Another Man's Best Friend

[Author's Note: This is a story I wrote a long time ago. It was a collaboration between me and another author by the name of Brian Jackson. Unfortunately, I've lost contact with Brian. I do hope he doesn't mind my posting my version of the story here.]

    The envelope sat at his table. He tried not to stare at it while he ate his dinner. He told himself, "Just three more bites of the Salisbury steak, and you can open it. Just two more. One more bite." With gravy still dripping from his chin, he cleared his dishes to the sink and scrubbed his hands. Drying them with the utmost care, he picked up the envelope and carried it to his couch. Plopping down on the cushions, he ran his finger through the glue-sealed lip of the envelope. A soft-news program played on the television in front of him, but his attention fell instead on the stack of glossy cards resting in his hands.

    He’d had a falling out with the folks at Photo Village, and hoped that this recent set of pictures from Photo Hut would be much better. Shuffling through the photographs, he found the ones that he liked the best.

    "And here we have noted horticulturalist Deacon Chapman. Can you tell us what we have in store for us this spring?"

    The pictures showed a dog. It looked like it might have been a German Shepherd or an Alaskan Malamute.

    "Well, here in the Tar Heel State, we're fortunate enough to see the flowering of the Dionaea muscipula, the Venus Flytraps, which are indigenous to this area."

    The dog was actually a Norwegian Elkhound, the national dog of Norway. Originally bred for hunting moose and bears, it is considered to be one of the oldest dog breeds in existence. These days, they make excellent family pets due to their above average intelligence and pack loyalty.

    "You see, when a Venus Flytrap is properly nourished, it will produce a beautiful white flower."

    He separated out the blurry ones and the ones with poor lighting. He also took out the ones that had too many people in them, too close to the dog.

    "What do you mean, properly nourished?"

    He did a final shuffle through the pictures he found best.

    "Well, the Venus Flytrap lives in environments with little soil nutrition. Thus, it relies on an alternate source of nutrients. It presents itself as a desirable location to insects, and when these insects land on it, the leaves close around them, trapping them. They will be gradually digested, and the plant will in turn receive the nourishment it needs."

    He opened a photo album and flipped through the pages until he came to a blank one. He ordered the pictures on the page, leaving gaps between them.

    "That doesn't sound too good for the bug."

    He then opened a shoebox and pulled out a few more photographs. These featured him in the park, throwing a ball or calling for something outside of frame. He placed these pictures in the gaps, juxtaposing the images of him and the dog.

    "It's just nature's way of telling us that we have too many unwanted pests. Natural selection in action."

    He pressed the red button on his remote. The image on the television shrank to a tiny point which blipped off into nonexistence.

    "You have mail," said his computer.

    The e-mail was from one of his automated digests. The photo website.

    "NORMAN," it read, "here are the latest images uploaded with the following tag: 'Norwegian Elkhound'." He looked at the pictures, scrolling through them, taking them in a few at a time. None of them looked right.

    He sighed. He decided to go to bed.

    ###

    Norman stepped off the bus and into the park. He found his tree, the one with the overhanging branches, and sat under it. In the shade of the tree, he unpacked his bag, pulling out a camera and a photographic lens. He scanned the park through the lens.

    "Bingo," he said, finding a couple playing with their dog. The man he watched flung a red, rubber ball into the grassy area of the park, after which the dog, a Norwegian Elkhound, would chase the ball down, scoop it up into his mouth, and bring it back to the man. The man threw the ball again many times. One time, it bounced off of a rock. Norman's heart skipped a beat as he saw the slimy orb rolling toward him.

    The dog trotted up to him, his panting mouth the shape of a smile. Norman scooped up the glistening ball and held it out to the dog. The dog scooped up the ball into his mouth. Norman met the dog's gaze. His heart fluttered as the dog stood so close.

"Roscoe!" shouted a voice. The dog's ears perked up. He bounded out from under the tree and ran towards the man's voice.

    "Roscoe," the name played out in his head. "Roscoe," it sounded like a hymn. "Roscoe," it crashed like waves upon a rocky shore. "Roscoe," he whispered.

    He packed up his things and hurried home.

    He grabbed a marker and sat down in front of his photo album. "Roscoe and Me" he wrote in big, bold, black letters. He spent the rest of the evening searching the internet on variations of the term "Norwegian Elkhound Roscoe."

###

    He sat on his couch, the television on, but he wasn't watching the morning show cast make small talk with the celebrity. He looked at the open photo album in his lap.

    "And now a word from our sponsors."

    The television started playing "Magic Moments" by Burt Bacharach. "Your dog's your best friend, and you want to treat him right," the voice of God said.

    Norman heard a dog bark. He looked up and saw Roscoe trotting into the living room. He set the photo album down and walked with the dog into the kitchen.

    "That's why you give him the very best."

    Norman tore open a fresh bag of kibble and poured it into Roscoe's dish.

    "Johnson and Gruber's Natural Selections is made with fresh lamb and turkey, as well as choice vegetables and grains, giving your best friend the best you can give him."

    Instead of eating the kibble, Roscoe jumped into Norman's arms, and the two play wrestled on the floor. Things got a bit blurry as some floating text appeared in his kitchen.

    "Johnson and Gruber, a Tagtraum GmbH company."

    ###

    Norman headed toward the checkout, his cart filled with his monthly supply of frozen dinners. Something stopped him, though. He saw the illustrious pet aisle, and throwing caution to the wind, he steered his cart there.

    This aisle was a veritable candy shop for pet lovers. There were pet brushes, pet toys, pet treats, pet food, pet shampoos, and even items used to clean up after naughty pets. He tried to be strong.

    The girl at the checkout counter asked him, "You getting yourself a dog, Mr. Grant?" She placed the leash, the squeaky pig, the bowls, and the box of Doodie Bags in a separate bag from the frozen dinners.

Norman nodded. He helped her lift the bag of Johnson and Gruber's Natural Selections into the bottom of his cart.

    "What are you going to name him?" she asked.

    "I haven't decided yet," he said.

    "Just don't name him Toby, please. I'm sick of everybody naming their dogs Toby."

    "I won't."

    ###

    He sat under the tree, camera in hand. He looked at the couple playing with Roscoe. The man was wearing an old football jersey. It said "Sea Devils" on the front, and on the back, it had the number 17 and a word above the number. Norman used the lens to focus on it. "Frisby" it said. He snapped some pictures.

    ###

    "You want me to find out about a couple named Ball who throw a Frisbee for their dog in the park every afternoon?"

    "No, no. You have it wrong," Norman corrected. "Their name is Frisby, and they throw a ball for their dog in the park every afternoon." He pointed at the picture of the man, underlining the letters on his jersey. "Frisby, F-R-I-S-B-Y."

    The man sighed. "A job's a job," he said more to himself than to Norman. He mashed his cigarette into the ashtray, wiped off his hand and pulled a paper out of a drawer. "Sign here. It'll be a hundred a day, plus expenses."

    "All right." He scribbled his signature on the sheet of paper.

    "I'll give you a call when I get some information on these folks. I won't ask, though. It's not my job."

    "And a wonderful job you do," said Norman.

    "Now, don't let the door hit'cha on the way out."

    ###

    Waiting for something can be madness. Norman tried to go about his days. Every morning, he made sure that the bowls were shiny, and in the right place. One of the bowls he kept full of fresh water. The other, however, he left empty. He didn't want to open the bag of food until it was ready to be eaten. He wanted everything to be fresh, everything to be perfect. He would give the rubber pig a squeak before leaving for work for the day.

    And every day, after work, after a stopover in the park to catch a glimpse of Roscoe, he would hurry on home to see if the PI had left a message on his answering machine.

    A week went by without any word from the man.

    A day later, a sealed manila envelope sat on the floor behind his door with the rest of his mail.

    He placed the envelope on his dining room table and heated up his dinner.

    With every bite of his macaroni and cheese, he counted down until he could open the envelope. When he finished, he cleared his dishes and scrubbed his hands clean.

    Sitting on the couch, he slid his finger along the glue-sealed lip and pulled the contents from the envelope. Within were several pages of biographical information regarding Roger and Audrey Frisby. They lived in an apartment, a place called Clayton's Red Sunset. They lived on the 9th floor. Roger sold industrial adhesives, and Audrey was a dental receptionist. Roger had an affinity for early aircraft, and Audrey loved kickboxing. Page by informative page, Norman learned every detail he could on the couple. He pulled out his day planner and wrote down their work schedules next to his. There were at least six hours each day when nobody was home. Nobody except Roscoe.

    ###

    "Wow, I didn't even know we sold crowbars, Mr. Grant," said the checkout girl. "Are you doing a little remodeling?"

    Norman nodded. He took the plastic bag from the girl and left the store.

    ###

    There are contrasting interpretations as to what an "epiphany" actually is. Some argue that it is the sudden realization of a greater meaning, a broader understanding that what you know is only a tiny piece of a larger puzzle. Others argue that an epiphany is a deeper understanding of things, finding out that the rabbit hole goes much, much further into the ground. Norman didn't even know what an epiphany was, but he had one just the same.

    "Today is the day," he said to himself as he called in sick at work. "Everything's perfect," he said, putting on a pair of black leather gloves. "Roscoe will love his new home," he said, weighing the crowbar in his hands. "I'm coming for you, Roscoe!" he said a little too loudly, grabbing the leash and squeaky pig as he left his home.

    Clayton's Red Sunset was a brisk walk from the park. The building was a faint lime green. Norman imagined that the name of the complex had to do with the view at the end of the day. Their sign had a graphic of a Venus Flytrap next to the text. He walked into the main door, catching it after a man talking on a cell phone burst through. He rushed to the stairwell, elevators being too much of a hassle.

    He climbed them all, all nine flights of stairs, all 196 steps. He stopped a moment on the landing of the ninth floor to catch his breath.

    Norman skimmed the numbers on the apartments as he walked past. 985, 986, 987. Bingo. Or, more appropriately, Roscoe.

    His heart pounded in his chest. He slid the crowbar between the door and the frame and pulled with all his strength. The wood of the frame splintered and the door swung inwards.

    He entered the apartment. The walls were white and the carpet was the color of red wine.

    "Roscoe!" he whisper-shouted. "C'mere boy!" He squeaked the rubber pig.

    He stepped into the living room and froze. Roger sat on the couch next to Audrey.

    "My vacation time's been approved," said Roger. "So, we can start planning that trip."

    "Okay," said Audrey. "But next time, I get to pick the destination. Why Kitty Hawk?"

    "That's where the Wright Brothers took their first flight. And don't forget Kill Devil Hills. I want to see that monument, too."

    "Fine. We'll go to Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills. But you owe me, buster."

    Neither of them even acknowledged the fact that Norman had broken their door and entered their home uninvited. They didn't even look at him when he came into the room. He let out his breath. Either they didn't see him, or they were ignoring him. Either way, he had a mission to perform.

    "Roscoe!" he whisper-shouted again, and again he squeaked the rubber pig.

    He went from room to room, searching the entire apartment, but he just could not find the dog.

    "Roscoe?" he called, a little louder, but with a shaking voice.

    He had just about given up hope. He slumped on the chair opposite Roger and Audrey. They were discussing the finer points of their vacation.

    "Where is the dog?" he asked them. "Where is Roscoe?" He stood up, throwing the crowbar onto the floor. "Tell me where the hell my dog is!" he demanded.

    They continued to discuss their vacation. He stormed off towards their guest room.

    There, at the end of their small hallway, was a white door. It matched the color of the wall, so it was very easy to overlook. He heard the faint sound of panting. The door was a strange one, having a horizontal seam in the middle and no doorknob. He walked up to the door and listened to it. He tried to push it in, but it would not budge. He went back and got his crowbar from the living room floor. He placed the crowbar in the seam and applied pressure. The top half of the door slid upwards, separating from the bottom half which slid downwards.

    He stepped into the hot and humid room. The floor was moist and sticky, with a very strange type of carpeting. A large water bed sat in the middle of the room.

    "Roscoe?" Norman asked, stepping further into the room. He felt along the wall for a light switch, but his hand met nothing but a slimy, spongy surface.

    He stepped up to the bed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. He squeaked the rubber pig one last time.

    The bed wiggled, and a piece of it touched his foot. He dropped the rubber pig.

    It was a tongue.

    The door began to slide shut. He ran for it. It was hard to gain traction on the slimy floor, and he fell down on the uneven ground. The door clicked shut, like two teeth meeting. In the pitch black darkness, he felt the tongue wrap around him and drag him towards the black abyss.

    ###

    The man sat under the tree. Several white flowers bloomed throughout the grassy field. He pointed his camera at the couple throwing a Frisbee in the park. He zoomed in on the woman and snapped several pictures. She ran barefoot through the grass as she caught and threw the flying disc to her husband.

    Her husband threw the disc too high, and then it flew towards the tree the man was sitting under. His heart skipped a beat as the Frisbee landed at his feet. He quickly hid his camera behind the tree.

    The woman jogged up to him, stopping to catch her breath, but smiling the entire time. The man scooped up the Frisbee and held it out to her. She took the disc from him and their hands brushed. He met her gaze, his heart fluttering as she stood so close.

    "Audrey!" shouted a voice. She turned her head to look at her husband. She uttered a quick thanks and jogged back towards the man's voice.

    "Audrey," the name played out in his head. "Audrey," it sounded like a hymn. "Audrey," it crashed like waves upon a rocky shore. "Audrey," he whispered.

    He packed up his things and hurried home.