David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

Then the man was squatting down in front of them. He set down a metal pan wrapped with tin foil, on top of which lay a collection of bottles retrieved from his medicine chest. One of them was Tylenol. He opened the bottle and held out two capsules.

“Maybe you should take a couple of these,” he said.

Edgar popped them into the back of Tinder’s mouth at once and pointed the dog’s muzzle upward and stroked his throat until his tongue swiped his nose. Then he scooped up a handful of clear water from the bucket and let Tinder lap it. The man nodded. He held out two more capsules, which Edgar quickly swallowed.

“Right,” the man said. “Also, I’ve got something these guys might be interested in.” He folded back the foil and lifted a hunk of browned stew meat between his thumb and forefinger-the meat Edgar had taken from the freezer that morning to replace the stolen bratwurst. “I just made this tonight. It’s even a little warm yet.”

Edgar nodded and released the two watchers. There was a time, he thought, when the dogs would have checked with him before accepting food from a stranger; they’d been drilled on it in town. But that was a remnant of a life long gone, cast aside by animals who hunted frogs and snakes and ate ripe turtle eggs. Essay and Baboo arranged themselves around the man, ears up, waiting their turn as he flicked hunks of glistening beef onto the grass. The man acted almost bashful under their combined gaze. With trepidation, he allowed Tinder to take the meat directly from his hands. But Edgar was grateful for any distraction that allowed him to more thoroughly wash Tinder’s wound. When the meat was gone, the man let Tinder lick the gravy off his fingers and pushed the pan out with his foot for the other dogs to clean up. He had a wry expression on his face. Edgar got the feeling this might be the happiest the man could look.

“Call it what you will,” the man said, “but this is definitely not ordinary.”

W ITH EDGAR’S HANDS OCCUPIED, THE CONVERSATION REMAINED lopsided. Essay and Baboo lay in the grass, sated, observing the proceedings by the glow of the moth-crossed porch light. Edgar lifted Tinder’s paw and examined the flayed wound in the center of his swollen, heart-shaped pad.

“Jeez, that’s gruesome,” the man said, as Edgar dabbed Tinder’s foot. “He’ll be lucky ever to use that thing again.” After another moment’s thought, he added, “Your thumb doesn’t look so great, either.”

Edgar replaced the water in the enamel pan and went back to washing Tinder’s paw. Threads of blood diffused into the water. The outside tap water was icy, but that was okay-he wanted it as cold as possible. If he could barely feel his hands, maybe Tinder would barely feel his injury.

He worked the bones of Tinder’s foot, lifting and pressing the toes like piano keys, tracing Tinder’s nails with his own, pressing his fingertips into the soft caves between the pads. Gently, gently, he opened the incision, letting the dog tell him where the pain was. When Tinder snatched his paw away, Edgar closed his eyes and pressed his face into Tinder’s ruff, stroking his chest and jaw, listening to the rush of blood through the dog’s neck, making Tinder realize how important the water was, asking over and over if they could try just once more. After a time Tinder let Edgar lift his foot back into the pan. Edgar waited until his fingers numbed, then began to rock the wound open, let the water flush it clean again.

When he opened his eyes, the pan had been refilled with fresh, cold water.

“That’s really something,” the man said. “Sometimes I can’t tell whether it’s you or the dog moving his foot.”

Edgar nodded.

“You know him real well, huh?”

Yes.

“Same with the other dogs?”

Yes.

“It’s okay that he’s got his teeth on your arm like that?”

Edgar nodded. Yes, yes.

He continued to work Tinder’s foot. When the water stayed clear, he sorted through the medicines on the stoop. He dumped the hydrogen peroxide into the pan, pouring it over Tinder’s paw. It fizzed at Tinder’s pad and the pursed white flesh on Edgar’s thumb. When the fizzing stopped, he propped Tinder’s paw over his leg and padded it dry. The man went inside and returned with a towel and a rag and some scissors.

“I don’t have gauze, but if you want you can wrap it in this,” he said.

Edgar nodded and took the pencil and paper.

Do you have a sock? he wrote.

“Right,” the man said, and disappeared into the house again.

He cut the rag into strips and wrapped Tinder’s foot and tied off the ends of the bandages so they wouldn’t come loose. The man returned with a white sock in his hand. Edgar secured it with the last strip.

“Okay, look,” the man said. “I need sleep. Work tomorrow.” He looked doubtfully at the dogs. “I’m guessing you won’t go inside without them?”

No.

The man nodded as if accepting another in a long series of humiliations.

“Tell me they’re housebroken. Lie if you have to.”

Edgar nodded.

“All right, come on. We’ll figure out what’s next in the morning.”

Edgar called Baboo and Essay and hastily washed their feet. The man held the door, bleakly ceremonious, as the dogs trotted over, raising their noses at the threshold to scent the air, and walked into the kitchen. Edgar knelt and arranged Tinder in his arms and staggered sideways through the doorway.

“Left,” the man said.

Edgar sidestepped along a short hall. Tinder sniffed at the coats hanging from the hooks as they passed. Then he was standing in a living room with a sofa, an overstuffed chair, bookcases, and a television with a phonograph on top. The floors were beat-up hardwood, deeply grooved and darkened with age. He lowered Tinder to a throw rug in front of the sofa. The dog tried to stand, but Edgar lifted his front feet from under him and set him down again. By the time the man appeared with a pillow and a pair of blankets, he had all the dogs downed and stayed.

“Here,” the man said. “I’d appreciate it if you slept with one of those blankets under you, what with the mud and everything.”

Edgar looked down at himself and realized that, though he had cleaned up the dogs, he was covered with a mixture of dried blood and dirt.

“Get some sleep-not that I think you need me to tell you. You’re swaying, you know that, right? The bad news is, I have to be up early tomorrow for work. There’s a bathroom off the kitchen. I put some Band-Aids and some antibiotic goop on the end table, if you want to take care of that thumb.”

Edgar nodded.

The man took another long look at the dogs.

“When they start chewing on things, try to steer them over to that chair, would you?” He jerked his thumb at an overstuffed armchair in the corner. It was upholstered in orange and brown. Images of ducks were involved in the pattern. “I hate that chair,” he said.

Edgar looked at him, trying to decide if he was making a joke.

“By the way,” he said. “My name’s Henry Lamb.”

He held out his hand. Edgar shook it and then Henry walked to a doorway off the living room and turned and looked back.

“I don’t suppose you have people you want called? Family? Someone to come get you?”

No.

“Yup,” Henry grunted. “Had to ask.”

Edgar was too tired to wash up. He spread the blanket over the couch and lay down. His head ached with fatigue; his thumb just plain ached. He took the Band-Aids and slathered antibiotic ointment over the raw and puckered wound on his thumb. He was still trying to decide if he had the energy to turn out the light when a wave of exhaustion swept him away, the ointment and the Band-Aid wrappers still lying on his chest.