Florida Gothic Stories by Vicki Hendricks

Author:Vicki Hendricks [Hendricks, Vicki]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-01-10T11:00:00+00:00

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M-F Dog

The broiling Key West sun was setting as Bob and I strolled the dog down Duval Street, the heat slapping our faces between buildings when there were no high walls or borders of bougainvillea for shade. It was a climate ripe for jock itch.

I had gotten the dog in hopes of attracting girls up at OSU who were looking for the wholesome, sensitive kind of guy who would care for a puppy. A broken leg had ruined that strategy, so I graduated and moved to the island in the summer with Bob. Both of us worked as waiters, hoping to write best-selling fiction. Writing a novel had been another plan for attracting women—or a woman—but I’d pretty much given up on that idea too.

The dog was no longer cuddly. However, he was beautiful, having reached an age when his muscles were well-developed, his purebred Doberman body sleek, and black eyes bright with mischief. His step was spirited with the adventure and cheer of an evening walk around town where everybody was his friend. He held his nose high, sniffing for cats and places to piss, his coat shining obsidian-black. Bob and I were less energetic. Sweat rimmed the necks of our t-shirts and rolled from between our shoulder blades to the waistbands of our shorts as we kept up his pace.

Key West was expensive, so we were renting a tiny, un-air-conditioned apartment made out of an old house that had been divided up. Bob had a girlfriend already—he always had one within days—a nice girl who spoiled him relentlessly. She waitressed at Louie’s Backyard and had a small air-conditioned place with a pool where Bob usually stayed, rather than us taking turns between the bed and the couch. We would meet her at Louie’s after work for a drink by the water.

I was unattached, as usual, alone. I’d always been weak in the knees around women, probably from needing somebody so badly, some connection to a female personality—sex—or even love. Normal women never liked me. I figured the dog would change that, but then I’d missed my window.

We decided to stop at the Iguana Cafe for a snack and a beer, where I could tie the dog in a shady spot on the sidewalk next to the table and feed him a bite of conch fritter or a shrimp tail now and then. He took things nice and slow from your hand. When we sat down, he cocked his head at Mr. Iggy in the cage behind us. Mr. Iggy turned his head and looked back—good attention skills for an iguana—and I was thinking the two might have some kind of inter-species understanding.

I looked at the cage and realized that this reptile had his own name tag hanging right there, unoriginal as it might be, and I still hadn’t picked a name for a dog over a year old. But there was something pure and true about calling him “the dog,” almost Hemingwayesque, and I decided to keep it that way.

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