Michael Christie - The Beggar's Garden

But Winston had a point. Dan’s condo, a one-bedroom, was small.

“Tell that to all the other dog owners in my building,” Dan said. “Plus there are parks, off-leash parks, and there’s the seawall.

It’s called public space, Winston. I don’t need to own something to appreciate it.”

Dan heard the first few seconds of several songs as his friend trolled for one that would best compliment his mood. Winston settled on a punk rock staple they’d often covered as their second encore — a song that once had shocked and inflamed them but now just sounded needy and indulgent, like a clamouring child. “And what’s with this bloodhound? Never heard of them,” Winston said. “Is this thing accredited?”

“Wolfhound,” Dan said. “They’re from Spain. They were used by the Republicans in the Civil War, but now they’re making a major comeback,” with a pre-emptive pride for his dog tightening in his cheeks.

“And how long do these things live?” Winston said.

From his research, Dan knew exactly how long, but he saw where Winston was going. Ever since his ultimate sacrifice, Winston had enjoyed nothing more than subjecting Dan to languid dissertations on all of life’s inevitable and unromantic realities. Dan ignored the question.

“Because this isn’t like yoga, Dan-o. You can’t just quit after two sessions because there aren’t any attractive women in your class.”

“You know that wasn’t why I quit. I’ll never touch my toes, it’s genetic. And plus the teacher was a flake.”

“In a yoga class? Anyway, is this recognized Republican breed the kind you’re going to have to walk? Like outside?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I endorse anything that’ll get you out of that Plato’s cave you have going on over there. Maybe you’ll even make it out this way for a taste of the good life.”

The morning he was to pick up his dog, Dan spent an unusually long time in the mirror, meticulously shaving the horseshoe of stubble that grew, clinging there, around the back of his head. To him, the horseshoe didn’t signify he was bald, but rather balding. It was evidence of a process that was to Dan much more humiliating than any barren result. At least shaving it put him in charge. It looked better anyway; his hair had not been anything much. He held his own gaze, wiping bits of shaving cream from the knuckles of his ears with a towel that smelled somewhere on the continuum between mould and fabric softener. Dan was not what he would call an attractive man, but this knowledge was also a kind of power. He felt he had a fair inventory of his assets and worked with that. He’d vowed never to be one of those — mostly European — men he’d seen at the public pool whose great hairy and gelatinous girth was slung with a scrap of spandex, their denial of reality being their primary offence. It was one of Dan’s greatest desires to make it through his life without disgusting anyone.

Turning to check his profile, Dan smoothed his golf shirt over his stomach. It has to like me, he told himself. It has no choice. He pictured long invigorating walks in the woods, leash in hand.

He was stopped at a light on his way to the airport when a quantity of fluid was suddenly dashed across his windshield. A squeegee flicked from his right and began frothing the liquid. Dan hit the wipers, clacking them against the squeegee, and a brief struggle ensued that reminded Dan of duelling swordsmen. The squeegee recoiled and his wipers arced freely. His view cleared and there stood a street kid with a three-pronged green mohawk and dirty patches affixed to his rotting clothes bearing the names of punk rock bands Dan still remembered. The kid lifted his hands, the squeegee drooling suds on the hood, and Dan could hear his Québécois accent even with the windows rolled up. “Ah, what the hell, man, I’m trying to help.” The light changed and Dan gassed as if in reply. Who knew what they put in that fluid — probably piss. It was something he would have thought was funny when he was a punk.

He arrived early. To kill time he parked in the econo lot and walked a good twenty minutes to the terminal through a grey, atomized rain. Inside, he stood beside a woman, mid-forties, black yoga pants and a few inches of hard-fought midriff. Not exactly a natural beauty, but she had obviously put in some effort, no doubt for the guy she was picking up. Cracking her gum, she let her gaze fall briefly on Dan. She smiled, so quick it seemed more of a grimace. He realized he was waiting for a loved one too — well, a potential loved one — and he felt a kind of kinship with this woman, and with all his fellow ride givers: brothers, friends, girlfriends, these people of the arrivals area.

Sandy was easy to spot among the passengers trickling through the automatic doors. She was tall, almost sideshow tall — easily over six feet — and wore the same flowery, ankle-length dress and hat she had worn in her picture on the website. The hat was a floppy, Cat-in-the-Hat style that had enjoyed a brief popularity in the nineties. It was a hat that women like Sandy referred to as funky.

Closing the distance, Dan noticed she wasn’t carrying one of those dog-carrier baskets.

“Hi, Sandy,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dan. Forget something?”

Sandy lit up and swept her body into his. Dan could feel her chin brush the top of his tender skull, and her body was warm and smelt of a wet dock drying in the sun.

She spoke in the singsong of someone who has spent a large portion of her life with dogs and children: “Our little guy is in special cargo, and you know what? He told me this morning that he can’t wait to meet his new companion.”

She guided Dan by the elbow toward special cargo, swirling the air with talk, commending him for his decision to share his life with a ‘Lucian.

When they arrived at special cargo, an interval of loud buzzing issued from behind the doors. Sandy began rummaging for something in her leather-tasselled rucksack. She held a document to Dan’s face, too close for him to read.

“What’s this?”

“Standard contract: resale clause, guarantee of humane and ethical treatment, breeding restriction, standard stuff.”

Dan began scanning what was an agreement between himself and Life Partner Kennels Ltd. that stated he agreed to care for the dog, refrain from breeding it or profiting from it in any way. If he failed to do this, he was to return the dog to the custody of Sandy and Ihor without refund.

An ear-muffed baggage handler burst through the doors and set some items on the rubberized floor: a guitar case, a snowboard, what looked like a djembe drum. No dog.

“You can do it on my back,” Sandy said, turning to offer a wide, flower-patterned expanse.

Perhaps Winston was right and this dog idea had been ill-conceived. Purebred dogs were expensive, almost extinct ones even more so. Throw in Sandy’s round-trip flight from Regina to deliver the dog, and Dan’s savings had taken quite a hit.

He guessed the contract had been drawn up by Sandy herself — lawyers tended to steer clear of phrases like “Together embarking on a mutually majestic journey”—and it certainly wasn’t legally binding. Nevertheless, it seemed to represent the kind of serious commitment Dan had always avoided.

Just then a baggage handler set down a medium-sized beige dog carrier next to a computer monitor box. “Is that him?” said Dan, hurrying over.

“Shhhhhhh!” Sandy exclaimed. “You’ll wake the little guy.”

She was right: inside was the chocolate Andalucian from the picture, curled up like a cooked shrimp, his chin resting picturesquely on his soft ivory paws.

“Look how calm he is,” Dan whispered, hunkering down.

“Sedated,” whispered Sandy. “Don’t worry, it’s herbal, should wear off in an hour or so, just something to tone down the trauma of air travel and relocation.”