Alloy

The blank walls widen the living room more than they used to, yet they close in more every day. Not as much as the “crate” from long, long ago. Jackson would lock me in and leave during sunlight, but he stays here all the time now. Though he only comes out a few times a day, my ears never stop wondering when he’ll appear. Must be the Border Collie instinct I can’t outgrow. Daily, I will sit beside the bedroom door. Can he hear me? He had never shut it before until seven years ago. That was before we left home for a “vacation.” Visiting the mountains with snow delivered an adventure, but we haven’t seen them since then. Or home, for that matter.

I tire of lying on the floor. The couch cushions had become my favorite sleeping seat. Where are they now? Maybe Jackson will get a new one for this place soon. Hunger calls. I rise and shake my body, careful not to stumble, and my collar jingles as fur flutters from my “double coat.” A mix of Australian and German Shepherd within me. Sunlight’s been shorter these days through the front window, but dinner time must be soon. One of the lone times I see Jackson each day.

To reach the bedroom, I have to pass the bathroom. A “bath” never bothered me. The water at home was cool, though Jackson hated when I would escape before drying off. A fun game—for me. Soaking wet, I would race for a toy from my bin. Just to hold it in my mouth. The Golden Retriever in me. Once he caught up and told me to “stay,” the game ended. That was before. At home. I haven’t gotten a bath here. But when Jackson gets in the “shower,” the water runs longer than it used to. Sometimes, he sits on the floor. That’s when I lie on the squishy mat in there for the longest. To keep him company.

I sit in the dark spot beside Jackson’s door. One of my back legs sticks out, since it doesn’t work as well as it used to. Too much running, jumping, fetching—even scratching—in all my years. A lot of that was at home. I’ve been in this bedroom before, but not very often. Not every day like before. He sometimes slams on the desk in the corner. And the words “fuck,” “cad,” and “lag” usually sound around then too through the door. Most days I sit quietly. When he yells like that, I retreat to the squishy mat. The bathroom door stays cracked, thankfully. Oh, here he comes.

Click!

“Alloy. Hey, bud,” he says. I get a pat on the head. Good mood.

“You hungry? Let’s get something to eat.”

I follow, away from the dark spot, and reach the kitchen. Jackson opens the pantry, then the one cabinet, then the fridge—always in that order. Except when Trent visits. The “brother” brings pleasant company for dinner and cooks huge meals for them. Of course, I get nice scraps on those days.

“Hmmm… Should probably go to the store tomorrow, huh?”

The fridge must be empty again. Can Trent come over? He arrives with food bags every time. Not today, though. Not for a while now. His voice appears sometimes on the “phone.” And Jackson may even laugh when they talk.

“You had a good day, yeah?”

He shuffles to the corner spot where my food bowl awaits. After a “good mix” of dry and wet food up on the counter, the bowl will return to me. The inside ridges slow my eating. So does my age. Usually, by the time I finish, Jackson has withdrawn to the bedroom again. Door closed.

“I finished that steel beam detail, at least.” He sighs. “And Elliott texted too.”

Good to hear about Elliott. Back at home, they would stay up after sunlight in front of the “tv.” Lying on the couch with Jackson and the “best friend” helped me sleep better. At this place, no couch. No tv. Can Elliott come over anyway?

“Okay, Alloy. Ready for dinner?”

I sit beside the stool—far away from the stove. Jackson learned to feed me over here. The smell of smoke leaves him in a bad mood.

Tink!

The bowl hits the floor and I’m in. Top pieces. Easy. Now the side. Yes. So much work. To reset, I dip my head back. Gotta get the side. Then the ridges. Okay. Yes. Grrrrr. The ridges.

“What’cha growlin’ for, boy?”

Jackson stands at the sink. Good that he eats dinner too. Not too many scraps at this place. At least I get to lick the plate when he’s finished. Oh yeah, the ridges. I keep at it—picking around my enemies. The pieces come slower. But still more. Lick, lick, lick. This is the most excitement I’ve had since breakfast. I step back to look up at Jackson. Except he’s gone. No tables here. So he eats in the bedroom. Door closed.

To be sure I got every piece, I nip the bowl and flip it. Something I allow myself to do when Jackson isn’t watching. Today, nothing left. My tongue glides around my lips, savoring the excitement. Not much to do until new sunlight and another breakfast. I lick each of my front paws and wipe my face. What next?

A “belly rub” would be fantastic right about now. Better than brushing or a bath. Where is Lola? Her curvy fingernails offered the massage of a lifetime. But the “girlfriend” hasn’t visited for decades. Jackson quit taking us to the “park” back then too. Even without the park, at least we had the backyard at home. The tough tree. And my bin of toys. Only a grass patch at this place.

I spin and plop onto the raw floor. Into my spot. Where I face the front window and one ear points toward the bedroom. Maybe Jackson will walk outside with me after he eats and I lick the plate, but the cold can bring a bad mood. He hides his head and arms in the “hoodie” that still smells faintly like home.

How long should I wait before returning to the bedroom door?