A Sort of Christmas Story

Cold
By Tony

We are arguing. No surprise. For the last few months, we have been arguing pretty regularly. We don’t limit the topics either. They range from the petty to the important. Tonight it’s the cat.

“Why did you let her out?” my wife asks me. She is sitting sideways in the recliner chair, legs draped over the arm. Her painted toenails wiggle at me.

“Joanne, the cat was manic. Okay? The stupid thing was running around and driving me crazy,” I reply. I am not yelling, but my voice has a controlled quality that creeps into it when I start to get mad. The controlled tone usually precedes yelling, though.

“You do realize we have to leave early in the morning? What if Blinky doesn’t come back before then? Katherine isn’t coming for two days.”

Katherine is our friend, my wife’s friend really, who agreed to come over to feed Blinky and look after the house.

“I know,” I say. I stalk over to the front door and open it. A mass of freezing air rolls in through the opening. I stick my head out into the cold.

“Blinky,” I call, then make that kiss sound with my lips.

“Jesus it’s cold,” says Joanne. She’s absolutely right. It’s Christmas Eve, and it is supposed to be the coldest night of the year.

I call Blinky again.

“Christ,” my wife says. “She’s not coming. Close the door.”

With the door still open, I say, “Look, I’m trying to get her to come inside. Give me a break, will you?” My voice is starting to rise.

“That’s it, yell. I’m sure that’ll bring Blinky running right to you.”

Joanne can be such a snot.

I call one more time. No cat, so I close the door, walk to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee. Trying to make up a little with Joanne, I ask her if she wants anything.

“The cat inside,” she says in a deadpan voice. Bitch.

I carry my coffee out into the living room, set the cup on the end table, myself on the couch.

“You should be wearing socks, you’ll catch cold,” I say to Joanne.

“I’ll be fine.”

I walk over to her and gently kiss her toe, then suck it into my mouth.

“It tickles,” she says, giggling. “Stop.”

She laughs and pulls her foot away.

I wedge myself onto the chair with her, and put my arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s not argue,” I say. “Let’s have one holiday this year that we get along.”

I kiss her.

“Okay,” she says.

“In fact, let’s make a deal not argue the whole time we’re visiting the parents.”

“Fat chance,” she says.

We laugh a little about that. We grew up in the same town, so it makes it easy to visit both sets of parents on the same trip. Only, my parents don’t especially like Joanne, and hers feel the same about me. It’s a struggle, but what isn’t?

“Go call Blinky, though, okay? It’s going to be so cold tonight. She really needs to be in,” Joanne says.

“Okay, honey.”

I open the door again, and feel the cold against my body. I start to call the cat, begin forming her name on my lips, when I am startled silent. Lying in the pile of leaves outside the door is a huge dog. It seems to be a Doberman, or maybe a Rottweiler or something – I’m no dog person.

I close the door some, leaving it open enough to see out, but closed enough so that the dog couldn’t get at me if it lunged or something.

It’s so cold; my breath feels like needles in my lungs. I look at the animal through the clouds of my exhaled air. The dog has it’s rear end towards me, and it’s head is turned back so it can look at me. The light from inside illuminates it’s eyes slightly.

I shut the door and turn to my wife.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“There’s a huge dog lying outside in the leaves.”

“So make it go. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The sight of him just kind of weirded me out.”

Joanne gets up and walks to the door. Her feet must be freezing. I mean, she has no socks on, and the floor is like an iceberg.

“Let me see,” she says
.
She opens the door, cracked to about the same distance as I had. She peers out, and I look over her head. The dog is looking over his shoulder, craning his neck to see us.

She shuts the door.

“Make it leave,” she says.

“It looks like it might be sick or something. Why don’t I call the animal shelter.”

“Who’s going to be there on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake? No one.”

She’s right, of course.

“We have to get the dog to leave so the cat will come in,” Joanne says.

Again, of course, she is correct.

“Just yell at it. Maybe it’ll leave if you yell at it,” she says
.
I open the door, stare eye to eye with the dog. I can see gray fur on the back of its neck.

“Get out!” I yell. “Hey, hey, get out of here. Git! Go home -- get.”

The dog winces when I yell, like each decibel is a smack on the snout. It winces, but doesn’t move. I am starting to feel bad about this.

I close the door.

“He won’t go” I say.

“No?”

“Nope. Won’t budge.”

Joanne says, “We have to get him out of here. Get the broom and prod him a little with it.”

“I guess I could try that,” I say, and leave to find the broom.

I open the door again.

“Be careful,” my wife says. “Don’t let him bite you.”

She is sitting on the arm of the chair. It hits me for some reason that the chair really needs to be steam-cleaned. It’s filthy.

I lean out the door, and prod the dog lightly with the bristled end of the broom. At the same time, I yell.

“Go on. Go home.”

The dog doesn’t growl or anything, only raises itself shakily to it’s feet. I notice a sore on his leg. His back is hunched in that submissive way dogs have, and his ears are flat against his head. He looks like he’s shivering, but I can’t be sure.

“Go on,” I say, again, but my heart’s not in it.

The dog just stands. Stands and shivers. I tap him lightly with the broom. He starts to limp away, occasionally looking back at me. I feel like I’ve just mugged a homeless person.

“I think he’s gone,” I say.

I sit on the couch, strangely exhausted.

“Now we just need to find the cat,” Joanne says.

My wife walks over to the door so she can call the cat, coax it in.
“Shit,” she says, once the door is opened.

“What?”

“The dog’s back.”

“Just let it stay, the cat will be all right,” I say.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says angrily. “I’ll make the fucking thing leave.”

Eyes wild, Joanne grabs the broom. She flings open the door (apparently not worried about the dog biting her), raises the broom high above her head, and smacks the dog hard. I hear the thump of the broom, and the startled, pitiful yelp of the dog. She swings again, yelling shrilly as she does. I don’t know if she hit it with the second swing or not.

Joanne shuts the door and leans against it. She is breathing heavy and her face is flush. I really can’t believe what she just did. I had no idea she could do that.

“He’ll stay away now,” she says.

I sit -- stunned. I feel a little nauseated. The image of our packed bags sitting upstairs flits through my mind. All at once, I realize I won’t be unpacking mine. Not here, anyway. Not again, not with her.

Joanne goes upstairs without saying anything else. I remain sitting, slumped really, against the cushion. I have this calm feeling, this lack of tension.

About an hour has gone by, and I’m still sitting. But I hear this scratching at the door, then a meow. Well, Blinky is back. I guess that’s good. I guess that counts for something.

THE END


[+/-] Read the rest of this post