Everyone
knows: Wally’s Pet World sells the sickest, the oldest, and the mangiest
animals. But that doesn’t stop George from heading nine counties and
eleven hours toward some strip mall into Graysville. He drums a folded
bag on his lap with his fingers. The car deviates toward the right side
of the crooked road.
"Look,
Honey, can you believe this? A five percent discount on anything you
can fit into this bag."
"Well,
George, I don’t think that they mean that," Laura, George’s wife,
says as she runs ger fingers over the cross hanging from her neck.
"Hey,
Honey, I think I know about budgets and figures. I am, after all, head
Honcho. Comprende?"
"If
we can’t find a dog that will fit into the bag, we can always save money
by going to the rescue shelter."
"Don’t
start in with this again."
"It’s
just that, since the hurricane, there are a lot of special, desperate,
and needy—"
"Aren’t
all dogs, just dogs, Laura?"
"I
don’t like what you’re suggesting, George."
Feeding his tendency to fly over important moments and situations of great
concern, George chooses not to respond and simply parks in the furthest
spot. The car appears alone, abandoned by everyone,
stationed opposite and to the left.
Inside
Wally’s Pet World, George and Laura survey the aisles. Animals sound off, crying for attention, help, or anything.
George
stops and yawns.
As
he turns his back, his eyes fix on a golden retriever. The dog mirrors George in many more ways than can be imagined. His
eyes seem mischievous; the dark oily pupils dart to and fro, while the
whites of the eyes are a golden bubbling brew, not bloodshot, yet still
mischievous. The dog’s eyes hold George’s attention, romancing him
like a cheap whore. To cement the sale, the dog tilts his head and winks
at George.
"We’ll take him!"
"Now,
George, let’s not be hasty. He’s so big. Will he get along with
Trooper?"
"Don’t
get snippy. Golden retrievers are the most popular, well-behaved, and
mild mannered of dogs."
"But
Trooper is just a child," Laura says as her fingers touch her cross once more.
The
dog drops his head, slouching. Then, he makes eye contact with Laura. Finally,
the golden retriever stands on his hind legs and places his paws together.
"See,
Laura, he’s a nice dog. Man’s best friend. It’s a sign from God.
He winked at me and prayed to you."
"By,
God!" Laura clasps her cross. "We’ll take him."
Back at
the manor, all seems well — a Pleasantville. George and
Laura enter, past the front door, with the dog. The golden retriever wears
a red bow on his head, a white handkerchief around his neck,
and the five percent discount bag ripped around his torso.
"Mom,
Dad, is the dog ours?"
"Yes, he’s all yours, Trooper," George and Laura tell their son.
Trooper
runs and rambles down the staircase.
"Trooper,
slow down. Safety first." George reaches for an electric
knife.
Pausing to collect himself, George sticks his sluggish tongue out
the left side of his mouth before wildly cutting, swooping, and hacking the budget bag away from the dog with the electric
knife. A thousand scraps lie on the floor. Trooper slips across the pieces, nearly falling on his rump. George ignores the domestic
dangers and pushes an unimportant side topic.
"Hey,
Trooper, what’s your vote on a name for him?"
"I
know! Al!"
The
dog shakes his head left and right. George firmly slaps and rubs the dog’s
belly.
"Trooper,
I don’t think the dog likes that name. How about tossing another name
into the hat?"
"Dad,
since the dog’s hairy, how about Kerry?"
"How
about, Tomfoolery? That’s a clever name," George says.
The
dog nods. Trooper tries embracing the dog but the dog growls.
"I
don’t want any Tomfoolery! I want Al or Kerry."
"Oh
Trooper, listen. If you want to call the dog Al, you can." Laura tries
reaching her son for a condolence from her hug machine.
"But
that wouldn’t be fair, Laura. Trooper already had his vote. In fact,
he had two. No, he had his say."
Trooper
stomps upstairs, slamming his bedroom door. Laura touches and holds
her cross.
"George,
maybe we should—"
"The
dog is already like a member of the family. We could always make arrangements."
"Arrangements?
Nonsense. Doesn’t it take time for a child and a dog to grow accustomed to each other?
Can’t we please try again in the morning?"
"It
will all turn out for the best, with faith." George bows his head as he says a soft prayer. Then he slams the front door before chaining the dog to a willow tree.
The
sun lights the living room. Trooper sits underneath a safe, secure blanket.
Strong string completes the makeshift tent. The TV broadcasts Saturday
morning cartoons on one end of the fort. Trooper watches, mesmerized,
inches away from the glowing light. The dog busts into the room.
"Hi,
Al!" Trooper peeks out from his fort and beams.
The
dog bares his razor sharp cuspids at Trooper. Trooper’s smile fades.
Quickly, he holds down the fort by retreating, folding himself in tight.
A high yelp sounds.
"Dad!
Help! The dog!"
In
the master bedroom, George rolls over in bed, rubbing his eyes. Rising
erect, once coherent enough, George manages to stutter with concern,
"Trooper, are you okay?"
The
dog bolts up the stairway with the agenda of concealing all incriminating
evidence. He scats like a rabid rat down the hallway toward the master bedroom. A shredded blanket dangles from
his hind paw. Before the dog staggers into the room, the blanket jars
on the door’s greasy hinge. George calls out again. There is
no answer. Free to run amok, the dog hustles to his master’s side
of the bed, with George’s rubbery slippers.
"Hey,
Honey. Look at the dog." George nudges Laura next to him.
"Oh,
how cute."
The
dog flips the slippers to George. He leaps and crashes
atop the bed. George and Laura pet the dog. Trooper emerges, noticing
a hole in his blanket.
"Oh,
Trooper. Do you want breakfast? Are you hungry for some eggs?" asks George.
Trooper
holds up the blanket and looks through the hole, saying in an upset
voice, "I’ve had enough of eggs from you. I’m sick of being fed
eggs."
George furrows his brow. Distinct lines blend with bushy eyebrows.
"Don’t
question what you are served." George shakes his finger at Trooper.
"But,
Dad."
"No
buts about it. Remember, we’ve been through this conflict before."
"I
insist on fixing eggs for everyone." Laura reaches for her cross.
"So Trooper, wait downstairs and watch cartoons."
"Okay,
Mom. Bye Al."
The
dog leaps out of bed, pouncing on Trooper. Trooper collapses to the
floor from the ambush. The dog fights, rapidly jumping onto Trooper’s
curled up body.
"Tomfoolery!"
George commands.
The
dog halts. Trooper rolls over. On his back, he strikes the dog with
a kick. The dog whimpers toward George. Trooper busts a beeline to his
bedroom and slams his door. Laura takes the pillow
away from her eyes.
"Honey,
we need to talk."
"I
know, Laura. He’s such a nice dog around us, but to Trooper the name
Tomfoolery doesn’t exist."
"One
of them could have been killed."
"For
now, we’ll keep Tomfoolery locked in our room. Tonight
we’ll try one last time, or by the grace of God—"
"And,
what do you mean by this, George? Are you already thinking about arrangements
with Grandpa?"
"Yes."
"Well,
I disagree."
"Just
let me call Grandpa this afternoon. He may side with you.
Don’t you agree that this is the prudent thing to do?"
"You
know he’ll bring up past conflicts with Trooper."
"I
promise I won’t bring that up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Good
afternoon. Dad?"
"George,
is that you?"
"George?"
"George."
"Yeah,
it’s me, Dad."
"George.
Son, how’s life. Did you buy that dog?"
"Dad,
I bought the dog, but there’s a problem."
"You
got the discount, right?"
"It’s
not that; it’s about Trooper and the dog."
"What’s
the problem? You voted on a name, right?"
"The
dog’s name is Tomfoolery."
"Tomfoolery.
Now that’s a clever name."
"Listen,
Dad. The reason I called you is because Trooper and Tomfoolery don’t
get along. It’s like they’re at war."
"I
recall the same exact conflict I had with Trooper in the past."
"Dad,
I promised Laura that I wouldn’t start in on the past with you and Trooper."
"It
wasn’t a simple issue, George. That was some serious war between Trooper
and my dog. And you know
what came out of that arrangement, don’t you?"
"Please,
Dad. Don’t start in on the past."
"Well,
I’ll tell you. Arrangements came out of that arrangement."
"Dad,
it’s not the same issue."
"Have
chemicals or weapons of any sorts come into fruition?"
"No."
"How
about any physical fights?"
"Dad,
I know where this is heading."
"Once
there’s any sign of weapons, then it’s the same thing."
"Well,
of course, Dad. If there is any weaponry or any suspicious activity,
but so far—"
"Well,
you know what my answer is already. It is never prudent at this juncture
to wait."
"No,
sirree."
"No,
sirree indeed. If you ever need to arrange something, then look no further."
"Before
I go, are you sure you have enough supplies."
"George, you know money is no object. Bye."
"Bye,
Dad."
That
night, in the kitchen, Trooper wolfs down his dinner of eggs. Laura
watches as he devours every morsel. Yolks and whites are splattered on his face. Laura places her hand over her mouth
when George enters with the dog on a leash. Trooper shoots up on top
of his chair. He shakes, with snot dribbling from his nose and mouth.
"Dad,
I hate that stupid dog."
"Trooper,
cool it. The dog may be nicer to you if you call him ‘Tomfoolery!’
Come down from the chair. The dog senses fear. Put your hand up to Tomfoolery.
He needs to smell you; then he’ll behave," George commands.
The
dog softly pants.
"No,
he’ll just bite me."
"Don’t
fear. I have him contained on a leash. He won’t dare attack you."
"Well,
what if he does?"
"Then
you won’t have to live with Tomfoolery anymore. Arrangements have
been made."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Trooper
bends his quaking knees. He climbs down from the chair slowly. Trooper
inches toward the dog. Laura hides her eyes, cupping her warm, wet palms over her eyelids.
"Stop,
Trooper. Say, ‘I love you, Tomfoolery.’ The dog needs to get acquainted with your voice," George says.
"I
l-l-love you, Tomfoolery."
"I
wove u," the dog responds.
The
parents celebrate their victory.
"Trooper,
go up to the doggy. Tomfoolery is a friend and needs to smell you,"
Laura says, crossing and swaying her fingers.
Trooper
lollygags to Tomfoolery. Trooper snuggles the dog and receives warm
slobber with the egg on his face. Secretly, George motions to Laura.
They walk out, swinging the kitchen door softly. Outside the kitchen,
George and Laura eavesdrop, leaning on the flimsy door.
"See,
time cures all struggles and conflicts." George taps Laura’s shoulder.
"Shh!
I want to hear them, George."
Both
parents are smitten when Trooper says, "Tomfoolery. Good-boy. Stay."
Laura
embraces George. "I don’t believe it. We get to keep him after all."
George carries Laura off onto the love sofa in the next room.
Deep
heavy barking sounds. A cling echoes. Next, a "Ruff, ruff, ruff."
Finally, Trooper calls for help. By the time the parents reach the conflict
in the kitchen, Trooper stands on the counter top with a humongous cleaver
knife. His pants have a hole in his backside.
"Laura,
this is the second time that devil has attacked! Never again! In the name
of God, he has to go!" George says while grabbing Trooper.
"You’re
right! Violent!" Laura nods and throws up both her arms.
George
places Trooper in his bedroom and tucks him in for the night. Laura
waits in the kitchen for the resolution. After some time, George swings
open the door. It freezes at a right angle.
"I
don’t know what else to do?" George says.
"We’ve
tried everything. Now, all we can do is pray for the best," responds Laura.
Two
days later, Tomfoolery sleeps on the front porch. Grandpa’s gray Rolls
Royce pulls up with two gray poles on the hood. On each pole, two tiny
flags dance in the disturbing wind. Grandpa waits for the driver to
open the car door. George opens the front door to the manor.
"Hey,
Dad. Step inside the house. I need a moment alone with Tomfoolery,"
George says.
"Yeah,
sure. I understand."
The
door slams shut on the world. George caresses the dog’s belly.
Tomfoolery
awakes.
"Well,
this is it boy. You know it’s for your own good," George sobs.
The
door busts down. Grandpa drags Trooper out by his ankles. Trooper struggles, throwing a tantrum.
"Dad! Why?" Trooper calls out.
George
squints and turns. Tomfoolery wags his tongue out at Trooper. Grandpa
hurls Trooper into the back seat. As the ignition fires, Trooper presses
his face against the rear door window. His voice cannot
be heard through the thick, glossy surface.
