"A full one?"
I shrugged and looked away.
Mentally, he calculated how much that would be worth. How many car payments? How many chais and yoga classes? New jeans with fancy pockets?
"I'm not sure it's worth it," he sighed.
"Butthead," I muttered.
"What did you just call me? Where are you going?" he barked as I pogoed toward home. "Virgil's not there any more. You have to come with me."
Ugh. I'd forgotten already. Or I'd blocked it out. So much for the dramatic exit.
I trailed him to his car and allowed him to escort me to his apartment, but I didn't speak to him the whole way, and when we went through the drive-thru at Zoom Burger and he shoved a burger under my nose, I let it roll off the seat and onto the floor mat.
When we got home, Corey let me into the apartment while he went to collect his mail from the array of post office boxes in the traffic circle by the leasing office.
I drank some water from the toilet just to spite him and climbed up on the reclining sofa on his side.
Corey slammed back in, trailing a confetti of torn paper and cursing. The tip of my tail vibrated. I tucked it between my legs and tried not to draw attention to myself.
"Sophie!" He cast around until he spotted me.
He growled. I reluctantly moved to the other side of the couch, then tucked my tail under me.
"Fine," he said. I'll take your bonus and I'll clean out the basement. Final notice, my ass! Where was the first notice? That's what I want to know!"
He stomped around picking up the confetti of paper, then stooped over the kitchen counter, Scotch taping the pieces back together.
The next day, I made Corey walk to Ace Hardware around the corner and buy mouse traps. Sure, at one time maybe I could have caught my own mice, but I wasn't as agile as I once had been. Also, I didn't have a taste for them any more.
Corey came back with a giant 24-trap jumbo-pack and a jar of Cheez Dip. He loaded all 24. I led him on several forays downstairs and directed him in their placement. Mostly on the sofa, which had become a kind of mouse-condo.
"Do dogs believe in ghosts?" Corey asked out of the blue.
"Ghosts?" I thought about it. "Well, people only see what they want to see. And the things they want to see but can't, and the things they feel but don't want to think about, they call ghosts."
Corey shook his head. "So, in other words, yes?"
"No. Ghosts for you are like blue for me."
"I don't know why I bothered to ask."
Snap, snap, snap went the traps.
I collected them into a heap at the top of the stairs. Corey gagged while he emptied them into a garbage bag, tied a knot in the top and flung it into the dumpster. He reloaded and we distributed them again.
The slaughter of the mice was satisfying, in a way. But I had lost all perspective on the basement. I knew by then that it would not implicate us in any crime. I knew that the basement's secrets were mostly personal: A dead wife named Helen, who was fortunately no longer under the stairs. The pain of failed parenting. Confusion and loss and guilt and anger.
Those things couldn't hurt me, and really, they couldn't hurt Virgil, could they? Not any more. But there was something about the basement that I could feel. And I wondered whether strangers who knew nothing of its story could feel it too.
Corey certainly felt something down there, but he was more than just an employee. He was almost family. The self-absorbed-ass, never-wrote-a-thank-you-note kind of family.
There was still a lot to be learned.
I decided to embark on a research project.
I just needed a participant for my study.
The Research Project
There was a regular customer, Alphonso, who bought a lot of Stuff. It seemed like he would buy almost anything, without regard for its smell or story, and when I sent him home with something more appropriate, he never complained.
I started to realize that maybe he never even opened the shopping bags and unrolled his purchases from the tissue paper. Perhaps he never even saw what he'd brought home.
And I started to wonder, why did he need all those unknown stories? Did he use them to fill up his emptiness? Or were they more like a barrier? Like the cartons and bags that Virgil and I had stacked for years to barricade the basement door?
One day, Alphonso came into the shop while Corey was at his afternoon yoga class, and on a whim, I decided to try something new. I smiled. I wagged. I led him to the back room. I scratched at the basement door. He turned the knob. I nudged him in and leaned on the door until it clicked.
Then I waited. It was quiet for a while.
But by the time Corey waltzed in from yoga an hour and a half later, my research participant was screaming and I was pacing the shop from end to end, trying not to panic.
I hadn't counted on his getting trapped and making a scene. How was I to know? Corey released him and murmured soothing words and brought him facial tissue while I watched from under the army surplus rack.
After Alphonso left, still mopping tears from his mucussy face, Corey rounded on me. "You locked him in the scary basement?"
"The basement might not really be so bad," I said. I would have explained about my research project on the subjectivity of experience, but he didn't seem open to the idea. "And besides, it was an accident," I lied.
"Yeah, right."
"You know how one thing leads to another?"
"Why don't you try to explain?"
"Well, let's see. For example. Maybe he followed me into the back room, and he got curious about the basement--"
"All by himself, with no help from you?"
"Yeah. And maybe he opened the door, and when I ran to warn him not to go in, I accidentally bumped into him."
"By accident?"
"Yeah."
"Bullshit."
I lay under the rack for a while, watching customers' feet from between swaying jacket sleeves. It was peaceful. I really should do this more often, I thought. Occasionally, I stuck my nose up the sleeve of my favorite jacket.
I licked my wrists absentmindedly. The fur was coming off and they were bald and inflamed.
But once I recovered from the fear and embarrassment, I realized that Alphonso was upset. And that was a good thing, because all of my most satisfied customers are upset at first. Therefore, perhaps unpleasant stories weren't strictly to be avoided. Perhaps they could be healing.
I decided, in the end, that this phenomenon required more testing. But my next opportunity didn't come along for a while.
"Her name is not 'Truffle', it's Ashley. And she's actually really cool." Corey loomed over me in "Bad Dog" position.
He'd met her that evening, at the hospital. He claimed it was a coincidence. They had drunk hazelnut coffee and discussed Virgil (and me). Behind my back. While I waited in the car.
"And what did you and Ashley decide?" Truffle, I corrected, silently.
Corey turned his back on me to take our Marie Callender pot pies out of the microwave. "We" were suddenly on a health kick again since he'd met "Ashley".
"Shit." He dropped a pot pie on the stove top and shook his fingers. He used the tail of his shirt to remove the other one.
He was stalling.
"What?" I barked. My wrist started to itch, but I did not lick it.
"Virgil isn't doing very well." Corey took a breath. "Ashley might have to put him in a home."
I jumped up on Corey's reclining microfiber sofa, kicked off his yoga bag and knocked over the halogen lamp. Then I picked up the remote. He snatched it out of my mouth, clicked on the TV, then shoved the remote into the drawer with the Quentin Tarantino DVD's.
"If you want to watch TV, ask," he growled. "Don't just trash my stuff."
I let Telemundo wash over me and licked my wrists, and thought about what would become of me. Would I go to live with Truffle? Would they take me to the pound? Would they close the shop?
I awoke to the silence of no TV
. It was daytime outside the window. Corey stood over me with the remote.
"This isn't easy for me, either, Sophie. Let's just try to…chill, okay? Maybe things will work out."
Truffle/Ashley came to the shop that day. It was enough to make me sick, how she petted Corey's biceps and how he wriggled with pleasure.
He gave her a tour, as though she needed one. They ignored me.
He suggested they go next door for chai and a pita, and she said, "If you fetch something for us, I'll watch the shop."
So Corey gave me a look like, "Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't even think of it."
Truffle/Ashley said, "Sophie and I will be fine without you, really. Won't we Sophie?"
I ducked away before she could pat me on the head.
Corey slipped a twenty out of the till when he thought she wasn't looking, and left.
So there was my perfect opportunity. To test out the basement. Without interference from Corey. It was strictly scientific.
She started sniffing around, pawing through the Stuff behind the counter. She lifted up my dog bed and found the cash (and the one personal check) stashed underneath, gave me a look and let the bed drop back into place. She fiddled with the cash register and wandered around, trailing her fingers over the racks and shelves.
I yawned and flapped my ears to get her attention, then pogoed casually toward the back room.
Under the curtain I disappeared, then waited on the other side. Soon enough she peeked through.
"What are you up to?" she said.
I was licking my crotch. I struggled up and stared at the basement door. She followed my gaze.
"What's that?" she said, and took a step forward.
I pretended to lose interest. She drew closer.
The hinges creaked. She peeked inside. Her hackles rose.
I took two bounding steps and slammed into the backs of her knees. She stumbled and sprawled down the stairs.
Just then, I heard the cowbell clank, and Corey's voice, a little anxious. He must have sensed something, because after he set down the cardboard tray with the chais and the paper-wrapped pitas, he ran straight for the back room.
I thought I was going to be in big trouble. My shove had been overenthusiastic. I hadn't meant to make her fall down the stairs. But Truffle was already scrambling upright.
But the time Corey skidded into the back room and stopped with the divider curtain draped over his shoulders like a cape, there was nothing to see. Except for the cobweb dangling from Truffle's hair and her slight limp.
Her smile was bright. I smiled, too, then sneezed. I stretched my ears back so I would look innocent.
Corey looked from one to the other of us. He knew something was up, but neither of us filled him in. I couldn't figure out why she was protecting me. Maybe she didn't want him to know she'd been snooping.
"I…got lunch," he said, and turned back toward the cash counter.
Behind his back, Truffle pointed at her eye and jabbed a finger in my face. "I'm watching you," she mouthed.
I pretended not to understand.
Truffle/Ashley and Corey set out their lunch on the glass-topped sales counter while I observed from under the army surplus rack.
Ashley acted like she didn't see me there, but she talked as if, well, almost like she was trying to send me a message.
"Do you think Sophie understands you when you talk?" she asked Corey. She put a finger to her upper lip to block his view of masticated chicken salad.
He did a double-take. "Sophie? Naaaw." He totally over-played it. Usually, he was a better liar.
Ashley met my eye over the top of her paper cup. "I think she knows exactly what's going on."
I looked away, disconcerted.
"That's why I rescued her," Ashley continued. "She seemed so aware. Grandpa said once that when he was a boy, he had a dog who could talk. And when I saw Sophie, I thought to myself, well, if any dog could speak, it would be that one."
Corey ate faster so he'd have an excuse not to respond. I caught myself licking my wrist.
"She seems to want me to see the basement."
Corey narrowed his eyes in my direction. I tried to play it cute. I wagged gently: "Who me?"
Ashley whipped around, jabbed a finger at me. "Did you hear that?" she asked Corey.
Corey's expression flip-flopped between denial and excitement. "Are you saying you can hear Sophie talk?" he said at last.
Ashley turned back to him, looked him over. "Of course not. My grandfather is a nut job."
The Squeaky-toy Voice
Sometimes, I fell asleep on my dog bed behind the counter, or under the army surplus rack, and I dreamt of He and She.
I dreamt of sunny days and road trips and chasing a ball. Sometimes I woke myself laughing. Other times Corey shook me awake because I had been whimpering.
"Chasing rabbits?" he'd joke.
I never responded. I just put my head down again and tried to get back to that place before it faded away.
Life with Corey and Ashley was okay, but sometimes I would walk into a room and they would stop talking. Other times, I would make a remark and they would pause for just a moment, as though they thought they heard something in the distance, something irrelevant, like a honk or a cat fight. Then they would continue as though I'd said nothing at all.
He and She had never been like that. "Good Girl," they had said. "Good Girl." Even when I wasn't doing anything at all. And when they said those words, I felt warm inside, a warmth that couldn't be contained. And I would roll onto my back and put my paws to my face to keep the joy from spilling over.
One day, as I sat on the sidewalk waiting for Corey to lock up, a smell and a voice and a feeling came over me. A little girl toddled out of Latte Love holding a woman's hand.
Before I knew what I was doing I tore away from Corey and bobbed over to her and tasted her fat cheeks and nuzzled and sniffed her limbs and stuck my head under her princess skirt. And my tail, my tail was out of control!
The woman scooped the little girl into her arms and ran away from me, screaming. The little girl reached a hand toward me and giggled. "Good Girl!" she said in her squeaky-toy voice.
Corey tackled me and held me by a handful of neck fur.
"It's not what you think!" he panted. "Sophie loves children!"
"To eat?" squeaked the woman, half-hysterical, back against the music store's brick facade, clutching the child to her chest.
I drew in the perfume of that child on sniff after perfect sniff. Corey rolled out his TV Preacher Smile and his coaxing voice. He convinced the woman to offer her hand to me, and I made a study of it. It didn't smell quite right, but the child! The child smelled of sunny days and road trips and glorious head-tails and Heart.
And then it was all over, and Corey dragged me away by my neck fur, and the child watched me with wondering eyes from the arms of the woman.
And I wondered how she could smell so right, yet belong to the wrong person.
The Hour of Stillness
Ashley hung out at the shop a lot. She draped herself on Corey, and Corey's smile was real.
Virgil had been moved to a Hospice. Corey explained that was a Hospital You Never Leave. I wanted to see him one last time, to nuzzle his hand and tell him it was going to be okay. Corey said they didn't allow dogs, and besides, Virgil didn't recognize anybody any more.
Upstairs in the apartment, Ashley sorted Virgil's and my possessions. She never asked whether I wanted the TV. She said even Goodwill wouldn't take most of that stuff. The dumpster overflowed.
The homeless guy dug out Virgil's comforter and a copper-colored Bundt pan, which he repurposed as a hat. It would help him to tune out the voices while still allowing his crown chakra to absorb healing energy. Or so he theorized.
I came awake at the hour of stillness, when the day is still forming and could become anything. When the night creatures have finally given up their vigil and the early risers are still lost in visions of that othe
r life, the one where time runs both forward and backward, where travel is as easy as a thought, and where identity is only a mask because we are all one.
I came awake not with a start, but with a knowing, both sad and rejoiceful: Virgil had crossed to that other side, and would not return. From now on, if I wanted to be with him, I would have to be the one to do the crossing.
I sat with this for a while. And then I wondered about He and She. So often, lately, I had thought of them. It was a pull like centrifugal force. I felt the world was spinning to bring us together again. Like I could almost smell them, just around the corner. But perhaps I was only fooling myself. Perhaps, when I thought of them, I was going to that other place, and that is why I didn't feel alone.
In my mind, I went over the day of the accident, and the days that followed, and I tried to remember whether I had felt this particular knowing. I thought that I hadn't felt it with them, but I had been young and naive and also in pain and scared.
Perhaps this is something you can only feel if your mind is very still.
I climbed down from the microfiber sofa and padded down the hall to check on Corey. I watched him sleeping peacefully, and I knew that he would not appreciate being wakened with the news. It would have a different significance for him. For him, there would be ugly thoughts that he would try to hide. He would feel inconvenienced and concerned about his Career Prospects and he would start thinking about whether he really wanted me living with him forever.
I wanted to hold onto the purity of my knowing, of the feeling that had awakened me, so I went back to the reclining sofa and curled up around the warmth of that feeling to protect it for as long as I could.
Virgil's Funeral
Corey gave me a ride to Virgil's funeral. Ashley was busy Making Arrangements and Welcoming People who Came to Pay Their Respects.
I didn't know who most of those people were. Ashley said they were Family, which is funny because I thought I was Virgil's family. They rode in a limo and sat in the Front Row and cried while I watched from the car with the windows cracked. And I was glad that Virgil was okay now, and no longer confused or lonely or scared.
Katherine was there, the exception to the Never Trust a Woman rule. The narwhal necklace dangled in the vee of her black knit dress. Katherine and Truffle hugged on the curb next to the car while Corey looked on.
"Thank you for what you did," said Truffle. "Nobody else cared enough to help me and you didn't even know me, but..."