Page 44 - North Star Literary & Art Magazine

while.
She named him Fifi, and she taught him how to dance by holding a biscuit over his
head. He would stand up on two legs, spinning around in a circle just like a damned person would. The dog made her laugh, and it was easy to forget about the sick baby’s face. But one day, she left the door open when she was bringing in a sack of russet spuds and Fifi flew the coop.
She turned around just quick enough to see him dashing across her lawn and through the empty road, right towards the glass house.
Son of a gun. There was no winning for her. She couldn’t chase after him. Her knee was acting up after lugging all those spuds.
What happened to all those good samaritans that always offered her their help all the time? Huh?
Figures.
Suppose if Fifi got hungry or wanted to come home, he would. He just needed a little time. She did too. She wasn’t upset, and she didn’t let it spoil her dinner. Her stories were on, so she tuned her television to the right channel and ate the scalloped potatoes and ham she made. The meal was good, her plate was clean, and that’s when there was a knock on the door—tentatively, a good samaritan who would be announcing Fifi’s return.
She faced the door and peered through the peephole, looking up at first, but then realizing that her good samaritan was on the shorter side. They were too short to see.
Her hand went to unlatch the door, and when she opened it, she was startled.
A child, or rather, a ghost of a child peered up at her, Fifi in her bony arms. The child panted, almost like the dog, exhausted from her trek across the road. Her sunken eyes, though bright, seemed far-away, looking at her with a gaunt little face, lips the same color blue as the infant she met several years ago.
The child licked her dry lips, unable to say much except “found,” and “dog.”
She almost immediately asked the child to sit on her porch swing while she went to get her a glass of water. Evidently, the child had never been told not to talk to strangers, but that would have to be a talk for another time, maybe when she wasn’t about to keel over on her front porch.
She would walk the child back over to her parents when she caught her breath, but for now, they both sat quietly on the porch swing. Fifi sharked the two of them, putting his paws up, asking for attention, but she swatted him away, giving the child more space, until she began to talk.
“I always wanted a dog,” the child told her, sweat making her mousy bangs stick to her forehead.
“Well, why don’t you have a dog?”
“Mama says that they’re too much work, but I think I would be a good dog owner, don’t
you?”
“Maybe,” she chuckled, “but it looks like you’ll have to learn when to stop when the dog
is giving you the runaround, huh.”
The child nodded, exhaling a little laugh.
She gave the child the glass of water and asked her to sip it slowly. A little color was
returning to her face, but she was still, for the most part, withered and peaked.
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