Joe Lansdale - The Best of Joe R. Lansdale

“Rex, no hard feelings. You got what, two, three days? We got to be ready. You know that.”

Rex sat up on the couch, adjusted some pillows and leaned into them. “Yeah, I know. But, I’ve had this job nine years.”

“And in dog years that’s a lot.”

“I don’t know why I can’t just keep being the fire dog. I think I’ve done a good job.”

“You’re our best fire dog yet. Jim here has a lot to live up to.”

“I only get to work nine years?” Jim said.

“In dog years you’d be pretty old, and it’s a decent retirement.”

“Is he gonna take my name too?” Rex said.

“No,” the Chief said, “of course not. We’ll call him Spot.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” said Rex. “You really worked on that one.”

“It’s no worse than Rex.”

“Hey, Rex is a good name.”

“I don’t like Spot,” Jim said. “Can’t I come up with something else?”

“Dogs don’t name themselves,” the Chief said. “Your name is Spot.”

“Spot,” Rex said, “don’t you think you ought to get started by coming over here and sniffing my butt?”

The first few days at work Spot found riding on the truck to be uncomfortable. He was always given a tool box to sit on so that he could be seen, as this was the fire department’s way. They liked the idea of the fire dog in full view, his ears flapping in the wind. It was very promotional for the mascot to be seen.

Spot’s exposed butt was cold on the tool box, and the wind not only blew his ears around, it moved another part of his anatomy about. That was annoying.

He did, however, enjoy the little motorized tail-wagging device he activated with a touch of a finger. He found that got him a lot of snacks from the fire men. He was especially fond of the liver snacks.

After three weeks on the job, Spot found his wife Shella to be very friendly. After dinner one evening, when he went to the bedroom to remove his dog suit, he discovered Shella lying on their bed wearing a negligee and a pair of dog ears attached to a hair band.

“Feel frisky, Spot?”

“Jim.”

“Whatever. Feel frisky?”

“Well, yeah. Let me shed the suit, take a shower…”

“You don’t need a shower… And baby, leave the suit on, will you?”

They went at it.

“You know how I want it,” she said.

“Yeah. Doggie style.”

“Good boy.”

After sex, Shella liked to scratch his belly and behind his ears. He used the tail-wagging device to show how much he appreciated it. This wasn’t so bad, he thought. He got less when he was a man.

Though his sex life had improved, Spot found himself being put outside a lot, having to relieve himself in a corner of the yard while his wife looked in the other direction, her hand in a plastic bag, ready to use to pick up his deposits.

He only removed his dog suit now when Shella wasn’t around. She liked it on him at all times. At first he was insulted, but the sex was so good, and his life was so good, he relented. He even let her call him Spot all the time.

When she wasn’t around, he washed and dried his suit carefully, ironed it. But he never wore anything else. When he rode the bus to work, everyone wanted to pet him. One woman even asked if he liked poodles because she had one.

At work he was well respected, and enjoyed being taken to schools with the Fire Chief. The Chief talked about fire prevention. Spot wagged his tail, sat up, barked, looked cute by turning his head from side to side.

He was even taken to his daughter’s class once. He heard her say proudly to a kid sitting next to her, “That’s my Daddy. He’s the fire dog.”

His chest swelled with pride. He made his tail wag enthusiastically.

The job really was the pip. You didn’t have fires every day, so Spot laid around all day most days, on the couch sometimes, though some of the fireman would run him off and make him lie on the floor when they came in. But the floor had rugs on it and the television was always on, though he was not allowed to change the channels. Some kind of rule, a union thing. The fire dog can not and will not change channels.

He did hate having to take worm medicine, and the annual required trips to the vet were no picnic either. Especially the thermometer up the ass part.

But, hell, it was a living, and not a bad one. Another plus was after several months of trying, he was able to lick his balls.

At night, when everyone was in their bunks and there were no fires, Spot would read from Call of the Wild, White Fang, Dog Digest , or such, or lie on his back with all four feet in the air, trying to look cute.

He loved it the when the firemen came in and caught him that way and ooohheeed and ahhhhhed and scratched his belly or patted his head.

This went on for just short of nine years. Then, one day, while he was lying on the couch, licking his ass — something he cultivated after three years on the job — the Fire Chief and a guy in a dog suit came in.

“This is your replacement, Spot,” the Chief said.

“What?”

“Well, it has been nine years.”

“You didn’t tell me. Has it been? You’re sure? Aren’t you supposed to warn me? Rex knew his time was up. Remember?”

“Not exactly. But if you say so. Spot, meet Hal.”

“Hal? What kind of dog’s name is that? Hal?”

But it was no use. By the end of the day he had his personal dog biscuits, pin-ups from Dog Digest , and his worm-away medicine packed. There was also a spray can the firemen used to mist on his poop to keep him from eating it. The can of spray didn’t really belong to him, but he took it anyway.

He picked up his old clothes, went into the changing room. He hadn’t worn anything but the fire dog suit in years, and it felt odd to try his old clothes on. He could hardly remember ever wearing them. He found they were a bit moth-eaten, and he had gotten a little too plump for them. The shoes fit, but he couldn’t tolerate them.

He kept the dog suit on.

He caught the bus and went home.

“What? You lost your job?” his wife said.

“I didn’t lose anything. They retired me.”

“You’re not the fire dog?”

“No. Hal is the fire dog.”

“I can’t believe it. I give you nine great years —”

“We’ve been married eleven.”

“I only count the dog years. Those were the good ones, you know.”

“Well, I don’t have to quit being a dog. Hell, I am a dog.”

“You’re not the fire dog. You’ve lost your position, Spot. Oh, I can’t even stand to think about it. Outside. Go on. Git. Outside.”

Spot went.

After a while he scratched on the door, but his wife didn’t let him in. He went around back and tried there. That didn’t work either. He looked in the windows, but couldn’t see her.

He laid down in the yard.

That night it rained, and he slept under the car, awakened just in time to keep his wife from backing over him on her way to work.

That afternoon he waited, but his wife did not return at the usual time. Five o’clock was when he came home from the fire house, and she was always waiting, and he had a feeling it was at least five o’clock, and finally the sun went down and he knew it was late.

Still, no wife.

Finally, he saw headlights and a car pulled into the drive. Shella got out. He ran to meet her. To show he was interested, he hunched her leg.

She kicked him loose. He noticed she was holding a leash. Out of the car came Hal.

“Look who I got. A real dog.”

Spot was dumbfounded.

“I met him today at the fire house, and well, we hit it off.”

“You went by the fire house?”

“Of course.”

“What about me?” Spot asked.