A Dog's Road

As an angel, I hear lot of confessions.

What some would do differently. What some would take back. What some would amend if given the chance.

My job was to escort the newly departed to their new station in heaven. I’ve been in purgatory, which is the place between souls wandering aimlessly on earth, and heaven; being able to help rising souls find their place is a joy to me as well as a duty. When I meet a certain quota, I will be admitted through the pearly gates. They aren’t exactly ‘pearly’ by the way, but tall columns with no apex, like the universe has no edges. Columns made of every gemstone in blocks and slabs, the sun shining through them creates rainbows of colors so beautiful they make one’s eyes leak tears of joy.

My boss had me rescue a soul down in Harlem, New York. The guy was in NYC Health in hospice care. I waited until his room was empty, I have the patience of a monk, it took some time as he was a very loved person. When the room was empty, he saw me standing in the shadows by the door. His eyes widened as I drew near to his bedside.

Charlie Newberry was a good and decent person. A rare and priceless gemstone on a tarnished brass choker. When he walked the streets of his hometown, he didn’t dwell on the depressing atmosphere, the oppressive poverty, or the garbage piled in careless heaps on the curb. He saw instead and marveled at, the seventeenth century architecture; many of the old buildings had been built by Dutch settlers of that era. He admired murals and street art depicting humankind’s resilience and the tenacity of like-minded people. Amidst the red-eyed, drug-addled lunatics and the depraved heathens, the trash-talking peddlers and thieves and pimps, his eyes only saw the young children on the porches with their tired mothers warily watchful and fiercely protective.

And the fellow street musicians like himself. Acoustic guitars, trombones and saxophones…even a regular harp player…that helped drown out the trash talk, traffic blares, and big city white noise. He was doing his part. Though Charlie had mastered quite a few instruments, the trumpet was the one he played on the street, and he did very well with it. The jazzy tunes that pedestrians preferred were always upbeat and put a lift in their tired old shoes. A scruffy Sheppard mix was drawn to the music as well. The grin on his long snout made Charlie laugh. The mutt sat with him for an hour at a time, head tilting as the tempo alternated. The coins in Charlie’s coffee tin doubled during that hour.

With his eyes closed, the notes of Beethoven’s Pastorale, otherwise known as his Symphony Number Six, flowed through his head. The ghost stood in the shadows beyond the empty bed in the dimly lit room.

Charlie Newberry said, “You’ve been here all along.” A statement, not a question. He opened his eyes and the extramusical narrative faded from his mind like a grey cat disappearing into fog. He attempted to raise a hand to me then gave up; the hand weighing a ton on his weak stick of an arm. His beautiful dark skin was now withered and ashen, his once shiny nappy hair now sparse as sickly weeds. His once clear and shining eyes now yellowed…but in those sad orbs remained an ember of intelligence.

I nodded, stepped forward, and sat at the edge of his bed. “I’m not a ghost, Charlie. I’m an angel.”

He looked about to cry then, whether out of gratitude or for fear of death…most likely both. He said, “Am I going with you?”

I nodded again and said, “Charlie, do you have anything you wish to confess or discuss…or wish for?”

Then his brows rose and his lips curled at the edges in an enigmatic smile, revealing a handsome face within the wasted façade of the mask he wore.

***

Two years earlier, 1973:

My name is Milo and I was a happy pup. At six months, I believed the world was my oyster. I was warm and fed at least once a day. I had a bouncy ball and a stuffed squirrel that squeaked when I chomped on it. I chased real squirrels in the park, but they were real fast.

I’d chased a cat once, thinking it would be just as fun. But the cat skidded to a halt, turned around, and became a demonic thing from another world: it grew twice its size and sounded like a bloodthirsty reptile. I had stood before it confused, trying to wag my tail to show it I was friendly, but the tail wouldn’t obey me. I was still twice the size of the cat and too darn curious. I leaned forward to sniff the cat…and boy did I ever get a snoutful of needle-like claws! Eyes watering, nose stinging, tail between my legs…I never chased another cat again.

My human’s name was Terrence. Terrence was my sun, me being the planet orbiting him. Terrence worked in a factory all day. Came home smelling of fish and tin. During the cold days, Terrence went out the door into the big dark world, not coming back until it was dark again. I lay by the front door of our tiny third floor walk-up and was very scared that my human would never return.

I heard the people below me talking really loud, angry at each other. Didn’t they know how lucky they were to not be alone? I heard the woman who smelled like an ashtray across the hallway, she was singing along to a tv show called American Bandstand. She hurt my ears. There was a small black and white tv in our apartment, but when Terrence got home, he watched The News for an hour. Did you know that some hours to a dog are like a whole day?

Then was walkies time down to the wonderful world of the park. That hour was always the shortest sort, it seemed like mere minutes. Then it was suppertime. Terrence ate on a small portable table with me at his feet. I was careful not to knock his rickety table over. I did that once when, can you believe it?---there was a dog inside the tv! I lost my mind! The table went over with a crash that scared the bejesus outta me, but even scarier was the look on Terrence’s face. He was mad at me and sad that his dinner was on the floor. I saw nothing wrong with that and began helping him clean it up. He yelled at me to stop. I did because I was a goooood dog. I gave him my most saddest eyes, the ones that water, my ears drooping to the sides of my head. Then he laughed and said, “Go on boy, you might as well.”

So, after that I was extra careful around the little table though I still got a little crazy when a dog appeared in the little box. Terrence liked cop shows, I liked the car chase scenes. Chips and The Dukes of Hazard were our favorites.

The days grew lighter and warmer outside as I grew bigger. Terrence still left the same time every morning nearly every day and I was still scared as ever that he’d never come back.

One night he came home really late. He had a woman with him. They smelled like whiskey and she talked too loud. After going outside to potty, I scooched myself as far as I could into the very back of the closet. I wasn’t hungry.

The next day Terrence came home at the usual time. He sat next to me on the sofa and said, “I know you don’t like Karen very much. But you just don’t know her yet. She thinks you’re really cute.”

I gave my human the stink eye.

He said, “Karen is one foxy lady, and I really dig her. So, be cool, okay? Extra treats?”

My tail betrayed me and I decided to be cool with the woman.

And she tried. She gave me scritches and treats and sometimes came over in the middle of the day for walkies. I was beginning to see her as okay.

But those long terrible hours stretched like days while I waited by the door. Once they were so late, I peed on the hallways floor, I was so happy to see them. But again, they reeked of whiskey. And I returned to the closet to get away from her too loud voice.

One day Terrence came home early. I was so excited (but controlled my bladder) I couldn’t stop leaping. He had a new scent on him, one I was not familiar with. It wasn’t bad…sorta like plastic in the sun and gasoline. He grabbed the leash and said, “Milo, you are in for a real stellar trip.”

We exited the building and he stopped before a car parked at the curb. It was sleek and shiny and blue and looked a little like the Duke brothers’ car. When he opened the door and said, “Hop in buddy,” I did as he asked even though I was afraid.

The engine roared to life and he laughed. “Yes, it’s loud. But this slammin’ baby is about to knock your socks off.”

After what felt like a day, I was not scared anymore. He had rolled down the passenger side window, and I was in scent heaven. They passed by my nose, a dizzying array: doughnuts, beer, vomit, garbage, roses, cheap perfume, diesel, bird poop…We passed a red lighthouse and then flew over the water miles in the air! Brown water, fish, wet concrete, bird poop…Days later, we were in green open spaces: pine needles, wild dogs (wolves?), lilies, tree sap, grass, and of course, bird poop.

When it grew dark, we drove back the way we’d come with headlights leading the way. The parade of odors was no less exciting in the darkness. Back at the apartment I fell asleep nearly at once, my nose touching my half empty food bowl. I dreamed of the wonderful day that felt like a month. It was the best day of my life.

Terrence and Karen were out late nearly every night. When they stayed home, they drank whiskey and tequila and wine and put records on the turntable, dancing energetically in bell bottom pants and feathered hats. Sometimes the woman from across the hall came over and joined them. They smoked skinny cigarettes that smelled like sugar and skunks. The women thought it was bomb to dance with a dog, I was just glad Terrence was home.

Then one night it grew later and later. When it turned light outside, I felt a week had gone by and was sick with worry. Terrence never came home. I waited for a day, then two. I peed on the bathroom floor, a necessary embarrassment. It seemed like years had gone by, I survived by drinking out of the forbidden toilet which was disgusting not because it was the toilet but because I stood in pee to do so. I was dying. Dogs know.

A car pulled up outside early one morning. Not Terrence’s loud blue car. Footsteps treaded lightly on the wooden floor of the hall and stopped outside our door. A stranger’s voice was talking, “…the disco, alcohol, cocaine…a terrible crash…yes, on the Washington.”

The door opened and a man I recognized came in. The manager. He was not a dog person, smelled like cats, so as usual, I growled at him.

The other man wore a blue uniform and a shiny badge. He was a dog person; his pants smelled like collie. He said, “Here boy, I won’t hurt you.” I froze as he came near.

Then the cat guy lunged at me with my leash in his hands. I scooted under his outstretched arms, my back legs skittered on the floor, sending me sideways into his legs and he fell back onto his butt. I was out the door and down the stairs in a flash. An old woman was wrestling some grocery bags in her arms as she wriggled her body through the open door. I felt bad knocking her down, but I was desperate to get away. I ran to the park and hid under the bushes behind a hot dog stand. The fresh air revived me and stirred my hunger, but I waited until after dark to come out.

I found plenty of scraps in the bins that people threw all sorts of good stuff into. I drank from the fountain until my belly sloshed. I slept by day and lived by night. It had only been days, but I can’t count time spaces, to a dog it felt like years.

One afternoon I heard music. It wasn’t disco or rock…it was way better. As usual, my curiosity got the better of me and I went to explore. I found the music maker sitting on a little stool with a long brass instrument in his hands. His cheeks were puffed as he blew into one end and his fingers were a blur, producing a lively tune. People walked by and I saw that the music man made them happy. Coins from their pockets jingled and clanged into the can at his feet. I watched from a safe distance, sniffing the air as his scent wafted my direction. He was a good man. I stepped closer and sat again.

After the next tune, he looked me in the eyes and smiled. He looked a lot like Terrence but older. The same kind eyes. He said, “Come here boy. C’mon.”

A blue uniformed man came around the corner down the block. I ran back to my safe hole in the park.

Every day the music man came to the corner across from the park and played music. I learned from people’s words it was called jazz. Eventually, I came to sit by the man while he played. I felt safe in his presence. I even let him pet me. That’s when I smelled the sickness on him.

***

Back to 1975:

I waited as patiently as the pope for the dying man in the bed to continue.

Charles sighed heavily as he talked about his son. “Matthew’s a good boy. Well, not been a boy for a long time. And I’ve not seen him in a long time. The time he was in my life seems like a dream to me now. He was eleven when his mother passed. He blames me for her death. All he heard was the shouting and crying. And then he himself shouting and crying to me, saying it was my fault over and over. I never let him see her the way she’d become. Yes, she was ill. But she was self-medicating…I was too late. She overdosed and I was too late to save her. I grew to believe what my boy was accusing me of.”

“Was it heroin?”

Charles nodded, spilling fresh tears. “I made a pretty good livin’ working The Lenox Lounge by night, the streets by day. When Matthew turned 16, he was all too ready to split. Not only did I let him go, I gave him all my savings so he could buy a reliable car, not the junker he almost bought at fifteen. Kids y’know…and he had enough to live on for a few months.”

I smiled and encouraged him to continue.

“My sister up in Ontario sees him once in awhile. Says he’s happy enough. He’s a travelling shoe rep for a Swiss company, real high-end shoes. Bally, that’s the name. He travels from Vancouver to Toronto and then back again. My sis says he never wants to grow roots. I suspect that his teenage years here in Harlem weren’t kind to him…and perhaps he got into some trouble with the local hoodlums. There were signs. He must feel safer driving all the time. Heh heh, in a way, I’m envious. Though I do imagine him to be lonely.” He wiped the tears with the back of his hand.

Then he told me what his last wish would be. It didn’t take rocket science to figure it out, but the wish would be a challenge. Perhaps worthy of me moving on.

***

I was dying again. Life was so pointless. The wonderful music man was gone. Near the end he smelled so strongly of his sickness, I knew he could see it in my face how sad I was. Then he stopped coming and I had nothing left to live for. It would take an eternity to die…so be it.

This afternoon under my bush I dozed in the sticky heat of summer. I heard music. Jazz. It had become what I lived for, so I struggled to my feet and found the source. It was him! He looked near death like me and I could see he was struggling with his out-of-tune fingers. I was so happy when his face lit up, that I bounded into his lap, knocking him over. A very bad dog thing to do. But he laughed and hugged me. I could die now.

“But sweet pup, you’re only three years old.”

I looked and saw the angel that had spoken, smiling widely. I saw his wings---big beautiful pale grey wings---that I knew only I could see. Next to him stood a man the spitting image of his father. After a lot of crying and hugging and talking amongst the two, the angel took the musician back to the hospital. I went with the musician’s son.

Car rides were my favorite thing in the world. Six months is like forever to a dog.