Michael Christie - The Beggar's Garden

For a second Dan thought the dog might have suffocated in the cargo bay, but then it released a long, even sigh that played in the fur of his paws. He was exactly like the photo, only more real, and more beautiful. He was perfect.

Dan rose with the contract still in hand. “Turn around,” he said to Sandy, and he braced his forearm against the warm sponginess of her back.

Dan set the carrier in the rear of the car, unsure if it needed to be strapped in somehow like a baby seat. He took extra care as he muscled his way through the midday traffic, all sorts of emotions ranging inside him, the most distinct being a sort of pleasurable impatience.

The carrier seemed larger on his living-room floor. He opened the gate and stroked the dog lightly on the head a few times, but it didn’t stir. He hoped Sandy’s herbal business hadn’t vegetized it in some way that would necessitate spoon-feeding it mashed banana for the rest of its life. He realized in all of his anticipation, he’d neglected to buy food or a leash. He considered going to the organic dog deli he’d done the website for, maybe get some freebies, but figured he’d start off with some regular food to avoid setting the bar too high. In case the dog woke while he was gone, he left the carrier open so it wouldn’t commence its new life in captivity.

When he got back, arms hugging a ten-kilo bag of kibble to his chest, he was about to call the dog when he realized he hadn’t even considered naming it yet. No use in jumping the gun, he thought. He was sure a working knowledge of its personality would allow the selection of a more fitting name. Setting the bag on the floor, Dan clapped his hands and took a fair shot at a whistle.

The dog came into the hallway, alert and friendly, very much alive, claws skittering on the laminate hardwood, his tail wagging, jawing ecstatically at something hard.

“What have you got there?” Dan said, and it dutifully released a chunk of what looked like black plastic, pocked and gashed by its teeth. Dan scooped it up and turned the mangled artifact in his palm. In the end it was the rubber bit that read DVD/TV that allowed Dan to determine its origin.

The dog followed him into the living room, where he found long, raw claw marks in the Corbusier sofa he’d bought online at an orgasmically low price the previous spring.

“No!” was all he could think of to say as he investigated the condo for further damage. Multiple bite marks in the webbed rubber of the expensive computer chair that had cured him of chronic back pain; stuffing eviscerated from a cushion hand-sewn by an ex-girlfriend who’d moved to India. It was staggering that a dog could inflict so much damage in so short a time. Dan dumped himself on the ruined couch, already aware of his failure to take good advantage of the moment, the kind dog websites called a disciplinary opportunity. The dog approached him carefully, measuring its steps. “No!” Dan said again, maybe a little too loud, and he saw its ears flatten like a pair of little wings. The dog shuddered and flipped onto its back, emitting a pitiful whine and began pawing at the air with remorse. It was then Dan’s eyes followed the curly fur of its belly down to the junction of its hind legs and saw there two rubbery masses, wobbling and lolling as the dog shook. Dan was sure they’d said he’d been fixed. Was it too late? The thought of ordering the castration of another living creature inspired a sensation of emptiness in his own nether region.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Dan said out loud as he lifted his pelvis to retrieve the contract he’d wadded into his jeans pocket. He indulged himself in the brief consideration of what he knew to be schemes of a quitter, a coward. He pictured driving to a rolling field somewhere and throwing a stick as far as he could before dashing for the car. Or catching a flight to Saskatchewan to hand Sandy the leash personally and admit to her that he didn’t, in fact, want to share his life with a ‘Lucian.

The dog yelped playfully as if to suggest the ludicrousness of Dan’s anger. Looking back, Dan liked to think it was compassion that compelled him to keep the dog, but to be honest, it was the thought of Winston’s tone of voice when he heard Dan explain their incompatibility. No, it would have to stay, at least until he could think of a better way to ditch it.

The days that followed could be accurately called a nightmare. The dog barked at the ceiling fan and the television as if they were demonic intruders, which got Dan two separate written noise warnings slid under his door. It slurped greedily from the toilet — even when Dan hadn’t flushed to conserve water. It hid hard, dark turds in increasingly imaginative places. Each morning Dan woke to the bed gently vibrating, the dog at his feet, trembling in anticipation of a command Dan knew he could never give. He wondered if the dog ever slept; he’d never seen it. During the days it roamed the condo with its secret purpose, searching, Dan imagined, for something to herd, longing to execute some genetic program bred deep into him by a thousand years of gentle shepherds, fluffy sheep and sunny meadows.

Even with its tireless seeking of Dan’s attention — trailing him room to room, nudging open the bathroom door as he sat reading fitness magazines — any attempt Dan made to touch or stroke it sent the dog leaping back, barking sharply, its tail whipping like a weed whacker.

With all the time Dan spent failing to prevent the dog from destroying his home, he was two weeks over schedule delivering a site for a fitness boot camp franchise and hadn’t even begun the design phase. He took to locking the beast outside on the balcony, where there was nothing but wrought-iron patio furniture and his ancient neon snowboard. “Chew on that,” Dan said, sliding closed the glass door.

Dan didn’t make it down to the exercise room as much as he’d have liked — he couldn’t find the time — but maybe the dog was a good idea if only because fleeing it meant he’d work out more often. The place was usually deserted. Even with the five treadmills, full free-weight setup, stairclimber, complimentary yoga balls, and ceiling-to-floor mirrors, residents of the condo preferred to use the expensive health club down the street. Dan figured they thought they weren’t getting anything unless they paid for it. The exercise room was one of the amenities that sold Dan on this place. There was also a full-sized pool, a rooftop patio and a party area with a 65” plasma TV.

Buying the condo was the biggest decision Dan had ever made. When he put his deposit down, construction had only just begun. He would go peek through the square they’d cut in the plywood that surrounded the site, into what then was just a big hole bristling with rebar and lined by wire mesh. It was thrilling that someday this grey pit of sludge and concrete would support the shining tower of his home. And not only his home — the homes of hundreds of other young professionals, those bright, creative people who were also carving out a life for themselves in this part of the city, who’d also bought into a building and a lifestyle that would be like no other before it. Over the following months, he had watched the building rise under the ministrations of a massive crane and heard the workers on their smoke breaks complain about the foreman or their girlfriends, but never did they know they were building Dan’s home.

It had been five years since he’d moved in, and during his lonelier moments Dan found himself weighing the life he’d envisioned in the condo against the life he was living now. He had to admit there were disparities. He hadn’t really met anyone, save the occasional glimmer of polite greeting, the pittance of small talk with Paul who worked at Blast Radius, or Neeti who’d once said she worked in marketing somewhere. And as far as he could tell, nobody booked the party room. He thought at last of the dog barking itself into exhaustion on his balcony upstairs and pitied him. He too, Dan figured, had expected more.