Avery: Dogs of Baltimore

"The Dogs of Baltimore" by Rob Roensch

I do not want to talk about what happened in the spring. This is the story of the summer: the dog dies.

The dog is a mutt, large-spaniel size, black with graying whiskers around his nose. He is deaf, and his back legs do not work, but he never whines. The dog is blind and I have looked into his eyes. His eyes are not white and blank and gleaming, like the eyes of a Greek marble bust, nor are they simply cloudy. His eyes are wormy. Not full of silence but full of goo. I force myself to look.

I have to wrap him in a towel so he does not pee on me when I pick him up (surprisingly heavy, because he does not help) and carry him out into the little backyard to lay him on the patch of grass so he can feel the sun. I sit with the dog and touch his head and speak soothing words: Don’t worry dear, that sound is only the man at the other end of the block with his circular saw. I will then remember that the dog is deaf. He searches for my face with his nose.

I am working this summer as a dogwalker. I am out of college and I do not live here in Baltimore and I am leaving when August is over. My roommates are gone. The two with money are in Europe. The rest of my friends had leases that were up the first of July. I walk dogs all day on hot sidewalks and in the evenings I set a fan on the floor facing me and I order a giant cheese-steak with mayonnaise and watch baseball on ESPN. There is no beer in the refrigerator and I do not much mind. I am more or less alone but I do have the dogs. I prefer their company to mine.

*
All day, I try not to think about what happened in the spring.

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