper, you don't give a shit about anything but that dog."

That ain't true and Molly knows it. Though Pokerface has been with me longer than Molly has, I'd do anything for Molly. Took her in when she was dumped by her old man, didn't I? Took her to the clinic so she could lose dude's kid, didn't I? Took her out and got her every damn thing she wanted. Never once asked her to cop a job so she could contribute to the finances.

"You're talkin' false shit, Molly. Is this 'bout last night? I love listenin' to them poems you write."

She don't say nothin', just blinks a few times.

Hardly able to keep on my feet, I slide down the frame. Pokerface has made her way over, so I wrap an arm around Pokerface's thick neck and say, "Ain't that right, bitch? Don't I care lots 'bout Molly?"

I look up to catch Molly shakin' her head.

Then, all of the sudden this rusted Rambler sidles up to the curb and Molly snatches her suitcase, races down the steps and wades through the weeds toward the idlin' Rambler.

I claw the doorframe, get myself back on my feet. "Molly!" My voice doesn't even sound right, like I'm underwater or something, like Maaaahlee or something.

Molly doesn't quit hurryin', doesn't look back, not even when she reaches the Rambler. She just swings the door open and slings her suitcase over the front seat into the back. Then she hops in, slammin' the door behind her.

I move across the porch, dizzier than shit, and grip the wooden rail. I scream out and my voice echoes, kind of like, "MOLLY, Molly, molly."

But she ain't payin' me no mind. She's got her gaze forward, her arms crossed. The wind's all kicked up, blowin' her stringy blonde shit across her face.

I start down the steps and catch a splinter from the knotty rail. Shit, I say, but not so loud. I use my teeth to dig the sliver out of my palm.

Then, the driver of the Rambler, some hype with a blue barbwire tattoo wrapped around his neck, peers past Molly and grins. Goddamn if it ain't her ex. He steeples his middle finger, still grinnin' like the sick fuck he is.

I spread my arms out to my side, like, 'What the fuck?'

Molly whips her head my way and shakes it. I recognize that pout she's sportin'. She's fuckin' cryin', Molly is.

So it crosses my mind that hey, maybe she ain't really leavin'.

"Molly? I shout again, this time the words bump out of my mouth, like some kind of murmur. "Molly?"

"Keepthefuckindog," Molly says, buryin' her face in her hands for a couple seconds before starin' back up out the windshield. Her thumbnail shoots to her mouth where I know it'll get gnawed like it always does when Molly ain't feelin' right 'bout something.

The Rambler peels out, leaving me standing at the foot of porch. Black smoke lingers where the Rambler had been curbed, the stink of rubber everywhere. So what the fuck just went down?

"Molly!" I shout, loud as I can. Then I collapse onto the bottom step and stare straight out to where the Rambler ain't no more, still not understanding shit because, shit, because—well, I guess because I ain't had the guts to get it all together.

Then, in all the crazy silence that just hangs, Pokerface, who I'd damn near forgotten 'bout, she starts to Ahwooo Ahwooo Ahwooo, a mournful howl, like she just knows someone bought it or something.

So that's when I'm hit with this 'piphany shit, this revelation that strikes me like a damn bell. Just like in them books Molly's always tellin' me 'bout, always tryin' to get me to read.

Molly, see, and all the shit that just went down—well, none of it, none of it at all had anythin' to do with the dog.

photo courtesy of Fernanda

© Robert Aquino Dollesin 2008

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