The Dead Dog

IT was a quiet, shady street, on a Sunday afternoon, and the houses, set back on long lawns, looked closed up, deserted. A few people were walking on the street, under the trees, and some children were playing in an empty lot next to a small apartment building. A car passed me, and just then a dog ran out into the street, and the front wheels of the car hit it. The car did not stop, and by the time I had stopped mine it had disappeared round a corner. The old man who had been walking with the dog was standing on the curb, bent over a little, looking down at the dog where it had been thrown in the gutter. The children stopped their playing and drew nearer, and a man and woman paused on the sidewalk behind the old man and stared at him curiously for a moment, said something to each other, and went on, looking back at him over their shoulders. I got out and started to walk toward him, and then he did a curious thing.

He bent over and fastened the leash which he had in his hand on to the collar of the dead dog. I was beside him when he straightened up, but he did not look at me. He was looking down at the animal and pulling at the leash with insistent little tugs, as if he thought that the dog might be persuaded to come along. It was perfectly clear that the dog was dead.

He was a very old man who had behaved as a child would behave in the same situation, pretending in the face of catastrophe that no catastrophe had occurred. At the same time, he was trembling with shock and grief, with the knowledge of what had happened. I was afraid that he might topple over, so I said, ‘Sit down here and I’ll bring my car closer,’ and helped him to a sitting position on the curb. Still he said nothing, still had not even looked at me. He sat staring at the dog, with the leash shaking in his hand.

The children had moved into the middle of the street, where the three of them stood in a line and stared. One of them suddenly began a shrill crying, ‘She’s dead! She’s dead!’ and ran back to the sidewalk across the street. The others followed, and then they all ran into the middle of the street and circled back again, all crying in a shrill, excited chorus, ‘She’s dead!’ I was going to tell them to be quiet, but then I saw that the old man did not hear even their racket. I walked back to my car to save him that many steps.

I drove up to where he was and got out again. I touched his shoulder and said, ‘Tell me what I can do. Where do you live?’

He looked up at me with watering eyes, and then down at the dog again, and said, ‘She’s dead. Cissy’s dead.’ He said it with something like awe in his voice, with a child’s frightened incredulity. He was trembling more than ever, utterly confused, really sick with fright and shock, and, of course, grief for his dog. And again he said, ‘Cissy’s dead,’ as if he had to restate the fact to himself if he was to understand it.

‘I’ll put the dog in the back, and you get in the front with me,’ I said.

I bent over the dog and was about to unfasten the leash from the collar when he said, ‘No, leave that on. Don’t take that off.’

I said, ‘All right. Shall I take the other end of it?’

He handed me the end of the leash, and I picked up the dog. It was a wirehaired terrier with some Airedale in it, and overfed — not much of a dog as dogs go. And now it was heavy, sagging with the heavy limpness of newly dead animals, and a trickle of blood was drying on its muzzle. I picked it up and put it on the floor in the back of the car, and rolled up the trailing leash.

From his seat on the curb the old man watched me handle the dog, and when I had closed the back door and came toward him he said, ‘Take me to 14 Stephens Street, will you?’

I said, ‘Yes. Let. me help you in.’

He seemed now to have more or less taken in his situation, but he was not able to get to his feet. I helped him up and then had almost to lift him into the car. I could feel how frail he was, and how powerful the blow which, for the moment, had shattered what small strength he had.

I went around and got in beside him and started the motor. ‘Stephens Street’s only a few blocks from here,’ I said. ‘I’ll have you home in a moment.’

As we started off, the three children, who were standing quietly on the other curb now, staring, began their high screaming again: ‘She’s dead! She’s dead!’

The old man looked at the fixtures on the door of the car and said, ‘May I have some air?’

I ran down the window on his side. Then he said, ‘I’m not well. I’ve been sick for five years — not feeling quite well.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ll be all right now, won’t you, until you get home?’ He breathed quickly, as if to get as much of the fresh air into his lungs as he could, and said, ‘You’ll sec that I get home? It’s 14 Stephens Street.’

I said, ‘Yes,’ and drove a little faster.

His hands, which he held gripped together in his lap, were clean and wellkept. White hair hung in neat wisps under the upturned brim of his black hat, and he had a carefully tended white beard. His clothes were black, clean, and a little worn. Altogether, he looked like a retired professor, like a man who had grown old in gentle surroundings and a pleasant profession.

We turned into Stephens Street. I would have placed him somewhere else. Stephens Street was deserted, drab, without trees. The packed rows of houses with their blank windows seemed two-dimensional. Number 14 Stephens Street was exactly like the houses on either side of it.

‘This is it, isn’t it?’

He looked out at the building and said nothing, and except for his trembling, which had not abated, he did not move.

‘I live with my daughter-in-law,’ he said finally. ‘My son’s dead. It’s her house.’

The building was hard and ugly in the afternoon light, a tall frame structure painted a shade of tan which reflected the sunlight in a solid glare. It was obviously a three-flat arrangement, with ugly dark interiors, and grim people.

‘My son’s been dead for four years,’ he said.

‘I’ll take you in,’ I said.

He looked at me with his sorrowing eyes as if he were asking a question, and I thought I answered the question when I said, ‘Yes, I’ll carry the dog in.’

I helped him out, but instead of moving toward the house with me he clung to the open door of the car and looked down into the back where his dog lay with the leash on her collar.

‘What shall I tell my daughter-inlaw?’ he asked in his quavering tones.

‘Well, Cissy’s yours, after all,’ I said.

His voice turned a little shrill. ‘Oh, no! No!’ he cried. ‘She’s always told me — she’s told me time and again that I must never let Cissy off the leash! I knew it, I knew it — I was told —’ And then suddenly he let go of the door and sat down heavily on the running board, and I saw that he was looking at me not with grief at all, but with absolute, quaking terror. It was the terror of a child who knows the punishment ahead.

I looked at the bare front of the house, and for a moment I had an impulse not to take him in there at all. But of course there was nothing else to do.