Walking the Dog

Walking the Dog
by Sara King

         In all six years of owning his dog, Dave had never seen it take a dump.

         When it was a puppy, Dave had followed it around in the neighborhood greenbelt, watching as it sniffed and pawed at the ground, but never once did it ever squat or lift its leg.

         Naturally, Dave thought the dog had found some nook in his house and was quietly relieving itself there instead of using the Great Outdoors. He actually was proud of it, in a twisted sort of way.

         Smart sonofabitch, Dave thought in unhappy admiration.

         Yet in six years, Dave had never found its stash.

         No stench emanated from the empty bedrooms upstairs. No reek of undiscovered excrement from behind the dryer. No miasma of fly-ridden waste from the walk-in closets.

         Nothing. Not a dribble, not a patty, not a single dried turd.

         At first, Dave had found the dog’s constant need to go outside only to sniff with disinterest at the neighbor’s shrubs irritating. Yet, it had only been in the sixth year that the lack of bowel movements had begun to make Dave angry.

         For hours, the dog would sit in the living-room, staring at him, wanting to go out. For hours, its brown eyes would bore into Dave’s, unflinching, crushing him with its gaze.

         When Dave would finally decide to get up and find the leash, the dog did not bound around in happiness, as his previous dogs had. This one simply went to the door and waited, walking slowly, carefully--like it had a stick up its ass.

         And, Dave supposed, maybe it did.

         But the staring--Jesus, the staring!--was getting to him. Every day, for hours, the dog would stare at him. Piercing. Calm. Secure in its knowledge he would buckle.

         Outside, the dog didn’t pull, didn’t do anything except walk and sniff. Walk and sniff. Nothing else. Then, when they returned to the house, it curled up on its bed and went to sleep, giving Dave another six hours before the staring began again.

         And it always began again. It was after another two-hour staring session that Dave finally threw down his book and lurched out of his chair.

         “Where the hell are you doing it?!” he screamed at the dog.

         The dog stared at him.

         Furious, Dave tore through the basement, unearthed stacks of molding newspaper in the pantry, turned the garage upside down, even got into the crawlspace and got insulation in his hands as he sought out the dog’s hiding place.

         He turned the house upside-down and found nothing.

         When he crawled back down from the attic, the dog was at the base of the ladder, staring at him.

         “Go to Hell,” Dave said.

         The dog stared at him.

         “Why the fuck should I take you out?” Dave demanded. “You never do anything. You don’t even enjoy it.”

         The dog stared at him.

         Dave’s arms raised in goosebumps. That is not natural.

         He went to the phone, called a vet. When he explained the problem, the woman on the other end was very sympathetic.

         “The poor creature. He probably developed a blockage. You should bring him in immediately.”

         “No,” Dave said. “You don’t understand. He’s never taken a dump. Never.”

         The woman hesitated on the other end of the phone. “How old did you say your dog was, sir?”

         “Six years.”

         She laughed. “I’m really sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid your dog is using some area in your house you don’t frequent. It’s common...they find it reassuring to do it indoors.”

         “It’s not crapping in the house. I checked.”

         She snorted, a very un-doctorish sound. “A dog can’t go six days without defecating, sir. Much less six years.”

         “Well, then, maybe you should stick your finger up his ass and figure out what’s going on, because it sure as hell isn’t shitting in my house.”

         The vet hung up on him.

         When Dave turned around, the dog was staring at him.

         “Go to your bed,” Dave ordered.

         The dog stared at him.

         “Fine!” Dave snapped, gathering up the leash. “Fine, you sonofabitch. I’ll take you out.” He snapped the lead onto the dog’s collar and led it out the front door.

         As always, the dog walked to the cul-de-sac greenbelt, sniffed, and then walked back.

         Back inside, Dave slammed the leash onto its peg and stormed upstairs. He began researching dog quirks on the internet, trying to figure out just what the hell was wrong with his.

         Dave didn’t know the breed. It was brown. It had brown eyes. Its eyes seemed to get bigger when it was staring. Bigger and bigger and...

         It was staring at him again.

         “I just took you out,” Dave growled. “Go to your bed.”

         The dog stared at him.

         “Screw you,” Dave said. He left the computer and went about his daily chores, grading tests, getting ready for class on Monday. Through it all, the dog stared at him.

         “No!” Dave shouted at it.

         The dog didn’t balk, didn’t shy away. It stared.

         “Goddamn it, fuck off!” Dave threw a shoe.

         He missed.

         The dog continued to stare.

         Dave went to bed.

         In the middle of the night, he sat up suddenly.

         The dog had gotten into his room, despite the fact he’d closed the door.

         It was staring at him.

         Its brown eyes were unflinching, utterly still as they bored into his.

         “No!” Dave snapped. “Get out!”

         The dog stared.

         “All right, you piece of shit. You wanna go out?” Dave threw on his robe, went to the front door, and flung it open wide. “Get out!”

         The dog sat down beside the door and stared at him.

         Dave slammed the door. “You’re really starting to piss me off.” He went upstairs, locked his bedroom door, and eventually fell back to sleep.

         The next morning, the door was open and the dog was back in his room. Staring.

         Dave buckled, then. He snapped on the leash and took it outside. The dog walked to the greenbelt, sniffed, then walked back.

         Not twenty minutes later, it was staring again.

         Dave ignored it and got ready for work. It was a relief to get into his car and drive off.

         Only one more year of this shit, he thought, listening to students blubber and stumble in class debates. One more year and I’ll retire.

         When Dave got home, his dog was by the door, waiting for him.

         Dave ignored it and called up his friends for a card night.

         When they arrived, they fell into their usual ruckus, drinking, smoking, gambling their problems away.

         Through it all, the dog stared.

         Dave tried to ignore the unflinching gaze as he studied his hand, but finally, he had to ask the stupid question that had been haunting him for six years. “Any of you ever heard of a dog that doesn’t take a crap?”

         “Huh-uh,” Jake said, puffing his cigar. “You in?”

         Dave folded, then waited out the round, ignoring the itch of the dog’s unblinking stare at the back of his head. Finally, sighing, he stood up. “Guys, sorry to do this to you, but I gotta take the dog out.”

         The others laughed and waved him on.

         Dave escorted the dog outside, then escorted it back. It was staring at him before he even finished putting the leash away. He stormed upstairs and snapped, “All right. What the hell is wrong with my dog? Can someone please tell me? It hasn’t taken a crap in six years and it just stares at me. Doesn't care if I pet it, doesn't do tricks, doesn't even wag it's fucking tail. Much more of this and I’m gonna lose my mind.” He jammed a finger at the dog, which had followed him upstairs and was seated a few feet away, staring. “Any fucking ideas?”

         His buddies looked at each other, then looked at the dog.

         “Well?” Dave demanded.

         “Dave...” Jake said. He glanced at the others. “You don’t own a dog.”

Word Count:1300

-Sara King
http://www.kingfiction.com