Dog Day Nights

Dog Day Nights


“I’m taking the dog for a walk!” Murray yelled from the front door.

Yolanda heard the front door slam then looked down at Bailey, the six-year-old beagle. “Did we get another dog and he didn’t tell me?”

Bailey sat up, wagged his stubbed tail and showed her his tongue. His perfect brown patches around his big brown eyes begged for more. Yolanda leaned over and scratched his chin. Cupping his chin she said, “Did he even ask if you wanted to go for a w-a-l-k?” Yolanda spelled the word just in case Bailey knew the word.

Bailey knew the word. He danced on his hind paws, nails clicked on the tile kitchen floor. His front paws reached up, patting her knees.

She scratched his ear and stood up straight, pressing a hand to her hip to ease the pain. “I don’t know, Bailey. The man goes out to walk the dog and what does he do? Forgets the dog! What a guy? He’d forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

Bailey gave up pawing at her knees but he made a stiff-legged run for the door and barked. He ran back to her and panted. He popped up twice and then laid down, chin on his paws, big brown eyes opened by his raised eyebrows. The whites of his eyes and his whimper, his cocked head and one perked ear caused Yolanda’s smile.

“So you really want to go for a w-a-l-k?” She laughed. “If we can’t find him, we aren’t bringing home strays. Murray can stay out all night, for all I care. Get the leash, Bailey.”

Yolanda wished the promise of a hot Ontario summer had not come to pass. The heat persisted and made the house, surrounded by other townhouses, a stiffing box. The wind couldn’t shift the air. The narrow passages of the rows of townhouses blocked the breezes. The heat increased Murray’s temper.

“Temper and temperature. Goes together like a horse and carriage.” Yolanda opened the front door and peered out into the nine o’clock August night. The tiniest of summer breezes tickled through the screen and touched her knees. Bailey’s clippity claws on the vinyl floor reminded her why she was at the door. He nudged her leg and popped his front paws on the lower edge of the screen. He barked once.

“Get your leash, Bailey. You can’t go out without a leash. Murray shouldn’t either.” She told the beagle and pointed to the low hook on the wall. The dog obeyed, tugged one end of the red leash, and proud as a peacock dragged it to her. She hooked the lead onto his collar and checked her pockets for a key and a tissue. August pollen always made her eyes run and itch. The promise of rain was as un-kept as Murray’s promises. “Murray and the weather man are of the same mold, Bailey.” She said and opened the door. “No rain, no Murray.”

Bailey tugged on the leash as she locked the door. “Hold on, Darling, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The neighbourhood was quiet, except for the sounds of tires on pavement, truckers changing gears, gasps escaping from the wheeled engines and music pouring like polluted water from the convertible in the parking lot. The teenagers had the right idea but they should be driving to get the wind in their hair, across their faces. They shouldn’t be parked. But it wasn’t full into the night yet. Twilight fought with the street lamps and soon the western sun would disappear in full temptation forcing the street lamps into full bloom. Shadows would darken from the purple-green haze of the August evening to a complete dark black dotted with stars.

Yolanda’s hips ached at first, as each step moved forward. Bailey sniffed at his familiar corners and trees. He watered from his personal supply, left his trademark, or friendship greeting. If only the rain would come as promised, the night would cool; the water would freshen and wash the dust from the streets. A sparkle would bounce from the pavement. Even the stars would be brighter. “So would Murray’s mood.” Yolanda mumbled and then looked up to see the last flash of sunset colour streak across the sky.

She waited at the corner, more for inspiration about direction, than because of the traffic. With her head high, she tried to aim her face into the breeze; whatever breeze there was. There wasn’t much, but if she walked into the breeze it would feel cooler. She tried the licked finger method of testing for wind direction. She didn’t know how to read the difference.

She faced east, hoping, rationalizing that if she walked toward the darker sky the air would be cooler. As she approached each light standard her shadow hid behind her only to creep ahead again as she passed the street lamp. In the space between the lamp standards where the light from each direction equaled, her shadow didn’t exist. One step either way and the shadow would peek out from under her. ‘Shy little thing,’ she thought and tugged Bailey from the hedge row of cedars along the corner lot.

Now they walked north, hoping for an early blast of Arctic air to cool her. But it seemed no different. It was August.

“The dog days of August, Bailey.” Yolanda said to the indifferent and busy dog.

“Always busy. You and Murray. Always have some work to finish. No time for a holiday. No time for a vacation away from the suburbs. A weekend in cottage country wouldn’t kill you guys. Just a weekend?” Yolanda laughed causing Bailey to look up at her, and yapped as if to say Murray’s words. “Yeah sure.” The beagle tugged forward.

“He knows. We all know, I want more than just a weekend.” Yolanda followed the dog.

He seemed now to be on a mission. His nose in the air like royalty. His head jerking like water dropped onto a hot grill. His bobbed tail twitched like a coffee shop customer in a hurry. “Slow down, Bailey. I’m working up a sweat as it is. Just like work. No rest for the …”

Bailey stopped at the corner and barked. Yolanda tried to quiet him. Cars and vans, trucks and convertibles zoomed passed, tires whisper-kissing the road, music climbing out the windows, horns honked and people yelled and then the rains came.

No warning. The sky opened and poured a steaming wall on the neighbourhood. Now tires splashed and shushed through gathering puddles, streaming tails up behind. The rain did cool the air, like a hot shower cools the body, or at least refreshes. Yolanda turned her face to the sky, feeling the drops on her skin and wished it was a little cooler.

Bailey barked, six times in succession. She tugged the leash and pulled him closer. He didn’t stop. The traffic raced as if trying to race the rain. Then in between the vans and trailers of the trucks she saw a man in the boulevard.

He was standing with his face to the sky, his arms out, his head back, his knees locked. Bailey barked. Now there was no traffic. The rain danced on un-traveled pavement, the man held out his arms and Bailey jerked free, running that funny right foot forward, pace. The man bent down to greet the dog and Bailey licked the man’s face. Yolanda wiped the rain from her face and as if shading her eyes from the sun, leveled her hand over her eyes.

“MURRAY! IS THAT YOU? What are you doing out there?”

“Yolanda!”

“Murray? Come back here. You’re a crazy man!”

“I’m not! You come out here. Come on! Hurry! Hurry before the next wave comes along. RUN!” Murray yelled and then like a dancing Indian raised his knees high and pumped fists in the air. A howl came out of him or somewhere, like she’d never heard before.

Yolanda hurried across the lanes. Water splashed up from under her shoes. Her dress was soaked, her cotton sweater a limp stretched rag. Her hair straggled down her face and neck and there in the middle of the boulevard was Murray. Murray dancing. He lifted Bailey and held the beagle up over his head, as if sacrificing the dog to the gods. Murray danced, hooted, howled and caused Bailey to bark and yelp. With Bailey on the ground Murray reached for Yolanda, caught her wrist and danced her round and round.

“I promised you rain.” He yelled over the truck engine grinding past them. “You got rain! How do you like my rain, Yolanda?” His arms reached out and up.

“The weatherman promised rain. You? I want a vacation.”

“I got that too.” Murray waltzed her around and round, pulled her close and nuzzled his late day beard against her cheek. “I got that too.”

“Where? Where are we going, Murray?” Yolanda pushed him back.

His hands caught her wrists and he started a polka. “We’re here!”

“We’re on a boulevard.” Yolanda yanked her hands free and stood facing his silly grin. “This isn’t a vacation, Murray. It’s a boulevard!”

“It is now. But you wait. We’ll build our cottage out here and watch the sunset streaming in on us.” Murray pointed east. “And we’ll see the sunrise and –“ He turned and pointed west. His feet tromped in the mud.

“Murray! Are you nuts? Jeepers, Murray, first you take the dog for a walk and forget to take the dog and now you’re going to build a cottage on a boulevard?”

“It’s an island. It’s an island.” Murray pointed to the water gushing along the curb. A horn honked and Murray waved at the trucker. Bailey yapped.

“Murray. This is not an island. You’re just nuts!”

“Betcha never been here before.” Murray grinned.

“I never wanted to be here. I want a vacation.” She reached for Bailey’s leash.

Murray pushed her butt. She shrieked as she sprawled into the mud, face down. When she turned, Murray was on his knees, splashing hands into the mud, throwing handfuls of watery mud at her. “Here’s your mud bath, at the spa, My love.”

Yolanda stared at him, her buttocks in the wet cold mud. Murray patting mud on her arms and Bailey licking her ear. Horns honking, tires squelched in the rainwater rivers on the pavement. Murray threw handfuls of mud straight up and ducked forward to accept the substance on his face. He wiped away the mud and grinned at her. “Betcha never been here before. You said you wanted to go someplace you’ve never been.”

Yolanda shook her head.

He crawled forward and held her face between his muddy paws and kissed her muddy lips. “I love you so much, I wanted to give you something different. What could be better than this?”

“Sanity?” Yolanda thought and then accepted his full body hug and sitting like Indians in the rain in a muddy boulevard she watched the trucks sailing by like ships in the night, on a dog day August night.



By Jill Gowland © April 25, 2001

Words; 1851