A Convincing Love

It’s late morning on a Bangkok Saturday. People are out shopping, but the rush is out of the atmosphere. The air is torpid with weekend and rain. The BTS trains are only about half full. One year since the king’s death and everyone is in black; whole train cars, mothers, children, teenagers all in black, but its Saturday, so some of them have gotten creative with it. A girl with a pageboy is wearing black gladiator sandals that tie up to her knees, a few women wear sheer black scarves, spilling over their shoulders, falling over their hair; the guys are mostly in polos with the Thai numeral for nine: the number for the king.

Under the station, impervious to the impending rain, the symbol-shaped woks are sitting on gas-ring braziers, cupping opaque oil, shivering with bubbles. There are piles of spring rolls and fried tofu next to them and yellow and red paper flags for the Nine Emperor Gods Festival. The sidewalk tiles are loose and clatter with under the weight of pedestrians walking, pushing strollers, jogging, teetering.

A foggy music is playing somewhere. The sky is headache gray and piling up like comforters kicked to the foot of a bed. Motorcycles thrum by and focus my attention for a moment before it spills back over the scene, utterly bored.

I’ve got too much stuff awkwardly crammed in my pockets, as I often do when traveling. My cellphone snags on my passport as I take it from my pocket. A few coins fall out, catching on the lip of the phone’s protective case. I press the button, it’s already 10:40. I go in to the bookstore and put my books on the counter. I’m supposed to be in here to sell only, but while they’re totaling my buy-back price, I find a book and take it to the counter. I’m half-way through through a Dostoevsky. They always start to depress me a few hundred pages in when the protagonist’s mortal defense starts to crumble, pulled down by the unnecessarily, but implacably evil world.

I use my credit to buy the book and a coffee and still get about 3 dollars back. I sit at the table in the front of the store. It starts raining hard outside. I look up from the book and watch the rain.

When I was younger and very awkward with girls, my favorite place for a date was in the bookstore. The books gave me something serious to talk about. We could go to a bar and I’d flounder for conversation. If we went to the movies, I’d bitch through every cliché, rolling my eyes enough to look like a cartoon who’d just gotten off a roller coaster. In most restaurants, I’d only drink coffee and—before the ban in 2010—smoke like a chimney. I wasn’t really pleasant to be with anywhere, but, in bookstores, I felt I was at least tolerable.

I was always trying to get my dates--if you could call them that-- to read Calvino. It seemed like I never met anyone who’d read him. I’d wave If on a Winter’s Night...around and complain that it was better than Marquez, which, was only true because it didn’t get the credit Marquez did. I used to go nuts if I met anyone who liked Confederacy of the Dunces who hadn’t read the Quixote. “Who cares which translation it is?” I’d whisper-shout. “I’ll buy it for you now if you promise to stop reading whatever you’re reading now and start this.” And I’d jab at the book with my index finger like an itinerant preacher with his bible. Sometimes, I’d switch topics and take my ire out on the bookstore. “What? Only one Iris Murdoch? The hell kinda’ place is this?”

I felt confident without a drink in my hand. I didn’t even have to smoke. I’d pile my dates up with White Noises and Remains of the Days and, best of all, it was like a glimpse into the future. If they were amused or even tolerant of my bibliophile rants, they won me over. They didn’t even need to buy a book. No one I met had much money back then. But maybe they’d write a title down to check out at the library. Probably very few of these books ever even got checked out, but it was the patience that impressed me, that and the ability to spend an hour or two in a store buying nothing, just talking, or, for my dates, just listening.

A lot of the bookstores are gone now. Powell’s is still in Portland, but that place swallows me. I could never curate it. I was too amazed to do much more then gasp and plop down on the floor with a stack of books. The other independent bookstores have given over to a lot of what they used to call ‘sidelines’ which is all the crap which used to be secondary in bookstores—you know, Edgar Allen Poe action figures. ‘Emily Dickinson is my homegirl!’ t-shirts. Gifts non-readers buy for readers. These have gradually taken over as I guess most readers go online where the variety is.

Overseas, there are a few used bookstores left. In large cities like Bangkok, enough reading material has accumulated over the years to lead to some interesting collections and generally the prices at these places are reasonable enough. These places often serve as bastions of the more eccentric expats—the ones who’ve avoided the bars and spend their retirement looking through boxes of cast-off paperbacks with brittle yellow pages, trying to remember if they’re read Fathers and Sons before. Mostly they talk to whoever is at the counter.

I’m finishing my coffee, watching the greasy Bangkok rain, wondering what I’m going to do with the rest of the day before my flight home when the bell above the door rings and a guy comes in with a girl. Their voices carry above the rain, the espresso maker and the old soul music set to a perfect background level. “Oh, shit it’s gone!” The guys says. “Oh well. We’ll have to find something else.” The girl is speaking much quieter. I can’t hear her responses to his outbursts. From the corner of my eye, I see him grab a book. “This? This is Dan Fucking Brown! Yes, that Dan Brown! Well, Angels and Demons would be the place to start, but The Da Vinci Code is, well, the DA VINCI CODE." He says this like a cue for a high-five. "What’s it about? You know, Catholics mostly and, uh monks.”

My focus is still on the window, but I can’t hear the rain. I can’t even see it anymore, I can see only Tom Hanks, with a flashlight, in a tunnel, looking for, ‘uh, monks.’ I’m biting my tongue to keep from laughing when the guy suddenly yells out “David Baldacci” and goes tromping (there’s no other word for it—like through the pumpkin patch) to the other end of the bookcase. “He’s fucking brilliant! You don’t know Baldacci?” Alright, we’re gonna’ fix that.” but before the guy can say anything about Baldacci’s oeuvre he’s tromping off again, groping for another book, like someone pulling a box of cereal off the shelf at a supermarket. “Hey, what about Janet Evanovitch she writes these murder stories—scare the hell outta’ you! Like, you never know who’s going to die...” The girl says something in response to which he announces, “oh no, that’s someone else!”

The couple bounds to the back of the store and up the stairs to ‘mystery’ and ‘sci-fi’ and all I can think is that it was like watching some terrible spoof of me at my most earnest, years earlier. I try to reconcile myself to what I’ve just heard, but I keep thinking about his synopsis of Da Vinci code: ‘Catholics and, uh, monks,’ and I can’t avoid the conclusion that this guy is a fraud and this is some kind of ‘ways to pick up girls’ technique.’ As upsetting as it is to see this grotesque performance, it takes me back, for a moment, to a series of bookstores, back when I used to sleep in my clothes and never wash my hair, when I worked in a bookstore and spent most of my free time in the university library or the diner down the street.

I knew nothing of the world then, but earnestly believed books could furnish any information I needed. Maps did not impress me then; they weren't tangible the way stories were. If I could read about places, I didn't need to visit them. 

I finish my coffee, watching the rain, on the other side of the world from my memories, thinking of the snow, the cafes, the cigarettes, the watery American coffee I drank by the pot. I begin to feel thankful to the bastard and his Dan Brown for stirring up the memories which sometimes, I feel I am on the precipice of giving up forever.

When the couple comes back downstairs, the guy’s expostulating with the girl about movie version of the Da Vinci Code. And what’s this? The girl’s got a bag. She’s actually bought something. I never got anyone to buy anything!

Not long after the couple leaves, the rain is pulled back like a shower curtain, still flinging a few wild drops here and there, but ceasing as abruptly as it started. I leave the bookstore. The sky is still gray like a dead tooth and there’s nothing but malls all up and down the street. I go over to a 7-11, buy a snack and sit in the stairwell with my book. It starts raining again and from down in the stairwell, the spatter of the rain on the sidewalk tile hits me like a light mist, gradually dampening the book, leaving a dry imprint of my fingers on the page. I take out my phone and my passport comes out with it again. I press the button on the phone. It’s 12:50. I go back to the wet book and wish I still smoked.  

What We Did to Spazzy

I was working out-of-town, about two hours to the south in the city of Nakhon Si Thammarat. It was a gray Friday afternoon and had been threatening rain all day but none seemed to be forthcoming. I was staying in one of those boring highway hotels which are surrounded by nothing but the outskirts of town, usually made up of auto mechanics and car dealerships.

I sat in my room, editing a paper for a coworker from the university. It was taking much longer than I anticipated, but I wanted to get it done so I could move on my usual out-of-town recreation: uninterrupted reading. I had a huge book I’d brought down on violence a friend of mine had been exhorting me to read for months and while the hotel bed wasn’t soft, it was at least capacious and had a decent reading light. It was Friday night after all.

When I finished with the paper, it was time for dinner. My boss from the Embassy had invited me to eat and I was glad for the invitation, given that, on my own, I would’ve found myself wandering up the highway in the dark, searching for a 7-11. Just across the road there was a tea shop of the variety common in the southern provinces. This one was done up in a ‘retro’ fashion and had old bikes and lunchboxes all over the place, but the tables and the tiles were undoubtably brand new, white and almost glowing. I got a small plate of fried vegetables which was quite bland and ate it with two orders of rice and chilies.

When we finished eating, we all went out into the parking lot for a moment. As we talked, the sky rumbled, but still nothing came of it. It was dark and the night had relieved the dullness of the cloud-congested sky. Outside a city, night looks the same whether the sky is clear or cloudy and the headache induced by the heavy gray weather, like wearing a damp sweater, began to fade.

I went back to my room and was about to settle into my book when I noticed a message on my phone. Gina had sent me a video of a little white and fawn-colored dog jumping up on our bedroom window (which is on the ground floor) and licking in the way gentle dogs do when they are excited. The text accompanying the video said something about how it was storming hard back home and this dog had shown up on our doorstep. She had a collar with a little bell and looked to be just out of puppyhood. I called home to hear the whole story. As often happens in these cases, Gina had tried to resist the dog’s charms, but her will was breaking down, as the dog, or Spazzy as we started calling her after her slightly manic behavior, was continually circling the apartment, going from our door, to our balcony and to our bedroom window and back to our door. “It must’ve been the storm that scared her,” I suggested, but Gina told me that it had been pouring rain but there’d been no thunder or lightening and in Southern Thailand in October, pouring rain was nothing unusual.

“It’s as if she’s chosen me,” Gina typed (our connection hadn’t been good enough to talk and now we were texting). “Like she just decided that she wants to live here with us.”

“Oh great!” I responded in mock sarcasm. I try to be cold on the issue of developing affections for dogs; I know what it leads to. It doesn’t take long before both parties are attached. Dogs are extremely good and wriggling themselves into our stray affections. We were only a month from our departure date and we had enough to do. I didn’t want to be encumbered with the emotional weight of leaving a dog behind as well. “Well, just don’t let her in the house,” I warned.

“I already did,” Gina told me and I couldn’t blame her. I would’ve done the same thing. Who wouldn’t on a rainy night all alone when a little rascal chooses your doorstep for their temporary shelter. I sighed, but it ended unintentionally in a chuckle. I hoped this ‘spazzy’ would still be there when I got home the next day.

Saturday, there was a lot of traffic on the road and the weather was back to being dim and high up on the barometer. I was having reoccurring headaches, the kind that hit just behind the eyes. I sat at the back of the bus, trying to read, watching the dim jungle speed by thinking the varied shapes made it worse. North American deciduous forest (or coniferous) is much more uniform. When you speed through it on a car, it undulates, much like watching the ebb and flow of a tide. In contrast, the jungle lashes out in ragged banana leaves and exploding coconut palms. Its beautiful to walk past or bike through, but not at all suited for the rapid monotony of car travel. It’s like things keep jumping out of the horizon and exploding against the deep smoke gray skies.

I walked home from the station, glad for the air. As heavy as it might have been, it was an improvement over what I’d been breathing on the bus. I was happy no one ran up to me at the bus station demanding ‘where you go?’ It’s really no big deal, but imagine moving somewhere, living there for months and every time you drove up to your house, your neighbor popped out and approached you saying ‘Welcome, welcome to the neighborhood! If you need any help finding anything please let me know!’ Initially, you’d be willing to dismiss this neighbor for his or her eccentricity, but after a few months, you’d want to scream “I know where things are! Dammit, I live here!” As this is certainly the case for me, I was very glad to not be accosted by bus or tax touts at the station.

Gina was out when I got home and there was no dog in sight. I unpacked my things and showered, deciding how I would while away the weekend. I heard a little bell jangling outside and went out to look, but a family was moving in and there were bags and stuff all over. I didn’t want to go out and try to see if there was a dog around somewhere. I turned back to the computer. A tolerable-looking movie was playing in English at the movie theater. I checked the times and then fell into my recent vice of booking flights on the internet. I’ve probably got about 15 flights booked for the next few months. You’d think I decided to stop every place I could between here and California and then, with the flights, there are hostels and hotels to book. I’ve had to make a separate folder in my email box for all the things I’ve got booked.

Gina came home after an hour. I told her I hadn’t seen ‘Spazzy’ any where, but that I’d heard a jangling bell. “Oh, then that was her,” she responded in that tone of voice parents use to talk about their kids who are ‘a handful’ a mock impatience. The same way people who always talk about their job complain that it takes up all their time—it’s obvious that they love how it takes up their time. They wouldn’t know what to do with their time otherwise.

Almost on cue, Spazzy came running up. We’d been talking outside and she must’ve heard Gina’s voice. She came up, stopped, set her whole hindquarters waggling and proceeded toward us in this joyous fashion. I sat down to meet her and she was immediately all over me, whining at her own happiness.

After that, she stayed by our door. A few times she managed to sneak past us into the apartment, but it wasn’t too hard to lead her back out and she didn’t seem to mind being by the door. We keep our bikes at the end of the hallway, just about six feet from the door and Spazzy seemed very comfortable back there with our bikes. The hallways are all open air, so she was out of the sun, but it’s not like she was inside. Gina put a rug down for her and I put a cup of peanut butter out and a bowl of water, she never touched these things other than to lap at the water once or twice, more out of excitement that thirst. The rug came back in (after being washed) and the peanut butter was tossed out.

Despite my happiness at this new friend, I was concerned. In three weeks we’d be moving out and this dog was becoming very attached to us, as we were to her. All weekend, we felt guilty going anywhere. Spazzy would follow us out to the street, trot after us a little and then sit there and watch out bikes disappear into the distance with a forlorn look on her face. Over the years, I’ve learned to ignore such looks. But I’ve also learned I am an emotional person and that I don’t forget the dogs I meet, no matter how incidental. A good portion of our conversation at home revolves around stray dogs we’ve met in places like Uruguay and Romania. Sweet, frolicsome dogs who acted as ambassadors, posed for pictures and made the places they lived so much more memorable. It only takes a few hours to get attached and Gina is even worse, for her, it’s a few minutes and she’s sold, already talking about future baths she’s going to give the dog. So while I liked having Spazzy around, I saw how our relationship was complicated.

I’d also been in a similar situation in Armenia when a dog had befriended me and as a result, I think he was killed. There’s nothing more heartbreaking to me than when an animal has come to trust all of humankind through the actions of an individual and then willingly goes to the slaughter thinking all people must be as loving and gracious. This scenario also casts such a treacherous light on humanity in general, it’s difficult not to feel sick. For example, listen to the story of Lucy the Chimp. The lesson from this story is: Any animal who comes to trust people who is not also protected by them, will be killed by people. We were unable to protect Spazzy, after all. She wasn’t our dog. We couldn’t take her with us, I already had 15 flights booked and no apartment to go back to. What could we do with her? We loved to see her every morning and it was comforting to peek out the window and see her sleeping by our bikes, but we couldn’t protect her. We weren’t even willing to let her in our apartment for more than a few minutes.

All weekend Spazzy hung out by our door. We’d leave the apartment and she’d go wild with excitement. We’d bend down and say hi before taking off on our bikes, leaving her standing in the middle of the street, watching us go that forlorn way dogs do—looking at you like you’re never coming back. But when we returned, she’d come running down the stairs of the apartment to greet us, beside herself with joy and butt waggling. I was happy to note that the people who cleaned the apartment, didn’t seem to mind that she was there. They’d smiled at her and even put out some rice in a place where she’d find it. When I went to pay the rent Saturday evening, the security guard chuckled and pointed to the dog. Talking to the landlady, I was charged with the impossible task of explaining (in Thai) that the dog was not ours; She’d shown up on our doorstep one night, but we cared for her and enjoyed her company. I didn’t want to give the impression we were keeping a dog (forbidden in the lease) but I didn’t want her to think we were anything but happy with Spazzy’s presence. I repeated the only Thai words I could to articulate this sentiment: suay (beautiful) and di (good). The landlady smiled and nodded her head, not understanding a word.

Sunday morning, I went out to hang up the laundry and Spazzy followed me to the back of the building. There’s a banana tree growing back there and a plot of dirt about 12’ x 6’. While I hung the clothes on the rack, Spazzy frolicked in the little bit of the natural world our tile and concrete apartment complex provided. She dug into the dirt in that scrambling way dogs do, so that you think they must be after something until they stop and look up at you with a big smile as if to say ‘that was fun, huh?’ before returning again to the digging.

When I came back in, I suggested getting a leash for Spazzy. She’d obviously attached herself to us and it seemed cruel to subject her to a life of lying under our bikes, listening to our voices through the window. Occasionally permitting ourselves to be seen as we went out, taking our bikes and her house with us. She could come with us when we went to walk in the evenings at least, but Gina reminded me that if we got a leash for her, she’d be our dog, but, as far as she was concerned, she already was our dog; it didn’t matter what we thought. We took our walk that evening without her, but she was there wagging her tail when we got back and it was hard to feel bad about anything when she welcomed you back so graciously every time.

...

Monday is my longest day at work. My afternoon class doesn’t start until 1:30 and goes until 4:30. At 5:30, I have an after-school reading group and this week we were going to the library to donate books I’d ordered. Before my afternoon class, I sent Gina a message, asking about her day and how Spazzy was doing. She told me that when she’d come home Spazzy had been gone but had returned after about an hour, her little bell jingling as she came up to the door.

When I’d finished everything and was finally preparing to go it was nearly 7 pm. The campus was soaked in the oily blackness that follows a rainy evening. The frogs sang in the swales of trees and swampy areas of campus. It would’ve been peaceful, but a lot of students were out on their motorbikes going to eat and the sound of their engines tore at the blank calm of the night. I was packing up to leave when I noticed a text. 20 minutes earlier, Gina had written: Dog catchers are here :( I started writing back immediately and then had to stop. What could I say? We couldn’t tell them to go away, could we? She wasn’t our dog. I edited my message of action into one of condolence, but added that if they seemed like they were going to euthanize her, to put her in the house and say she was ours.

The bike ride home, is usually my favorite part of the day, but I was distracted by the zooming motorcycle lights coming out of the wet darkness like multiple trains chasing me out of tunnels and the thought that some bumbling dog catchers were probably enacting all kinds of misery on Spazzy and my girlfriend at the moment, as I knew Gina wouldn’t just be able to let them take the dog. I had also just read about Tillerson’s refusal to recognize Kurdistan’s independence referendum and I was feeling upset to think how easily humans betray each other; how, underneath the veneer of brotherhood and cooperation, it’s really all about selfish motives. This Darwinian precept is really quite awful when you think about it. I guess some people have no problem stepping on the faces of others to get to the top and then, from the top, they rule us. We submit to them via the ‘weakness’ of ourselves being unwilling to step on anyone’s face. ‘What a lousy way of doing things,’ I thought, riding through the rubber plantation, listening to the frogs, hearing the motorbikes come racing, burning through the darkness after me.

I got home and my heart sank to see that the space by Gina’s bike was empty.

The apartment seemed empty when I came in. Gina was in the spare bedroom. I knew the situation must’ve been painful for her, but I almost didn’t want to hear about it. I already felt sad with impotent anger at the inherent selfish nature of humans. Gina sat down and told me what happened with tears still in her eyes.

“These guys were total morons, like dog catchers from an old comedy waving their nets around and falling over. They came up here and started jabbing at Spazzy with a stick. When she ran out to the backyard, they got chucks of concrete from somewhere and started throwing them at her. I went to the back window and told them to stop, but they just grinned moronically at me and chuckled. At one point, one of them tried to grab her and, of course, she tried to bite him; they’d just been hitting her with a stick and throwing concrete at her. She got away and ran off. These guys were so inept, you wouldn’t’ve believed it. They went looking for her. They couldn’t find her. They even wanted to come in here to see if I had her. I was so happy. She’d gotten away! I kept thinking, ‘yay, Spazzy! Run!’ and then, her bell tinkled. I thought she’d run off but she’d been hiding way back behind the banana tree. Those morons never would’ve found her if it wasn’t for that damn bell on her collar but when they heard it both they practically jumped up and made an ‘ooooh’ noise. You could almost see the lightbulbs lighting up over their dim features.”

She stopped to wipe away the tears that were sliding down her cheeks. I didn’t want to press her, but I was so indignant, I almost needed to know what they’d done. “Bastards,” I muttered.

“You know,” she continued, ignoring the tears, “those people that just moved in came down and they were speaking in Thai, but I know they were saying she’d peed up there somewhere. If she would’ve peed anywhere it would’ve been here! It’s like they all wanted to come out against her.

“The bumbling dog catchers went to get her again with rocks and I yelled from the window at them to stop. I couldn’t stand to watch them hurt her anymore. I went out and she ran right up to me. I bent down and she jumped into my arms. The poor baby. She was shaking and I could feel how fast her little heart was beating. She was so scared.” She broke off again here to wipe some more tears away. God, it was heartbreaking. Why did this shit always happen when I was at work? She continued.

“I carried her over to the landlady’s office. She had her sister on the phone, the one that speaks English. She kept asking if Spazzy was our dog. I told her she wasn’t, but that I wasn’t going to give her to these guys if they were going to kill her. They’d already treated her so terribly, it wasn’t hard to imagine them just clubbing her down somewhere. They really seemed to have no regard for her life at all. One of the oafish dog catchers kept saying something like ‘my home, my home’ and pointing to her and then to himself. This was the same guy who’d been throwing big chunks of concrete at her a minute ago. I mean, c’mon; she’s a small dog! If one of those pieces would’ve hit her she would’ve been dead already! He reached out to grab her away from me and, of course, she tried to bite him. I showed him. I said, ‘you’ve got to pet her; you’ve got to make her comfortable with you.’ But you could tell he was afraid of her. Just as afraid of her as she was of him. He wouldn’t even touch her.

“They hadn’t even brought a car with them. Some dogcathers, huh? I mean, who comes to catch a dog—assuming your going to have to take it somewhere after you’ve caught it—on motorbikes?”

“Did they have a little cage or something?” I asked.

“No, they didn’t have anything.” We both shook our heads. “So the dog catcher leaves and I stay on the steps to the office with Spazzy, petting her and she started to relax. I would’ve taken her and run, but the other dog catchers were all still there and the landlady. Spazzy was all splayed out on the ground, letting me rub her belly when the guy who left, came tearing in with his truck, skidding around all over the place. I guess his manhood had been insulted and so he thought he rev his truck to make up for it. I’m like ‘way to go, moron, I just got her all calmed down,’ God, how stupid can you be? Spazzy was all freaked out again. Totally scared and not wanting to get anywhere near this guy.”

“So did they take her?” I butted in, impatiently, hoping that maybe Spazzy had gotten away again.

“Yeah, I had to put her in the back of the truck. I kept hoping she’d jump out and run, but she just stood there, looking at me. Waiting for me to help her and I abandoned her.”

“You didn’-

“Yes I did! She came to me that night for help and look what it got her. They drove off with her in the back and the entire time she watched me, like she was hoping I was going to save her somehow.”

Neither of us said anything for awhile, unable to think of anything but this picture. She’d looked at us every time we’d ridden off on our bikes. We knew the look well.

I coaxed Gina out for a walk after her story and I ranted and raved. There are times when it’s not possible to tolerate humanity much less appreciate it. Religious people must find such moments very trying. It was eating me up, too, but there was nothing I could do. We bought a beer and walked through the night, trying to understand the point of it all, all the pain and suffering. What’s it for? So we can claim a reward for enduring it at the end? So we can learn from it? So we can perpetuate it? Those options are all nauseating. Spazzy’s removal ostensibly to keep the apartment clean and orderly, America deciding Kurdistan’s fate to keep it as an Isis-fighting pawn, the guy in my neighborhood who grimaces every time he sees me all these things were conflating in my mind. I could see no good in the world not seriously tainted by the ubiquity of human unfeeling. Luckily, we entered an area where some ficus trees hung over the road and were dangling their roots all over the place. There were no motorbikes racing by in that moment so we could actually hear the frogs chirping. I listened and walked through the bead curtain of hanging roots and I told Gina that what happened couldn’t possibly have been her fault. It was a lousy scenario, but one that couldn’t have been prevented. Experience has taught me to be wary, but even I didn’t see it coming. There’s stray dogs all over here. No one seems to mind them. The king, the king that everyone loves so much even wrote a book about a stray dog saying, ‘you know what’ these animals have dignity, too. Treat them accordingly.’ Who’d think you’d even have to write a book like that! Anyway, even I hadn’t thought about trying to get Spazzy another place to live. It was pleasant having her around and we’re people, frail like everyone else. “They probably only drove to the other side of town and dropped her off. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned back up tomorrow,” I exclaimed and we turned back home for the night.

Every morning on the way to work (which is ‘on the other side of town’) I look for her in the face of every dog I pass. At night, when I come home, I look for her at the end of the hall by our bikes. Even right now, I am listening for her bell and I’ll listen until we leave.

Good night, Spazzy.

The title of this entry is a reference to another story of animal abuse, famous as anti-vivisection propaganda. "What We Did to Rodney"