Black Dog (or, The Universe Laughs)
“No good deed goes unpunished.” — Unknown
Taylor is suspicious of benignity. He is cold-hearted to the point of not caring. Of course, he wasn’t always this way. Most steely souls were once warm-natured and kind. Being burned numerous times leaves good spirits smoldering, a pile of ashes. Helping a lady across the street invites accusations of sexism; a child, pedophilia; a man, homosexuality. So, to do nothing, not help anyone, is the only cure for the permanently accused.
And, actually, Taylor was enjoying his life of complete containment. It simplified his days and led to more time for self-care: afternoon movies, long lunches, discussions for hours at Corner Bar with acquaintances Bart and Bethany; smoking a Davidoff Churchill at Company Tobacco until the nub of the cigar burned his fingertips. Going home to an empty apartment sometimes made him sad, but it was such a clean, well-lighted, modern dwelling that the tinges of melancholy were soon reduced to a faint glow in the back of his brain.
Then, one day he stumbled across Bowie, a black lab puppy crawling down a narrow alley dragging his back paws and using all of his energy to get to where Taylor was standing. My god, he thought, he’s brave and full of life. At that moment, to Taylor’s surprise, all of his selfishness was suspended and the care of Bowie was at the top of his list. He bent down and let the pup sniff his hand. When he was sure the animal wouldn’t bite, Taylor scooped him up and carried him home.
Being eight o’clock on a summer evening, with the vet’s office closed, Bowie was allowed to stay at Taylor’s apartment before an examination. Does he have rabies, fleas, or any other affliction? Fuck it, Taylor thought, and spread an old blanket on the hardwood floor by the front window. He filled a cereal bowl with water then grabbed half a pound of corned beef from the fridge. Taylor watched the dog eat and drink with enthusiasm.
He and Bowie listened to traffic sounds and music as the city’s nightlife drifted into their residence. The heat hadn’t achieved its ultimate radiance, so Taylor decided to leave the window cracked; he thought the dog might still feel connected to the noise.
Taylor poured himself a whiskey and watched Bowie sniff the blanket and the fresh air until finally settling down and sleeping. After half an hour, Taylor fell asleep on the couch while watching the pooch. He felt such a connection to the animal that his plans for the next week fell away; all he wanted was to make sure this dog was well and cared for. The thought that Bowie was safe, warm, and protected led Taylor to good dreams and a peaceful night of rest.
With sunshine hitting his eyes, and the aroma of coffee in the air, Taylor sat up and panicked when he didn’t see the pup. He stood, scanned his apartment, but nothing. He walked to his bedroom and found the dog curled up on the carpet next to his bed.
“Oh yeah, buddy, this bed is way more comfortable than the floor. Let’s go outside first and you can check it out when we get back.”
Taylor slipped on some shoes and picked up the dog. He carried him out the door and down a flight of stairs. He set Bowie on a patch of grass until he did his business. The morning air was cool, and the young man envisioned doing this every day. Taylor was about to pick up Bowie and carry him inside when he heard someone whistle. He looked across the street and saw his new neighbor: a large, gruff, tattooed imbecile. He had long greasy hair and was smoking a cigarette.
“What are you doing?” the stranger called out.
“Who are you?” Taylor responded.
“The owner of that dog,” the stranger growled.
Taylor was immediately silenced and heartbroken. Before he could find a word, the bad-breathed bad-boy was standing in front of him. Bowie whimpered, as if sensing danger.
“That’s my dog, man.”
All life drained from Taylor. He was a shell standing on the street. The future was clear to him before a minute passed. The stranger spoke again.
“I have his vet bill. Bitch charged me five hundred to tell me he couldn’t walk. His name is Broke. Like a broke machine. Get it?”
A strong urge to punch this asshole stayed in Taylor’s soul for an eternity. He sized him up. No, he couldn’t beat him, and it would be messy. This guy’s a cheater and has no moral center. Taylor’s heart bleeds for Bowie.
“You found him in the alley, right? He always goes there when I’m buying weed from Benny. The dope guy is loud and the doggy gets scared.”
“How much you want for him?”
“Broke? The dog? You want to buy him?”
“Yeah, how much?”
“Nope, he mine, man. Give him. Come on, Broke.”
Bowie licked Taylor’s face.
Handing the intelligent animal to a stone-brained Neanderthal hurt Taylor like nothing in his past. His heart shriveled up. He was ice cold again, on the mean streets and barely standing. He wanted to collapse in front of traffic, try no more to be a human being.
He watched as his new best friend was taken away by a devil. The guy lumbered into the apartment building, as if carrying an extra twenty pounds was overtaxing his lungs. The man and dog disappeared.
Taylor couldn’t move. His paralysis seemed real. The neurons in his brain weren’t speaking to his body. There was a system failure. And if not for the fact that his nice neighbor Amanda happened to be passing by, he’d still be on the street at midnight.
Back in his apartment, Taylor sat on the couch and stared at Bowie’s blanket. In the past, he’d feel sorry for himself and be depressed. Nothing would be accomplished and Taylor would justify this by saying the world was unfair and nothing could be done — he was helpless to effect change.
In the last year, since starting his new job, he realized he had the power to do anything. After an hour of complete misery and sadness, Taylor got up, went to the kitchen, and poured himself a shot of Knob Creek over a single ice cube. He carried the glass, along with his MacBook Pro, back to the couch. He looked out his window, across the street at his enemy’s residence.
Taylor almost felt sorry for the guy. The skills he had learned at Blue Ice, a cloud-services security firm, could be used to destroy someone’s life. In thirty minutes, he’d be inside his neighbor’s digital world. All of the bafoon’s systems would be shut down, altered, and moved. He’d panic and be happy to sell the dog. Taylor took a sip of whiskey, opened his laptop, and began to fuck up the piece of shit, virtually, from the comfort of his own home.
