Brown Dog

  Sitting there in the aura of Fred’s bad breath he studied how the first rain pasted the blossoms against the car windows and was thankful that he was in the right place at the right time which was similar to good fishing or getting laid. An irksome detail arose about the gingerbread design of the cabin. At community potlucks he hated gingerbread. Once he thought he was eating chocolate cake and spit a gob of gingerbread on the floor. What was this strange shit but then he never had a mother who made gingerbread cake and cookies around Christmas. On Christmas morning he’d open a present or two and then he and Grandpa would go ice fishing or rabbit hunting. He was proud at potlucks when everyone headed for Grandpa’s “dish to pass” which would be a twelve-pound brisket in a roast pan cooked at low heat for a dozen hours and tender as a baby’s butt. When young Grandpa cooked at a logging camp he could flip flapjacks high in the air and would make fine sausage out of a whole hog he butchered and would smoke a couple of hams and slabs of bacon with wild crabapple wood in his smokehouse.

  There was a stillness for a while after the first brunt of the storm passed and B.D. and Fred strolled around on a thin blanket of sweetly odorous flower petals. B.D. rolled in them in a small culvert where the flowers were thicker. Fred jumped on him for fun and B.D. developed a lump in his throat that Gretchen wasn’t there for this beauty. What a beautiful situation to father a child. By the time he treated himself to a few shots of schnapps and hung his tent and sleeping bag on the bushes he felt a bit lunar as if he were blessed after all.

  His serenity didn’t last long when he drove to the saloon for food when it opened midmorning. He had tried fishing locally but wasted a lot of time bathing both himself and Fred and spraying down the car with Lysol. Fred had rolled in some desiccated carcasses and B.D. had taken a divorcée to the motel even though they didn’t like each other having been caught red-handed years before by her husband. The husband had broken B.D.’s windshield with a ball bat, nothing serious but the expense, about fifty six-packs B.D. figured. She wasn’t worth it back then and still wasn’t. She jabbered endlessly about an extension course she was taking from a professor in Marquette on how to open herself to her own creativity. B.D. had no idea what this meant but noted that she had hogged her way through most of the remaining schnapps. He was unsure of the word creativity though it was being used a lot in recent years. It likely had nothing to do with his life. The woman made him miss Long Rita very much. She had been a gymnast and could walk on her hands in the nude which curiously wasn’t as sexy as you would think. She also wept and hooted at orgasm. He abandoned her at the motel to get back to the saloon for last call for a much needed double whiskey and when he got back she was infuriated. She dressed and left, a specific relief. He meant to ask Gretchen about this creativity thing. It certainly made people pissed off.

  He was back fishing near his campsite and caught a nice fat brook trout about a foot long which he kept to cook for Gretchen who loved to eat them, including the crispy fried tails. He didn’t mind being generous with her though she seemed to regard him as a lump of coal. On the way home he detoured to the shack and there near the front door stood Fatty next to a Sky Kennel. He pointed to the woods with a hand holding a sixteen-ounce can of beer. As B.D. let Fred out of the car Bruno shot out of a thicket and jumped way up on Fred’s back like a horse. Fred began barking and then the dogs huge and small rolled in the ferns yelping with pleasure. Fatty handed B.D. the note that had arrived with the Sky Kennel. “Your mutt tried to hamstring a new foal. I loved him but you can have him.” Also a note from Rollo, “Your dog Bruno wouldn’t stop beating up the setter puppies then he bit my hand badly when I punished him. Sorry.” Bruno and Fred came out of a tall patch of ferns with Bruno still riding Fred, holding on with his teeth in the back of Fred’s neck.

  He loaded the dogs and headed for Gretchen’s presuming that Bruno would be gentle with Susi. On the way to town Bruno saw some cows and threw himself against the closed window as if he intended to send them into meat chunks. B.D. was often a bit mystified by animals. Several years back in a blueberry marsh loaded with ripe berries he watched from a presumably safe distance as two male black bears argued over a female who continued eating berries through the noisy fuss. The males charged each other howling and growling. B.D.’s ass was tight with fear but the bears ignored him and also neglected to injure each other. Finally the smallest male wandered away from the sex argument but when the dominant male approached the female she angrily chased him off snapping at his ass then went back to her blueberry feast. She clearly wasn’t ready for affection.

  It was a sunny overwarm late May day when he reached Gretchen’s driveway. She was sunning herself in her blue bikini and Susi was in her Johnny Jump Up on the porch. B.D. remembered Grandpa had been shocked when he saw a girl in a bikini in Life magazine. Before B.D. could stop him Bruno jumped out the open window and ran to Susi squealing, writhing and licking her bare foot at which she laughed. Bruno didn’t forget their earlier meeting. Here was a human, albeit miniature, that he could like. He rolled over kicking his feet to show off. When Fred approached he snarled viciously. This was his toy alone. Gretchen hugged and kissed B.D. on the lips when he handed her the brook trout but pushed him away when he trembled.

  “The sheriff was here,” she said. “I told him you’d be here pretty soon.”

  “Why the fuck tell him?”

  “Why piss him off by making him look for you like a desperado? He wants his cell phone back. Not unreasonable.”

  “I gave it to an Indian girl and she threw it in a slow moving river.”

  “That won’t work. Were you having a romance?”

  “You might say that. You saw her. Rollo’s sister.”

  “You did pretty well by yourself.” She looked cool and mean. “Maybe I underestimated you.”

  “You certainly do,” B.D. said a bit smugly and she thumbed her nose at him. Susi had fallen asleep with Bruno tickling her toes with his tongue while Fred watched with curiosity. He weighed one thirty at least and Bruno twenty-five at most, so it was a Mutt and Jeff combination.

  The sheriff swerved up in his glossy squad car, and swiveled and trundled his heavy way out the door. Bruno was immediately on the attack but B.D. intercepted him which made him furious.

  “I think the rich people might want that dog back, God knows why. Also hand over the cell phone.”

  “The dog is owned by my daughter,” B.D. said. “An Indian girl threw your phone in a Minnesota river.” He had momentarily forgotten what had actually happened to it.

  “I’d extradite her if I wanted. You owe for it.”

  “Bobby, I’ll pay for it, I don’t need trouble,” Gretchen said. The sheriff admired her bikini. They had worked in the same county building and he loved it when she called him Bobby though she regarded him as an obnoxious toad. He deeply mistrusted B.D. and guessed that he had no idea where he left the phone which was true.

  As the sheriff was leaving B.D. remembered that the publicly owned cell phone was at the bottom of a stinking creek along with a naughty magazine of Rollo’s he had also thrown in on their way west. B.D. had been ashamed that Bruno had bullied Rollo’s setter puppies. Both dogs and men can be ready-made assholes. He had been tempted to let Bruno bite the sheriff. It would have been fun and utterly worthwhile. Now he was dancing around to amuse Susi while Gretchen was doing calisthenics. She had changed into a sweatsuit after the sheriff’s eyeful. Girls sent Rollo nude photos of themselves on his cell phone and that seemed an extraordinary technical advancement. Grandpa wouldn’t have believed it. His long-term girlfriend had been the secretary to the high school superintendent who whenever she visited their house would greet him with “clean your room Mr. Piggy.” One weekend night B.D. came home late and was sure he heard them making love and it amazed him that people that age still did it. She made little screeching noises like an owl.

  B.D. was at the kitchen table assembling ingredients for the locally famous tamale pie, which was not really M
exican but more of a border recipe that had crept its way north, partly because there’s a lot of melted cheddar on top of the Mexican ingredients to which people often add a generous dollop of sour cream, both ingredients much loved by Americans to their peril. Beans not dairy products allow Mexicans to work fourteen-hour days.

  The architect’s rendering of the cabin was next to him on the table, a culinary crime because when you are cooking that should be the sole item in your attention. A quarrel loomed. Gretchen, sitting across from him, didn’t seem to notice.

  “You look pissed, darling. And you’ve been so pleasant lately.” She swore as Susi in her highchair lifted up and poured out her pureed pear.

  “I’m feeling like I ate several pounds of gingerbread.” He waved at the drawing.

  “So go to the architect’s office and tell him what you want changed.”

  “I’ve lived in and remodeled dozens of cabins all without gingerbread. This looks like a sissy cabin.”

  “Don’t be a sexist. I’ll call him and tell him to do what you want.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right.”

  “For Christ’s sake it’s over. I don’t give a shit. I want it to be what you want. I just thought that Susi would eventually like the cute gingerbread.”

  “No daughter of mine could like it.”

  “You fucking nitwit.” Gretchen couldn’t stomp in her barefeet but left the room.

  It wasn’t unlike the average marital quarrel where one gets their way but won’t leave it alone.

  He wasn’t experienced at much but he believed cabins and shacks were his specialty. One of his life’s mainstays.

  Gretchen had called ahead to the architect believing that something might go amiss and it did. He recognized the man, a snotty kid from the ninth grade whose parents had sent him off to school in Connecticut before he could be permanently damaged by the U.P. which in truth didn’t guarantee future success. The kid had been a prick and the man maintained the average. B.D. had been condescended to so often that he usually didn’t mind it anymore but this time he had the upper hand and was adamant about the filigree, the more decorative aspects of the design. He even made a sketch at which the man snorted and sucked his upper lip.

  “It’s certainly plain,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” B.D. said and walked out wanting to tip the desk over on the asshole.

  Walking home he saw Cheryl’s car a full block away, a red compact which was fine if you like getting stuck in the winter. At that moment he felt he needed a toilet. It was an astounding jolt. She nodded and he nodded back as he approached the front yard.

  “I might need a character witness, darling.”

  “I wouldn’t be too good over in the Soo. I had some scrapes over there.”

  “Just kidding, handsome. Maybe I’ll go to Brazil.”

  When Gretchen had told B.D. about Cheryl’s crime he was frankly amazed that girls of that persuasion must limit themselves to those over eighteen. He had noted that the Park Service had spent a fortune on signs saying “Stay on Trails” or some such. Everyone bullying everyone else or snooping into their business.

  B.D. gave up Gretchen’s spare bedroom to Cheryl and spent a restive night on the sofa in the middle of which he heard Cheryl sneak into the kitchen and sneak the tamale pie leftovers cheating him of his intended breakfast. He stepped out of the house at first light, about 5 AM to go fishing. He saw Cheryl looking out her bedroom window and waved goodbye. She flipped him the bird. There would never be peace between them what with her thinking he might be a competitor for the princess. He stopped at a gas station and ate half of one of those premade sandwiches, ham and cheese, thinking the egg salad might be fatally infected. The tamale pie would have been good but mighty Cheryl had scraped the bowl clean. Her internal engine evidently needed a lot of fuel. At times she belched loudly, a backfire in the exhaust system. He had no religion but was irked that she would give him the finger on Sunday morning. The girls had requested green chili chicken enchiladas for dinner, which was annoying as he would have to quit fishing by afternoon to cook.

  He parked on the road near a culvert that passed the water from Gretchen’s property. There was quite a bit of volume so he guessed there must be a feeder creek between the road and Gretchen’s house. One of the surpassing pleasures of his life was exploring the courses of creeks both for finding new fishing holes and for the mysterious nature of free-flowing water, the way it chose its path, and its purling sound. The previous owner had left “No Trespassing” signs and he hoped that meant this creek wouldn’t be fished out though he ignored such signs himself. After about a hundred yards of difficult walking through a cedar swamp he came upon a spring feeder creek from the west, pure cold water. He would look into it at some point but not on this shortened fishing day. There was a fine deep hole which the two streams joined and he sat on the bank studying it while the water totally quieted from his wading. There were a group of mayflies swirling in the air across the small pond by the joining of the two creeks and some smaller fish raising to them and then in cooperation to every angler’s dream the dorsal fin of a much larger trout arrived from under the bank. B.D. had used up his artificial mayflies in Montana and took a chance on one female muddler that resembled a heavy moth and expertly tied it on the line and flipped it over in the path of the moving dorsal. The fish gulped the muddler and when B.D. set the hook the fish shot off toward the emergent spring creek. B.D. guessed that in size it would be in his top ten so he had no choice but to plunge into the pool over this waist, scrambling to the other side and crawling up the creek after the trout. The greenery formed a close tunnel so he abandoned the rod and played the fish gently by holding the line by hand and crawling along. In a half dozen minutes of struggle the fish didn’t seem to be weakening but then the line caught on a large dead branch. He feared that the line would break but he held on. He slid his hand under the fish and flipped it up on a sand spit.

  Assuming that Cheryl was still there he released the beautiful fish because he did not think she was worthy of it but then grabbed it again because it was bleeding from the gills which meant it would die. He would cut it in half and give her the slender ass end.

  Only Susi smiled when he entered the front yard. The adult girls were sunning themselves and evidently having a serious love talk.

  “Look what the rats drug in,” Cheryl said to the wet, bedraggled B.D. who held up the fish.

  “Be nice darling. That’s a whopper, love.”

  “Don’t call him love,” Cheryl hissed.

  “Calm down. I bought a chicken to make you green chili enchiladas.”

  B.D. nodded and went inside to work on his favorite dish. He fine chopped some garlic and a half dozen jalapeños and serranos.

  Cheryl came in for a glass of water and began to needle him.

  “Whoever told you that you could cook?”

  “You don’t have any trouble overeating. The food won’t be so good in prison.”

  “You miserable fuck!” she screeched just as Gretchen walked in the door. Cheryl grabbed the saucer of minced hot chilis and threw them in B.D.’s face including his eyes. He rubbed his face in panic then splashed his eyes with water groaning, “Fuck me.”

  Gretchen cupped running water against B.D.’s eyes, then said coldly, “Go away, both of you.”

  Cheryl tore off and B.D. sat in his car until he could see clearly, and then drove to the liquor store and bought a pint of schnapps and a six-pack with his precious retirement money. Gretchen guessed his moves and called but he said no to coming back and finishing dinner. His feelings were deeply hurt and he felt that getting drunk was the only answer. He’d fish a week before coming up for air. Meanwhile he hoped that Fatty had moved back to his own place with the remaining dogs. He had forgotten Fred but Gretchen could be trusted with the noble dog.

  On the way to the shack he drank three of the beers and half the pint of schnapps which was a fair start. The shack was amazingly clean and tidy which meant
Fatty’s sister Rhonda had been there. She was sweet on B.D. but he was past the age when he was eager to mate a plus-three-hundred pounder. He felt a little saddened by this as if he had vitally narrowed his versatility. Just before he left Gretchen came out the door and picked up Susi and Cheryl shouted out her car window, “Fuck you rich bitch,” which B.D. recognized was not a wise thing to call someone who spent her life aiding the poor. He had had a lifetime of lame lover’s quarrels and was remarkably inept at them preferring to cut and run. He was melancholy indeed about Gretchen’s unjust anger feeling it was he who was the insulted and injured with the only pleasure being that Bruno had nipped Cheryl in the heel on the way out of the house. She had turned around to kick him but Bruno was far too deft and gave her an extra nip in the knee. Huge passive Fred would turn away in embarrassment when Bruno was violent.

  B.D. rigged his tackle in the car and had a final swig of schnapps before setting off down the creek toward Gretchen’s house. His eyes still stung but profuse tears were helping. He avoided stepping on a large bear turd and thought of the hunger after six months of hibernation. Years back a bear had eaten an Indian who had passed out. Some years bears became fat in May from winter-kill deer after a severe winter. Right now it was damp and still and the mosquitoes were thick but the weather said it was due to be windy by noon which would drive them away. When it became consistently warmer it would be the turn of the deerflies to drive him crazy. Once when being tormented by deerflies he cut across a field flushing many dragonflies in the deeper grass and the dragonflies killed the deerflies pushing them off in the air like a war game. It was a delightful discovery especially for someone who never noticed the balance of nature that schoolbooks make much of.

  When he reached the secret pool where he had caught the fine trout the day before he sat on a white pine stump and merely watched the water for any sign of disturbances due to a fish underneath. There were no mayflies today and no feeding trout except for a small school of minnows near the outpouring of the spring deep in the woods. Of the hundreds of places he fished this had immediately become one of the most beautiful despite any gingerbread intentions. There was a specific flare of anger in his chest when he heard an unfamiliar vehicle making its way up the two-track to Gretchen’s house despite having spent a lifetime trespassing himself almost always with impunity. Brook trout are most often in creeks sunning through low swampy areas and are not much patrolled. Right now however he laid his fishing tackle down having decided to sneak up on the criminals and kick some ass. Luckily the car took another turnoff.