No one should want a puppy

This story begins three weeks ago, but we’ll begin yesterday. It was a typical July Sunday in Austin, by which I mean, the temperature was in the triple digits and outdoors felt like a convection oven. I’d stepped outside to check if stepping outside was something I’d recommend to my dog, Woody, or if we’d wait another thirty minutes before venturing out to see how far he’d walk before dragging his tongue and blaming me for the sun, the heat, and the idea of walks in general. One of my neighbors, Thu-thu, passed with his husky, Woody’s friend, then thought better of it and waved at me to come down from the landing. He said, “Melissa said her dog is out walking with god. I’m going to go try to find him.”

I said “what the fuck?” It’s about all I’ve said in response to anything concerning Melissa, and to Melissa. He said she just let him go. He kept saying that. She just let him go. I said, “what the fuck.” And I told Thu-thu I’d check the park. When I passed Melissa’s door, she shouted, “Don’t you fucking go look for him. He’s on a journey with god. He’s god’s responsibility now.”

I asked, “Did you let him go or did he escape?” I don’t know why I thought I’d get a straight answer out of her or if I thought that at all. Melissa stepped outside and stared directly at the goddamn sun and raised her arms. “He’s on a journey with god. I heard god telling me….” I was already around the corner.

I didn’t get far. I walked half a block and there was Melissa’s dog, I thought, towing a bewildered, heat stricken guy. He asked if it was my dog and I said no, but I think it’s my neighbor’s. He said he’d found the dog a few blocks away and had been walking around for hours trying to find its home. He said the homeless guys at the corner store told him to check this block.

I texted Thu-thu and walked the dog back to my building thinking the last fucking thing I wanted to do was bring the dog back to Melissa.

Melissa’s one of those neighbors you get in Austin. You get the finance bro who talks about cold plunges and his latest fad eating disorder. You get a homeless looking dude who lives in a million dollar house and tells you stories about hanging out with Willie back in the day. You get a Tejano family who’ve managed to not get pushed out by the rent hikes and if you’re lucky, they invite you to the Saturday cookout that lasts well into Sunday and annoys the shit out of the finance bro. You get a neo punk garage band. You get an aggro poly nonbinary vegan house. You get a lady who drags a red cart around who feeds stray cats and smells worse. You get the goth kid who only comes out at night and makes more money in a week than you’ll see in a lifetime. And you get a Melissa.

No one knows what Melissas do for a living if they do anything at all. Then again, other than the finance bro, you don’t know what the rest of your neighbors do either. Melissas talk a lot about journeys and auras and their spiritual awakening when they realized the meds were drowning out the voices who were the spirits of ancestors channeling god so they went to Bali for a year. They grow their hair down to their ass and keep it in a low braid and their skin looks like a crushed paper bag. Melissas tell you you’ve got portobello mushrooms in your aura which is good because man, you’ve gotta watch out for button mushroom people. Melissas all look exactly 67 years old but they could be 37 or 87. There’s no way to tell and you don’t want to get stuck listening long enough to know.

Your first few Melissas, you learn, if not to make eye contact, to never look down. Eye contact means locking eyes with a lunatic, but look down and there’s a leathery tit hanging out from under the hot pink tank top. You learn to keep walking, never get cornered or you’re in for an hour of aura reading and numerology, best case. Worst case, you’ve got the wrong mushrooms in your aura as you’re walking home from work and you’ve a Melissa screaming at you about the number 19 and plastics in your hormones. You try to avoid Melissa but she corners you in the laundry room to tell you she used to be a zoo keeper and she was the best at it because she could hear the animals talk to her. You come up for air in the pool and she’s standing on the edge, ashing her cigarette into the water, mid-story about a medicine man in Botswana who showed her the patterns of the universe. You run down to check your mail and she’s washing her mattress by the pool. You’re pretty sure those are blood stains. You take your dog for a walk and she wants you to meet her new puppy, the one she was whaling on with his leash in the parking lot last night.

Melissas always have a dog, unless they have 40 cats and a pet possum, they have a dog. The dog is obese and half lame, his hair’s falling out and matted, his nails are so long they’ve curled all the way around and are growing into its paws. They don’t usually whale on the dog in front of you. They’ll kick it sometimes, if it barks, or breathes wrong while they’re telling you how much they love dogs and they rescued this one and he prefers his vegan diet. You’re supposed to be impressed but you wonder if the moral thing to do is shoot the damn thing right there.

One thing I liked about this apartment is there was no Melissa. Then I got back from a trip and there was a Melissa, writing numbers on her window, telling me god was showing her the numbers that prevent lightning. I remember thinking at least she doesn’t have pets. Then, a week or so later, she got a puppy. And a few days later, I heard screaming, human and animal, and looked out on the parking lot to see her beating the damn thing with his leash.

I have less tolerance for Melissas than most I think. Not shocking I suppose when you consider where I came from. I try to avoid them. Try my best to escape anything resembling conversation. I can speak crazy if I have to, but I don’t want to. When I saw her beating the dog in the parking lot one night, I went down to find her holding the dog like a baby and, in a rusty attempt at crazy, I said, “I had this strong feeling to come check on what was going on. Do you need help?”

I don’t know what I was hoping. She’d hand over the puppy? Not a chance. The dog is part of the performance. She speaks to animals. She’s gotta have an animal to demonstrate. Maybe I just wanted her to know I’d seen her.

We watched puppy change from a happy-go-lucky, friendly little dude into a fearful animal she dragged behind her mid-day on the way to her “errands.” Her errands were hanging out with the drunks outside the corner store. She’d tie him to her patio with no water and less shade and I’d knock on her door and tell her the spirit told me to check on the dog and did he want to come over to my apartment to play. Then I’d remind her it’s illegal to tether a dog in Texas and she wouldn’t want the cops coming by. She said she knew all the cops because she used to be homeless and she’d worked undercover for the drug task force until the Bandidos discovered her identity and nearly killed her. So she went to Tijuana for five years and met with the true god. Then she kicked the dog for whining.

I’d like to be a person who murders Melissas and rescues their dogs but there are a lot of Melissas and a lot of dogs and I live in a one bedroom apartment a few doors down from a Melissa. I’d like to believe I could call the cops and the cops would do a goddamn thing. But I did that once, at my last apartment, after watching a Melissa who left her dog out in the heat, walk outside, not to bring the dog water but to beat it for barking. The cops said the dog has water and shade. Nothing they can do. The Melissa put a muzzle on the dog to keep him quiet. I asked one of the cops what if the dog just disappeared one night. He said, “it happens. And the fucked up thing is, that’s when we have to do something—investigate a stolen dog. It’s a felony.” He said he was really sorry but shit happens. Nothing you can do. I thought, no shit.

On Sunday, when I got the puppy who I was pretty sure belonged to a Melissa, I pushed down the bile in my throat and knew I had to give him back. I wish there was a number you could call. An unmarked van would show up to take the dog and bring it to a new owner in another state and you could tell the cops, “he just got loose.” But there’s no van. Doesn’t even exist for humans. There’s just me and you and laws that don’t protect anyone who needs protecting.

I figured the least I could do was get him a drink of water and a meal. So I brought him to my apartment, got him some water and wet food. Then I walked over to Melissa’s.

Melissa was arranging her art, a pile of bicycle wheels, on the landing. I said someone had found her dog. He was in my apartment. She said that couldn’t be her dog. Her dog was on a journey with god. I said, “Okay he looks a lot like your dog. Do you want to come over and check.”

She screamed, “I just fucking told you that’s not my dog. Why is it that when someone tells you about god’s journeys, you don’t believe them. You don’t believe. You don’t believe. But god believes.” She was still going by the time I got inside and locked the door.

I thought, well fuck. Now I have to figure out what to do with a goddamn puppy. But the goddamn puppy was licking my face. He stunk like he’d been sleeping outside for a month. Woody was pouting in the corner because he has rules. His rules are I don’t leave him alone too long or he eats the couch. And I only have one dog. He has another rule about my dating anyone. And I’m not entirely sure what he thinks our relationship is, but I’ll fight that battle later. For now, the important rule is, I don’t get another dog. Which is fine, usually. I don’t want another dog.

I tried to explain this to Woody, that this situation was temporary. He posted himself by the door to remind me he could move out anytime he wanted. Thu-thu and his husband came over to discuss the situation. They’d seen the exchange with Melissa. We agreed that while Woody was being a dick, my apartment was a better place than theirs. Their dog, Woody’s best friend Silver, would have beaten the puppy up several times over by now. They’re probably a bad influence on one another.

I asked if we could be wrong. Maybe this wasn’t Melissa’s dog. Maybe “journey with god” meant the puppy died. But I knew I was full of shit. I told them I’d figure it out in the morning. Maybe he had a chip and I could call the rescue he came from, if he came from a rescue. She’d definitely abandoned the dog, which is also a crime. But good luck getting anything done about that. The facts were, I had to figure out what to do with a puppy.

I posted a couple pictures of him. Though about telling the whole story, but it’s a lot to fit into a post. “Found dog. Or some guy did but I have him now. Possibly belongs to a crazy person who abuses it but she swears it’s not hers. Something about a journey with god. It’s probably her dog though. Come get it. She might murder me for stealing her dog. But you should be fine.” I figured I’d save the saga until I found someone who might be interested in a puppy who might belong to a crazy person.

It was a long night for all of us. Woody wouldn’t allow the puppy on my bed. Which was fine with me. The dog still smelled like he lived at the corner store. But Woody also wouldn’t allow him to sleep on any of Woody’s beds. Every time I was nearly asleep, one of the dogs would bump the bed or snarl or whine. Eventually I convinced the puppy to sleep on the couch with a blanket I didn’t mind throwing away and Woody, after being told it’s my goddamn couch, asshole, fell asleep guarding my bedroom door.

I woke up and checked my messages. No one was interested in a puppy. A lot of messages with long-ass boring stories about the time someone rescued a puppy and lived happily ever after. I think these are meant as inspiration to keep the puppy. I think that I managed not telling anyone to fuck off means I’m growing as a person.

I cursed the lot of y’all but kept it to myself. Who doesn’t want a puppy? Well, I don’t. Anyone who knows better doesn’t, which is anyone who’s ever been talked into getting a puppy. Half the goddamn problem is people get puppies that turn into dogs and live another 10 years. Ten years of commitment, minimum. No one should be talked into getting a puppy. Unless that puppy is in my apartment and I need someone to take him. This was the first time I missed having a hundred thousand twitter followers. One of those surely would’ve taken the puppy. That’s not true. I found a kitten once and all that came from twitter was a bunch of assholes telling me to keep the goddamn kitten I was allergic to, the kitten my dog, different dog, was waiting to murder for sport.

I took the puppy to the vet in the morning and they deemed him healthy but underweight. They scanned him for a chip. (He’d been wearing a collar but the tags were missing.) No chip. But then he also still had his balls. Rescues neuter their dogs, so it was unlikely he came from a rescue.

When I got home, Melissa was outside. I thought, fuck it. One more try. Make sure I’m not going to prison for stealing a dog. I’ll record it this time. I walked by like I hadn’t seen her the night before and said, “Hey I found him running around.” She turned around and said, “He’s on a journey with god,” before she slammed her door.

Woody was less than pleased I’d brought the interloper back home. He decided the dog could exist, so long as he didn’t drink Woody’s water or go near Woody’s bed, and if he dared approach Woody’s human, god help him. It’s a side of Woody I hadn’t seen before. He’s pouted about my dogsitting friends’ dogs. But he’s never been this big a dick about it. It’s like the first time you watch your sweet pet murder a bird or a rabbit and you’re reminded they’re an animal and cute doesn’t factor into their sense of morality.

I dug Woody’s crate out from under the bed and put the puppy in there with a blanket and a bone while I tried to figure out what the fuck to do with him. I called animal control to report a found dog. The animal control officer told me the shelter was full. Too many evictions he said. Too many dumped dogs. He said he’d lost two dogs to the heat yesterday. He didn’t get there in time. He told me I had to keep the dog three days or find a foster. After three days, the dog was legally mine, or someone’s, if I could find someone. At least I knew I could stop trying to give him back to Melissa.

I opened my dead facebook account and found the page for lost and found dogs in Austin. You ever want a depressive episode, just open that page. Dumped dogs tied to trees and fence posts, left to die in the heat. Desperate notices about a cat that didn’t come home by fuckwits who let their cats wander. Lost dogs. Found dogs. Occasionally, rarely, a happy update about a found dog that matched a lost dog and a reunion.

I posted a picture of the puppy and his location knowing damn well the person missing him was three doors down talking to god, probably about getting another puppy. I was hoping someone would offer to foster him. But scrolling through, I knew there were more dogs needing homes than there people with homes to offer.

I tried again on instagram and threads. And with the dogs safely sleeping in their corners, I took a nap. I woke to a few more messages from people telling me to keep the dog. They’d kept a dog. Look at the dog. Isn’t it cute. Because I’ve grown as a person I told no one to fuck off. I also didn’t tell anyone not trimming their dogs nails is fucking abusive. (It’s fucking abusive though. Trim their damn nails.) I checked another social to find advice from a guy about how to force dogs to get along. There’s a pecking order. Unless there’s bloodshed… He deleted it before I could tell him to fuck off.

I took the puppy out to pee, carrying him across the scalding hotplate of a parking lot to the grass. Brought him back and took Woody out to pee, let him run loose across the scalding hotplate. And my phone buzzed with a text message. “Is this the dog you found?”

I opened the link and saw the picture of the puppy. The lost dog post said, “My puppy got away from my dog sitter,” and the cross streets where I live. I looked at the profile. It wasn’t Melissa. I called my neighbors.

We stared at the post. We searched this new woman’s facebook feed for evidence of the puppy but her profile was mostly private. But that was the puppy. We checked our memories. When did Melissa get the puppy? Three weeks ago? A month? Who the fuck is this other lady.

I called the number. She said she’d left the puppy with a dogsitter for the weekend. The dogsitter lost the dog and hadn’t told her until Monday. She lived in Hudson Bend but could be in my neighborhood in thirty to forty minutes.

I had her on speaker phone while my neighbors and I shared “what the fuck” faces. When I hung up, we said “what the fuck.”

We decided Thu-thu and I would go meet her at the corner store. His husband would take Woody to their apartment to play with Silver. We’d bring the puppy. But we’d ask for pictures. I said, “Okay so she’s full of shit about the dogsitter crap. But maybe there’s a reason.”

Thu-thu’s husband said, “If you let Melissa have a dog, would you admit it to a stranger?” So that became our working theory. For god knows what reason, this woman had maybe let Melissa watch her dog and didn’t know what was happening. Maybe they were rehab friends. Melissas always have rehab friends. Sometimes they’re alright.

As Thu-thu and I waited in the car with the puppy, I tried to explain Hudson Bend people. You probably have a Hudson Bend. It’s the town at the edge of the McMansion developments where trailers and cars on blocks still outnumber the McMansions, but they’re under siege. The Hudson Bend people, or whatever the neighborhood is called where you live, fight the siege by setting off fireworks no matter the season, driving golf carts drunk, stringing their freshly killed deer from their trees to drain, and shooting guns in their backyards. I like them a lot.

The Hudson Bend people pulled up in an old truck full of muck boots, fishing gear, and rusty tools. It was a woman and her mother who both looked country 60, by which I mean, who fucking knows. Neither of us were being all that friendly. I wanted to know what the fuck. She wanted to know if that was her puppy and why I was acting like I wouldn’t give him up. I said I need to see pictures. She said, I need to see him before I waste my time showing you anything. I opened the back door and she said, “Yeah that’s my dog.” The woman’s mom, whose name of course was Kitty, burst into tears. I liked her immediately.

I said, “Okay I need to know why Melissa had him then. And I need to know he’s not going back there.”

Once she realized I knew anyway, she let loose with the story.

She thought Melissa was dead. They all did. For years. (I don’t know who “we all” are. Doesn’t matter.) Then Melissa reappeared talking all sorts of nonsense. She went to visit with Melissa and Melissa seemed real down. Just real down. But she had an apartment now and was trying to make it work. So this lady asked, “Would having a dog help?”

She says she trains service dogs which is the sort of thing Hudson Bend people do unless they’re breeding mutts. But she said she’s not a breeder. She had some puppies though, just bought from a neighbor who breeds mutts, and she was gonna raise them into service dogs. She showed me pictures of her service dog graduates. To her credit, they all looked well cared for.

She’d been visiting Melissa every weekend to check on the puppy. And nothing seemed amiss.

I didn’t shout “NOTHING???” I told her what I’d seen. Thu-thu told her what he’d seen. She teared up and said she had no idea. She thought she was helping a friend. Kitty, her mom, kept shaking her head saying, “He’s only six months old. Just a baby.”

I apologized for being a dick about the whole thing. I said I was just scared he was going back to Melissa. The woman said, “Honey, we’ll be lucky if Melissa’s still breathing when I go back to get his shit.”

She showed me the text messages, going back a month. Then yesterday when the puppy was loose. Demanding Melissa go find him. What happened. Where did you see him last. Melissa’s four page replies about love and light and journeys with god. Her replies of “Fuck your love and light. Go look for him. He’s a fucking puppy. I’m on my way out there.”

She said she’d driven around the neighborhood half the night looking for him. In the morning, Kitty posted to Nextdoor and scrolled facebook all day until she saw my post and started hollering.

Kitty said, “We aren’t wealthy people. All we got is some land but we take care of the dogs. She was trying to do a Christian thing for a friend.”

I said I understood. I didn’t need them to be wealthy. I just needed to know he’d be okay. Kitty said he’d be her dog. She wouldn’t let anyone take him again. And that was good enough for Thu-thu and me. Kitty hugged us both and we gave her the puppy.

Woody celebrated the puppy’s departure with a walk once the temperature dipped under 100. I celebrated by sleeping 10 hours.

The end. Goddamn.