Сигрид Нуньес - The Friend

She gives me a doubtful look, then asks if I’d ever told you that.

I don’t know, I say. I don’t remember.

After a pause, she asks me if I know the story of how you got the dog. For some reason I shake my head. I let her tell the story I already know. When you decided you wanted to keep the dog, you and she had a big fight. A beautiful animal—and how could she not feel sorry for the poor thing, being abandoned like that? But she didn’t like dogs, she never had, and this dog—he’s not a bad dog, in fact he’s a very good dog, but he takes up a lot of space. She told you she refused to share any responsibility for it—for example, when you had to go out of town.

“I begged him to find someone else to take him, which is when your name came up.”

“It did?”

“Yes.”

“But he never said anything to me.”

“That’s because he really wanted to keep the dog. And in the end he wore me down. But your name came up a few times. She lives alone, she doesn’t have a partner or any kids or pets, she works mostly at home, and she loves animals—that’s what he said.”

“He said that?”

“I wouldn’t make it up.”

“No, I didn’t mean—I’m just surprised. As I say, he never said anything to me, and I never even met the dog. It’s true, I love animals, but I’ve never had a dog. Just cats, I’m a cat person. But in any case, I can’t take him. It’s in my lease.”

“So you said.” A tremor in her voice. “Well. I don’t know what I’m expected to do.” Her shoulders sag. She has been through a lot.

There must be plenty of people who’d want a beautiful purebred dog, I say.

“You think? Maybe if he was a puppy. But, you know, most people who want a dog already have one.”

Isn’t there someone in her family who could take him, I ask. A question that seems to irritate her.

“My son and his wife just had a baby. They can’t have a gigantic strange dog in their house.”

As for her stepdaughter: impossible. “She spends so much time in the field, she doesn’t even have a permanent address.”

“I’m sure there must be someone,” I say. “Let me ask around.” But in fact I’m not hopeful. She’s right: Those who want a dog already have one. And everyone I can think of who doesn’t have a dog has at least one cat.

“And you definitely can’t keep him?” I ask, leaving unsaid my very strong opinion that this is clearly what should happen.

“I’ve considered it,” she says, to my ears unconvincingly. “For one thing, it wouldn’t be forever. The life span of a Great Dane is short, maybe six to eight years, and according to the vet Apollo is already about five. But the truth is, I never wanted him, and I especially don’t want him now. If I ended up keeping him, I know I’d resent it. And I don’t want to live with that. To always have that feeling, complicating my already complicated feelings about—” About you, she means but does not say. “It would be too much.”

I nod to show that I understand.

“Also, I was planning to retire soon,” she says. “And now that I’m on my own I think I’d like to travel more. I don’t want to be tied down by a dog I never wanted in the first place.”

I nod again. I really do understand.

Someone had suggested that she look into dog sanctuaries, but all the ones she contacted had long waiting lists. It pained her to think how you would feel about her giving your beloved dog away to a stranger, or taking him to the pound. “But I might have to. He can’t spend the rest of his life in a kennel. Among other things, it’s costing a fortune.”

“You put him in a kennel?”

“I put him in a kennel,” she says, bristling at my tone, “because I didn’t know what else to do. You can’t explain death to a dog. He didn’t understand that Daddy was never coming home again. He waited by the door day and night. For a while he wouldn’t even eat, I was afraid he’d starve to death. But the worst part was, every once in a while, he’d make this noise, this howling, or wailing, or whatever it was. Not loud, but strange, like a ghost or some other weird thing. It went on and on. I’d try to distract him with a treat, but he’d turn his head away. Once, he even growled at me. He did it sometimes at night. It would wake me up, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. I’d lie there listening to him until I thought I’d go mad. Every time I managed to pull myself together, I’d see him waiting there by the door, or he’d start keening like that, and I’d fall apart again. I had to get him out of the house. And now that he’s been gone, it would be cruel to bring him back. I can’t imagine him ever being happy in that house again.”

I think of the story of Hachikō the Akita, who used to go to Tokyo’s Shibuya Station to meet the train that brought his master home from work every day—until one day the man died suddenly and Hachikō waited in vain. But the next day, and every day after that, for nearly ten years, the dog appeared at the station to meet the train at the usual hour.

No one could explain death to Hachikō. They could only make a legend of him, erecting a statue in his honor, still singing his praises today, almost a hundred years later.

Incredibly, Hachikō does not hold the record. Fido, a dog from a town near Florence, Italy, waited every day for fourteen years for his dead master (air raid, Second World War) at the bus stop where he used to arrive home from work. And before Hachikō there was Greyfriars Bobby, a Skye terrier who spent every night of the last fourteen years of his life at the grave of his master, who’d died in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1858.

It is interesting that people have always taken such behavior as examples of extreme loyalty rather than extreme stupidity or some other mental defect. I myself doubt reports from China of a certain dog said to have drowned itself out of bereavement. But stories like these are one of the main reasons I have always preferred cats.

“What about if you took him just for a while? Even that would be a big help. The landlord can’t object if the dog’s only visiting.”

It’s not just the landlord, I explain. My apartment is tiny . A dog that size wouldn’t have room to turn around.

“Oh, but he’s a guard dog. He needs exercise, of course, but not anywhere near as much as other breeds. Even off a leash he won’t go far from your side. And you’ll see, he’s very obedient. He knows all the commands. He doesn’t bark when he’s not supposed to. He doesn’t destroy things. He doesn’t have accidents. He knows to stay off the bed.”

“I’m sure that’s all true, but—”

“He had a checkup just a few months ago. He’s in good health except for some arthritis, which is very common in big dogs his age. Needless to say he’s had all his shots. Oh, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really want to get the poor thing out of that damned kennel! If I bring him home, though, I swear he’ll spend the rest of his life waiting by the door. And he deserves better than that, don’t you think?”

Yes, I think, my heart breaking.

You can’t explain death.

And love deserves better than that.

Mostly he ignores me. He might as well live here alone. He makes eye contact at times, but instantly looks away again. His large hazel eyes are strikingly human; they remind me of yours. I remember once, when I had to go out of town, I left my cat with a boyfriend. He was no cat lover, but later he told me how much he’d liked having her because, he said, I missed you, and having her was like having a part of you here.

Having your dog is like having a part of you here.

His expression doesn’t change. It’s the expression I imagine in the eyes of Greyfriars Bobby as he lay on his master’s grave. I have yet to see him wag his tail. (His tail isn’t docked, but his ears have been cropped—sadly unevenly, leaving one a little smaller than the other. He has also been neutered.)