12. Marley
TWELVE
MARLEY
“I hope you’re okay with the canned stuff,” Bennett says, not making eye contact with me as he sets two bowls of soup on the counter. He’s been a bit off since he came back in from whatever he’d been doing outside.
Maybe having a stranger in his house is hitting a bit different post-visit from the neighbors. Trying to break the tension that has seeped into the air I decided to provide him with a bit of a work anecdote. “I once spent an entire week eating dry bags of instant noodles because that was all that there was. This is a gourmet meal compared to that.”
“To be fair, that seems like a very low bar. Also, I want to hear more about your work,” he says as he pulls down a sleeve of crackers from a cupboard.
Well, that backfired. I’m not ready to share more just yet, so I turn the question back around. “Maybe later. What I do is best discussed long after you’ve digested a meal. But tell me what you do all day. I mean, clearly you don’t spend the entire day on a long walk. And you seem like the type of guy who would have this kitchen done if you didn’t have twenty-one dogs occupying your time.”
“Most days I’m running around getting stuff, taking a dog to the vet, picking up a new rescue, or organizing a foster home for a dog that may need help but isn’t necessarily the right fit for here.”
“Does that happen often?”
“The external foster?” he asks, finally looking at me. I nod. “Not too frequently, fortunately. There’s a rescue based a bit further south that brings loads of dogs up from the US. They stack crates in the back of a truck, and the dogs shit and piss on each other through the trip. Dogs that would probably have been lovely go through that and come out a bit traumatized.”
“Who wouldn’t be,” I mutter, as the cracker I’ve just taken a bite of turns to ash on my tongue. Maybe this conversation should have been had later too.
“Well, I get a lot of dogs because of that charity. People call and say, this dog seemed okay but now it’s guarding its toys or food and has snapped at their kid and they don’t have the patience to work with the animal.” He takes an angry bite of a cracker, and for maybe the first time since I met him, I’m glad to be nowhere near his mouth. “There’s no structure to vet people or dogs. They open the doors and ring the dinner bell.” I must look horrified because he quickly amends, “The proverbial dinner bell. I don’t think anyone is eating the dogs.”
“So,” I think out loud, “in theory, someone could be walking by a parking lot and see this van or truck or whatever, and just spur-of-the-moment decide they want a dog?”
Bennett nods.
“And that’s allowed?”
“Yep,” he says around a mouthful of soup.
“What are the parameters for bringing these dogs here?”
“Well, they need to be vaccinated. You can’t bring an animal across the border without a rabies vaccine. They have to be in relatively good health. Which I’m sure on the surface many of the dogs appear to be. There are also laws about humane transport, but it would seem that I have very different criteria for what humane entails.”
“It sounds like it would be emotionally taxing work.”
“Says the conflict photographer.”
I don’t want to tell him that it’s not anymore because then I’ll have to explain further and I’m not in the mood to talk about it. I’m rarely in the mood to talk about my job these days. Instead we just slowly eat our food like some weird mukbang foreplay. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes occasionally flit to my lips, and when I lick them, I see his Adam’s apple bob. When his eyes meet mine again, I’m almost grateful my range of motion is limited so I don’t do anything stupid.
Honestly, if I was leaving in an hour, I would consider perhaps making some kind of move. But the thought of doing that and then being rejected sounds worse than throwing up on myself again.
Yogurt, being the little angel he is, chooses that moment to start pawing at my left foot, drawing our attention away from one another.
“Yogurt, down!” Bennett snaps his fingers. Yogurt barely looks at him and keeps stretching up towards my seat.
“He can sit on my lap if he wants,” I say, pushing my nearly empty bowl away.
Bennett looks torn between doing the right thing, which is likely leaving Yogurt on the floor, or giving in to the little guy. In the end, he gives in. They don’t call them puppy-dog eyes for nothing.
“What’s his story?” I ask, scratching behind both of his ears and laughing as his eyes begin to cross.
“He was found in a Yoplait box with his siblings on the side of a highway.”
I immediately stop scratching as my head snaps up to make sure he’s not joking. “Seriously?” I know people suck, but I’m more accustomed to people sucking towards other people. I tend to forget how people can be cruel to all living things.
“Unfortunately. Thankfully they were all too small to jump out of the box, and someone stopped to check it out before anyone hit them.”
“That’s so fucked up,” I say, looking back down at Yogurt.
“The other puppies were all healthy and found homes really quickly, but this guy”—he reaches out to pet him, his fingers brushing mine—“he wasn’t quite, well, let’s go with ready. The vet thinks he may have been deprived of oxygen at birth and so his brain didn’t develop properly. But he fits in perfectly here, and he’s probably the most loving dog I’ve ever had. So, in that case, I’d say his brain developed perfectly.”
If I was physically capable of melting, I would be a puddle on the floor. “He’s lucky to have you,” I say softly, looking from our hands to his face. Every time I look at Bennett, I notice something different. This time I’m drawn to a small patch of his beard that is slightly lighter than the rest.
This time Bennett breaks eye contact first and stands to clear our dishes.
“Do you want to come out for a bit? I was going to throw some sticks around. I could set you up outside the fence so you’re protected.” He looks at me, his face full of hope.
I nod enthusiastically because that sounds wonderful.
Bennett runs upstairs and grabs a sweatshirt for me, and then I’m up on his back and leaving the house for the first time in what feels like forever.
It’s the ideal fall day; the air is crisp and the sun is out, providing just enough warmth that the sweatshirt is perfect. There is already a patio chair sitting next to the gate, as though he had been planning this since this morning. The thought has me smiling into his shoulder. If I’m not mistaken, his hands are a bit more grippy than before, his thumbs both gently sliding back and forth along my thigh. Goosebumps erupt across my flesh as my brain zones in on the movement. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. It’s like when I rock a shopping cart back and forth while I’m waiting in line as if to calm an invisible baby. It’s. Not. Intentional.
Yogurt, who followed us out to the field, jumps excitedly at the gate. After carefully setting me in the chair, Bennett scoops him up and pushes his way through the opening. I laugh as the dogs go absolutely apeshit, jumping and licking at the man. He looks back at me and smiles.
Before long the dogs are chasing after sticks and each other. I’m not sure how Bennett is able to keep anything straight. It’s absolute chaos in there. I laugh at myself thinking that twenty-one dogs are too chaotic to keep track of. What I do requires me to keep track of a lot too, but it’s different. There is a huge distinction between happy chaos and chaos brought on by conflict. I think maybe I could rediscover my passion again if I got to be surrounded by Bennett’s brand of chaos. Maybe an actual life away from work wouldn’t be the worst thing. Bennett is laughing and running around with his pack, his passion and joy for this life on full display, and I can remember a time when I felt that too. I certainly wasn’t running around laughing, but I remember how the passion drove me through the hard days. Now those days blur together as I move from one conflict to the next. When I started my career, I never saw a conflict within myself, and every day that passes I wonder if the passion will triumph over the emotionless shell I’ve become.