Raymond LuczakSCENTLESSPeople call him Bertie, Robby, Bob, and sometimes by his real name Robert, but I never give him a special bark or anything; he can't hear very well. I wag my tail for my boy because it catches his eye a lot faster than anything. He has the sweetest scent. My ears and nose keep me informed as to where he is at all times, whether he has those funky earmolds in or not, whether he's washed his hands, whether he's coming home on the school bus. All day, from Monday to Friday, I sigh for him; sometimes I sleep on his dirty laundry in the closet, just to wallow in that scent while he is away at school. It is true what people have said about boys and dogs, that there is no better scent for a dog in love. Every night without fail I scratch the bumps of his quilt and walk around in circles before it feels like a perfect crater for a good night's sleep. I curl up, my thick tail hiding my nose breathing in the intensity of his body next to me. His hands stroke my back, and I stretch my neck a little to feel his wandering thoughts some more; he falls asleep. Even when I sleep on his bed, my ears are always cocked for his bad dreams. * The first time my boy held me at the pet shop at that awful mall, I was lost. I didn't like the strange noises and the oh-my-God-isn't-he-cute squeals from all those strangers who kept gawking at me while their kids screeched how much they wanted me. But with my boy, I felt strangely safe as he carried me tightly out of the store after his parents and into the back seat of their car. Right after that, they took me to the vet, who was a very nice woman with a peppy voice. I saw how my boy was nearly ready to cry when the vet shook the syringe before inserting it into my thick skin. It didn't hurt me; just a prick. Feeling his presence, I sensed again what I sorely missed: my mother's nudge. After that, I knew I was completely his. He never said much to me, not that I needed to hear anything; he made it easy for me to follow him everywhere he went, inside and outside. My boy never once called me a bad dog, even when I couldn't hold my pee on the kitchen floor; he used paper towels to wipe it clean and never told anyone about it. He was nothing like his parents, who shouted at him to speak up louder when they couldn't understand him. One night I had to hide under the dining room table, my tail quaking between my legs, when his mother and father, both drunk and screaming, flung a vase of flowers at him, as if he'd caused the ugliness between them. The vase didn't hit him, and he scurried behind the sofa. His mother just guffawed at his reaction. I dove behind the sofa. My ears were 110% alert as he held me fiercely for his life. * Some nights later, when my boy came home with two Ds and a F on his report card, his father exploded. He was a truck driver who was frequently on the road, and somehow felt offended that his kid was not only deaf, but stupid as well; he shouted dirty words that I knew he couldn't understand. Once again I hid under the dining room table and watched as my boy stood perfectly still in absolute terror. Then I heard the loud clang of a cast iron skillet pan being lifted off the stove, and the arc of the pan swinging through the air—there was no time to think. I darted right into the kitchen and chomped hard onto his calf. The skillet thundered to the floor, barely missing my head. We ran off and hid behind the sofa until midnight, and then all was silent. Then I followed him into his bedroom, where he locked the door. He trembled all night, and even though I curled up beside my boy, I did not sleep a wink. There was no telling what his parents would do next. * The next morning, after my boy went off to school, his mother opened the front door, hiding her sniffles behind a wad of tissues. The Animal Control man came into the house, and on him I smelled nothing but a sense of loathing and pity, which reminded me of my boy's father. I hurtled all over the house, knocking down some things, as his thick hands finally roped me in. I thrashed—yelped—jumped—barked—whimpered, wishing for once my boy could hear me miles away and understand that I would never abandon him and run away, a lie I knew his parents would tell him over and over again until he had no choice but to believe. I hear the lonesome cries of my cagemates, and sniff at the strangers walking down the aisles, looking for a homeless dog to adopt, but my nose comes up empty.
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