The Dog

 

“Is everything okay?” I stop my march down Roosevelt when I notice the teenager’s stopped his bike at the corner of 43^rd street. I’d seen him pass me a minute earlier, ubiquitous white ear buds, white hoodie with some indecipherable name on the front, wire rimmed glasses,  young. Maybe 17?18? 

            He turns to me, worry on his unlined face, his dark eyes wide behind his glasses. “That dog….in the car…” He motions to a large SUV parked on 43^rd street, the windows cracked. “I’m worried about it. It’s chained to the steering wheel….”

            His voice trails off. But I can sense the real anxiety he has for this dog. People are so stupid with their pets! Why did someone leave their dog in a parked car chained to the steering wheel?

            “Well,” I venture, “at least it’s not hot out since it’s almost dark. So, the dog won’t suffocate from being locked inside a car.”

            He nods, slowly, “Yeah…. that’s true. But can you see? He is chained to the steering wheel. I wonder who he belongs to?”

            I glance at the house on the corner, dilapidated and scary. There are always weird guys outside working on their cars, drinking beer, shouting. I’ve seen their dogs chained to the banister of the stairs in front of the house or to one of their trucks. The dogs are always big, scared, and aggressive, barking at me as I pass.

            Today, there aren’t any dogs chained outside or any guys hanging around fixing cars. It’s just a quiet, scary looking house.

            I know the dog chained to the steering wheel must belong to someone in this house. It’s just the kind of thing they’d do. Leave a poor dog, unattended, inside a parked car.

            “I imagine,” I tell the worried boy now, “that this dog belongs to someone in that house.” I point toward the scary house. “You could ask.”

            He gulps, knowing intuitively that knocking on that door would be a mistake. I’m sure as hell not gonna knock on the door. Yet what to do about this poor dog now?

            “I’m on my way to Target,” he says, “so if the dog is still here when I ride back, I’ll ask.”

            We both know that he won’t. Or maybe he might. Or I’m sure he’s hoping that when he rides back the dog will be gone, out of the car, safely inside the house.

            Yet would anyone be safe in that house? I imagine it’s full of trash and loud big screen TVs with ugly, worn couches and clothes strewn all over the floor. There’d be discarded pizza boxes on the coffee table and used cigarette butts smashed into dirty saucers. The air would be close and dark.

            I shiver as I imagine. The boy is by the car window now, looking at the poor dog, which I can’t really see. I’m afraid of the dog. Who knows if it’s friendly. And if it belongs to one of the guys in the house, it’s probably untrained or if it is trained, it’s trained to attack lone blonde ladies or teenage boys who get too close.

            Suddenly, the door to the creepy house opens and out steps a scruffy, scrawny middle-aged white guy with a cell phone in his hand. Without thinking, I holler at him, “IS THIS YOUR DOG LOCKED IN THE CAR?”

            He glares at me, pulling on a cigarette. “Yeah, I was just coming out to git it.”

            The boy glances over at me. Is he relieved? Or even more worried?

            But what can we do? I don’t stick around to watch the scary guy come down the steps toward the trapped dog. The boy takes off on his bike.

            And the dog? Hopefully, it’s okay and out of the car at least.

            As I walk quickly down Roosevelt, I take a deep breath. A lone crow caws overhead, then flaps away into the dusky sky. I don’t glance back as I turn up 44^th Street, heading toward Wilson, the night closing in on me.