Leash
by
Bruce Meyer
Some dogs look as if they don’t know anything, but not a collie. Collies are always supposed to come to someone’s rescue. A collie runs somewhere, and everyone knows that dog is on top of things, saving the life of someone who has fallen down a well. They are a credit to dogdom. Firemen in the city used to use collies to rescue people from burning buildings, but someone made them stop because collies are long-haired, catch fire more easily than short-haired dogs, and look terrible singed.
Allison didn’t want to put out fires, but she wanted a collie. Her mother said their house was too small. It was. The house had two bedrooms, and because it had been built before the Second World War in what had been a working-class area of the city, the closets were shallow, just deep enough for three shirts – one to wear on Sundays or to be buried in, and the other two rotated in and out of service on work days until the cuffs and collars frayed. Her mother told Allison that the elderly couple who had owned the house before them had left a box of shirts in the basement, all with worn collars. Allison could have the pick of the litter for a painting smock or to play doctor in with the sleeves rolled up.
Collies and collars were the subjects Allison remembered from her childhood. She imagined the perfect collie – long-haired, white, and black, and golden-brown – dressed up by her in a shirt with a frayed collar until the neighbour who owned Rexy told her to stop, saying dogs weren’t meant to be dressed and it was insulting to them.
When Allison fell in love with Thomas, whose beard was long and golden brown, she would reach up and button the top of his shirt and he would ask her why. Allison didn’t know. It was just something she loved to do.
Thomas was her pet.
Together they went for long walks along the river flats and back up River Street and through Little Chinatown if the weather was good. She would glance sideways at lamp posts and fire hydrants and hope they would have meaning for him, but they didn’t. She told Thomas how much she had wanted a dog when she was a child, but her mother always pointed out their small house was no place for a dog because the closets were way too tiny.
On one of their walks, Thomas sat Allison down on a park bench in Withrow Park, and they watched the dogs running back and forth with their owners because the park was an off-leash area and the dogs had to learn to be friends. That’s when he told her the truth about himself in his own way. He liked the dogs that lifted their legs on trees and fire-hydrants rather than the ones that had to squat.
“He probably just wanted his freedom,” her mother said. “Men don’t like to be on a leash, no matter how long you let it out.”
Feeling as if no one would rescue her, Allison was inconsolable with her mother. The closets, she said, were not big enough for anyone to go into let alone come out of. She went to her room and wept as she held a dog collar. It was black, and silver and the name plate was inscribed “Thomas.”
Allison didn’t want to put out fires, but she wanted a collie. Her mother said their house was too small. It was. The house had two bedrooms, and because it had been built before the Second World War in what had been a working-class area of the city, the closets were shallow, just deep enough for three shirts – one to wear on Sundays or to be buried in, and the other two rotated in and out of service on work days until the cuffs and collars frayed. Her mother told Allison that the elderly couple who had owned the house before them had left a box of shirts in the basement, all with worn collars. Allison could have the pick of the litter for a painting smock or to play doctor in with the sleeves rolled up.
Collies and collars were the subjects Allison remembered from her childhood. She imagined the perfect collie – long-haired, white, and black, and golden-brown – dressed up by her in a shirt with a frayed collar until the neighbour who owned Rexy told her to stop, saying dogs weren’t meant to be dressed and it was insulting to them.
When Allison fell in love with Thomas, whose beard was long and golden brown, she would reach up and button the top of his shirt and he would ask her why. Allison didn’t know. It was just something she loved to do.
Thomas was her pet.
Together they went for long walks along the river flats and back up River Street and through Little Chinatown if the weather was good. She would glance sideways at lamp posts and fire hydrants and hope they would have meaning for him, but they didn’t. She told Thomas how much she had wanted a dog when she was a child, but her mother always pointed out their small house was no place for a dog because the closets were way too tiny.
On one of their walks, Thomas sat Allison down on a park bench in Withrow Park, and they watched the dogs running back and forth with their owners because the park was an off-leash area and the dogs had to learn to be friends. That’s when he told her the truth about himself in his own way. He liked the dogs that lifted their legs on trees and fire-hydrants rather than the ones that had to squat.
“He probably just wanted his freedom,” her mother said. “Men don’t like to be on a leash, no matter how long you let it out.”
Feeling as if no one would rescue her, Allison was inconsolable with her mother. The closets, she said, were not big enough for anyone to go into let alone come out of. She went to her room and wept as she held a dog collar. It was black, and silver and the name plate was inscribed “Thomas.”
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
