An Unattended Growth

A Short Story

The man was walking the dog. It would be the last time, though neither yet knew it. She sniffed eagerly at wildflowers and tugged excitedly at the lead and a brisk October morning gust agitated the man’s allergies and he sneezed and cursed and scared the pup until she traced the sound back to her loving master. Neither beast nor man knew anything of the abdominal mass that tumefied in opacity and would soon rupture the spleen and separate the pair forever. What things may grow unattended beneath the surface of what we see, to finally break forth in some catastrophic way. Could the man have known, and how? The questions unanswerable, haunting.

The woman was at work, a nurse. The man had been out of work. The dog had known for some time something was wrong, only not inside herself.

A repetitive buzzing noise and a “hello” and one side of an exchange uttered in resignation to cold logistics, no hints of affection to insulate them. The leash forcing a return journey and an involuntary lurch away from the redolent blossoms. An unspeakable sadness bestriding the gentling breeze.

“Come on, girl.”

The dog yielded, followed for a time, and then retook the front position.

“Gotta go for groceries when we get back. I’ll be home in a jiff.”

The dog yipped in agreement to warm words uncomprehended.

The security gate rattled and clanged as the man turned the key and opened the entry to familiar hearth. The dog felt the tiredness then, sudden, and made for her warm bed.

“Tuckered out, eh girl? You nap and I’ll be back.”

The man drove then, drifted silently through liquor-store-jungle and smoke-shop-blight, dreamed of getting lost. He fondled the six-month token, absent of mind until not, and then contemplated oblivion, ultimately resisting its pull. He gained the grocery parking lot, exited the Bonneville, kicked the front tire for no discernible reason. Couldn’t feel it through the steel toe Timberlands. Work boots on a guy with no work. He scoffed and walked and the bug-repelling blast of sliding-door air set him to sneezing again. Damn allergies. Sale on Jack. He kept his constant, vigilant resistance. Stuck to the list. If anybody needed a drink it was the woman but he’d be damned if she would indulge and he would not. She could save it for girls’ night when he was safely cocooned in Doritos and shoot-’em-up cinema. He mindlessly dragged the haul across the scanner. Beep. Beep. Beep. Even cashiers didn’t have jobs anymore. He supposed he was working after all, paying for the privilege.

He transferred the bags to the backseat and drove home.

Rattle and clang and a self-conscious juggle of plastic sacks and he was inside. The dog did not greet him. A whimper. His heart stopped beating, or seemed to. Something was wrong. He bolted then, unconcerned with possible overreaction. She was breathing, labored. He pet, with a tenderness that was only for her.

“Hey girl, whatsa matter?”

A weary suspiration.

“Hey… hey…”

He stroked the small head, tried to tamp down the rising panic.

A groan.

He stepped back a few steps and called to her. She wouldn’t rise. Couldn’t…

He reached down. The nose was dry, the eyes bleary. He pulled back the jowls, pale gums.

A whimper again, his panic winning out.

“Come on, girl. You’re okay. Come on now.”

He scooped her up like a babe and made with careful haste for the car. She didn’t protest the ride as always before. He laid her gently in the front seat and pointlessly set the belt across her now shivering, small form.

“Hang on, girl. Just a quick drive.”

HAPPY PAWS ANIMAL HOSPITAL, read the half-burned-out lettering.

He cradled her again and darted for the mirror-glass doors, sneezing a few times.

His greeting was a terrible face of concern – the girl behind the counter needed say nothing and did not.

The man spoke but choked out only a turning-tearful “help”.

The girl received the poor animal with care and disappeared behind a faux-wood door.

The man sat. Dreamed of the bottle. Of escape. Came to his senses and made the call.

“Yes, they took her back.”

The woman’s voice. Concern, but also irritation.

“I don’t know yet, Char. Maybe she won’t be okay–”

More chattering, cold, imperious.

“Well, if you can’t leave, I guess just come when you can.”

A reply, absent, then nothing, just quiet.

“Okay, well… Charlotte, please just get here as soon as you can.”

The woman said those now-malformed three words which had become with the contempt of familiarity a mournful two.

“Yeah, love you, too. Bye.”

He sat, a small eternity. Waiting, with half-hearted prayers to the nondescript deity of Step 2.

The doctor appeared, cautious. Something was wrong.

The man’s name was called, though he was the only man in the waiting room, and the doctor offered, and the man took, a clammy-handed shake. There was an ammonia scent in the air and that of wet fur.

The doctor spoke and the man found his consciousness blipping in and out, comprehension fragmenting, and he heard the beep, beep, beep of the self-check register.

“...ultrasound found splenic rupture…”

Beep. Beep.

“...hemangiosarcoma. Even with emergency splenectomy, the prognosis is…”

Beep. Beep.

The sound became a heart monitor in his mind. It slowed as the doctor spoke and the room spun.

“...humane euthanasia to prevent further suffering…”

Beeeeeeeeeeeee… flatline.

Blackness. He came to, sitting.

“What happened?” the man asked.

“Well,” the doctor said. “I’m a veterinarian not a psychiatrist, but you seem to have dissociated for a few moments.”

“Did I fall?”

“No, I just took your arm and helped you sit.”

“Okay.”

There was a death-silence.

“Sir,” the doctor probed, as carefully as he seemed to be able. “How do you wish to proceed?”

“Let me… ummm, I need to call my wife.”

He dialed. No answer. Come on, Charlotte. Where are you?

“I’ll give you a moment, sir.”

“Okay.”

He dialed again, waited through the ringing, heard her voice cheerful on the other end as he hadn’t heard it in a long time. Sweet, the voice he fell in love with. It bid him leave a message.

Beep. Beep. Again, in his head.

The room began to swirl once more. He sneezed.

The vibrating in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Reese?”

“Yes, who’s calling?”

A pregnant silence. The beep, beep, beep in his head, slowing…

“This is officer Marlon Grant. There’s been an accident. I still don’t know, after all these years, how to tell anyone this…”