MR. DURANT’S AKITA
Durant didn't hate dogs, not even Cinnamon with her bulging eyes and tendency to pee on the floor when she got excited. In fact, he had every intention of buying a dog when he and Nance first got married, a husky or German shepherd or Akita to accompany the two of them on their adventures. Back then he had pictured them and the faithful Kashi—it meant “oak tree” in Japanese, he’d been leaning toward the Akita—climbing Denali or on photo safari in Kenya. He'd browsed a number of sites and seen one where guests rode out across the savannah on elephants.
Cinnamon had been his wife’s idea, a mix of pug, dachshund, and God Knows What. Durant didn't hate her, she just wasn’t the dog he’d envisioned by his side.
There were plenty of substances toxic to dogs with warnings posted on websites belonging to vets and animal rescuers. He had learned most of them simply through his wife’s nagging. No lilies in the backyard, no chocolates on the coffee table.
“C’mon, girl.”
Fortunately, Cinnamon loved car rides. Unfortunately, Nance was at the mall shopping, which meant that his was the only vehicle in the garage. Cinnamon was ecstatic when he tapped the seat. She was inside in a flash and true to form; she expressed her joy by pissing all over the upholstery.
A small price to pay. He leaned into the driver’s side to turn on the ignition, and then shut the door firmly. Back in the house, he set the alarm on his watch for half an hour, just to be sure.
Cinnamon had gotten herself pregnant. She could be spayed and the pups aborted all in one neat operation but Nance and the boy, nine years old and still siding with his mother in all things, had both gone bug-eyed with horror at the very thought. But goddamnit, when was it going to be his turn? He was forty-three, which counted as middle-aged only if he lived to be eighty-six. That was unlikely. The men in his family tended towards heart disease. Time was running out for mountain climbing and snapping photos of African wildlife from elephant-back. Still, he might have resigned himself if he hadn't come home from work to find Nance had moved the boy’s old crib into what was supposed be Durant’s den.
“I thought maybe I’d repaint it in lavender,” she told him. “Good for a boy or a girl. I don't want to know which until it’s born; I only want it to be healthy.” He had thought she was entering menopause.
His alarm went off. He aired out the garage but left Cinnamon lying on the floor as if taking a nap.
Nance and the boy would be tied good and tight when he deposited them inside the car. He didn’t hate them, no, not at all. But then, he had never been able to picture either one on safari.