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Fiction Short Story

by Jonathan Boyle

The Dog

The sun’s last rays seep through the window, capturing the seemingly endless descent of dust particles. The distant rumble of afternoon traffic underscores the hum of a respirator. Eleanor Turnbull is lying on her back, a thin afghan pulled up to her waist. She studies the ceiling and dares not move, for even the slightest shift sends bursts of sharp, burning slivers through her bones. Her mottled red hands, curled above the blanket, are little more than useless claws now.

There is a knock at the bedroom door.  It opens without waiting for her invitation to enter, and a young man steps in the room. “Hey, Ma. I meant to check up on you sooner, but I had a few errands to run.”

Eleanor smiles at him. He needs a haircut. With his bangs hanging in his eyes like that, the poor boy is beginning to look like he’s homeless. Tom doesn’t smile back. She doesn’t blame him.

“I got a call from Pam,” he says. “She’s staying with her mother in Midford.”

The news comes as a surprise to her. She knows they had been having problems; she has heard their angry shouts since she moved in. But what kind of woman leaves her husband without so much as a word? And on Christmas Day, no less. Poor boy. The past few months have been especially hard on him, but maybe they’re getting back together. She has so many comforting words to say, but can express them only with her eyes.

“I wish I could say I blame her, but—well, anyway. Oh, your doctor called. I told her to call back.” Following close behind him is a large Doberman, its nails ticking against the hardwood floor as it moves. Eleanor sees it and begins to tremble. The movement sends waves of wracking pain through her body.

“Are you hungry?”

She’s famished, but with the dog so near, Eleanor only shakes her head wearily and tries to offer a reassuring smile.

“Well, you get some sleep, then. I’ll see you in the morning. C‘mon, Goliath.” He leaves, closing the door most of the way. The dog doesn’t follow immediately. It looks at Eleanor for a long moment before finally sliding out the door. She sighs and closes her eyes.

Searing, agonizing pain. Eleanor awakens, a cry choked off by the tightness of her throat. She has shifted in her sleep, and her hand had fallen to her side. She bites her lip as she lifts her arm, trying hard not to bend her elbow or move her wrist. Gingerly she places it on her stomach, her fingers curling inward like the legs of a dead spider.

Once the pain subsides, she’s left to her thoughts again. She knows why Pam left, and she can’t stand the guilt. She can tell that her illness has been a heavy burden on Tom, yet he never complains. Life can’t be easy for him. Someday she’ll make it up to him. She has to. Tears well in her eyes, spilling over and running down her cheeks. She can’t wipe them away and the lack of even this small dignity pains her more than her swollen joints. Exhausted, sleep begins to drift over her like a numbing fog. She is only faintly aware of the click-click-click of nails on wood. Startled, she opens her eyes in time to see the bedroom door pushed inward. A shadow enters, moving low to the ground. Eleanor turns her head as much as she can, following its movement. The dog stops in the middle of the room and sits.

Watching her.

Unnerved, Eleanor is afraid to close her eyes, but neither can she meet the animal’s gaze. Unable to move, she finally squeezes her eyes shut, hoping if she feigns sleep the dog will leave. She waits in the darkness for the tapping of its nails, but there is only silence. After several long minutes, she opens them again, half-expecting the dog to be next to her, teeth inches from her helpless body. It hasn’t moved. Its eyes are still trained on her with unusual focus. Eleanor turns her head away, but can feel the weight of the creature‘s stare. Uncounted hours crawl silently by. At last, she hears the tick-tapping of its claws leaving. She lets out a shuddering breath of relief, but knows sleep won’t come again.

Morning arrives on the songs of birds. Tom knocks at her door again and enters. He doesn’t seem to notice the door is open wider than he left it. “Breakfast.” He announces and steps into the room, carrying a tray. He sits down next to her, the tray in his lap. It’s only now that he notices the dark circles under her eyes. “Did you sleep all right?”

Eleanor glances at the door warily, then shakes her head. She has no explanation for last night. In the past few weeks, the dog’s behavior has grown disturbing. She’s woken in the middle of the night and caught it pawing at her respirator. Her medicine has gone missing, and lately the beast has kept her from eating whenever it has the chance. But it’s never just sat there before. She tries to talk, to tell Tom about Goliath while it‘s out of the room, but she has no voice. The best she can manage are a few dry murmurs. Frustration overcomes her. She tries to gesture, but her breath is taken away as pain explodes in her hands.

Tom doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up a spoon from the tray. “So, what‘ll it be first? Applesauce?” Though she no longer has an appetite, her stomach clenches with hunger-pains. She opens her mouth, and just as the cold metal touches her tongue, there is a crash outside the bedroom. Tom jumps up and sets the tray down on the bed next to her. He rushes out the door.

A moment later, the dog slips into the room. Eleanor’s eyes follow as it approaches the bed. It pauses to glance at the door, then turns back to look at her. Eleanor shivers, reawakening the pain in her arms and legs and hands. She tries to call out, but her voice just won’t carry. The dog sniffs the air, then reaches up and seizes the tray in its mouth. It pulls it down, spilling the contents all over the floor. Strangely, the dog doesn’t begin to eat. Instead, the animal turns and slips out the door again.

Not long after, Tom returns, shaking his head. “I‘m sorry, Ma. Stupid dog knocked over a lamp.” He sees the fallen tray, and looks at Eleanor with such pity she can barely stand it. His thoughts are clear on his face: the poor old woman can’t even keep from knocking her own food off the bed. His shoulders slump, but he begins cleaning up the mess without word.

Eleanor tries to tell him about the dog, but her half-formed whispers elicit no response from her son. Tom finishes scooping the ruined breakfast back on to the tray. He takes it out of the room, and returns a moment later. Sitting down next to her, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her eyes. He doesn’t notice Goliath entering behind him. Eleanor looks past him, watching the dog. She tries as best she can to point, despite the excruciating pain. “Shh, it’s okay, Ma. I know you didn’t mean to.” Behind him, the dog watches them intently. Eleanor looks at her son pleadingly, wanting so badly for him to just turn around.

Tom stares at the ground, his brow furrowed. Unnoticed, Goliath takes a step towards the bed. “I know life has been hard, Mom. I can’t imagine what it must be like, lying here day after day. I wish there was more that I could do. But with Dad gone, well—” His voice chokes with emotion. “Pam wants to come back, but I’m afraid it just won’t work out with things as they are.” Behind him, Goliath’s lips curl back, though no growl escapes its throat. Eleanor begins to whimper, unable to form the words. All she can do is mewl like some pathetic animal and watch helplessly as the dog crouches, its hackles raised. Tom‘s voice drops almost to a whisper. “Your breakfast would have made this much easier, for both of us. I’m sorry, Ma. I love you.” He kisses her forehead, then reaches across to shut off the oxygen, even as the dog lunges at him.


About the Author
Jonathan Boyle is 28 years old and resides in Columbus, OH, where he works at the Fairfield Inn. He first started seriously writing at the age of 11 and won his first contest a year later. He has several books in the works, and has been published both online and in local newspapers. He can be contacted at Behind_the_Mask@hotmail.com