The Carrying On of A Wayward Son

Because of Foxy’s boundless reserves of energy and her ravenous appetite, I constantly needed to walk her.

My dog loved me even when I was at my heaviest — probably because she was afraid that if she didn't love me, I would have eaten her.

During our walks, Foxy would often set the pace – pulling me behind her as she raced from scent to scent. If we crossed the path of a jogger, I would have to brace myself unless I wanted my arm tugged out of socket.

A friendly dog perpetually starved for attention, Foxy wanted to play with everybody we passed. The fact that Foxy seemed so friendly with everybody she met did not inspire confidence in her ability to protect my apartment (and me) from any intruders. If somebody was to break into my home while I was gone, I felt that my dog would let them take whatever they wanted if only they scratched behind her ears.

While working for the newspaper, I became nocturnal. Coming home from work after midnight, I would stay up until four in the morning. One night in particular, I was playing video games at 3 a.m. when I heard a knock at my door. Assuming my TV was too loud and an angry neighbor had come to complain, I looked for a pair of shorts to put on so that I could open the door.

As I shuffled about in search of pants, the knocks at my door grew in their frequency. Soon, the knocks had turned into pounding and, when I had still not opened the door, the pounding at the door became pounding at my window.

Unsure of exactly what was going on, I opened the door with caution.

Standing outside were two ratty women. Their faces plastered with too much makeup and their skanky clothes reeking of cigarettes, the woman looked me up and down.

“We’re here to see your nephew,” one of the women said.

“I don’t have any nephews here,” I replied and began to close the door.

Before I could shut the door all the way, though, one of the women shoved her hand in the way and, with a surprising strength, pulled the door back open.

“Uh uh,” she said. “We were here last week with your nephew. Where is he?”

“You’ve got the wrong apartment,” I said, now kind of tense about what was going on. The woman holding the door was exerting real strength in trying to pull it open even wider.

I started to panic as I played tug-a-war with the woman over my door. Foxy must have sensed my unease because out of nowhere she appeared between my legs, her hair standing straight up. Letting loose a “Call of the Wild”-esque growl, she quickly attracted the attention of the two women. Their eyes drawn to the visibly upset dog standing in the doorway, the two jumped back just enough for me to gain the upper hand in our match of strength. I closed the door and locked it.

While I went to the nearest window and peered out, Foxy continued to growl at the woman. The two streetwalkers stayed on my porch for ten more minutes, smoking a succession of cigarettes. Foxy continued to growl, never backing down. Eventually the woman disappeared into the alleyway behind my apartment, leaving me to attempt sleep, now possessing a newly acquired fear of prostitutes.

The next day I went to McDonalds and bought my dog the biggest hamburger I could buy for a dollar. While she may not have associated the reward with her actions the previous night, I felt the need to shower my dog with a gift — not for saving my life (I felt relatively confident that, if push came to shove, I could take the two prostitutes in a fight) but to thank Foxy from saving me the embarrassment of having to contact the police and let them know I was the victim of a home invasion by two hookers.

I miss my dog.