My best friend’s dog hung himself, but it wasn’t exactly my fault. The dog’s name was Albert. His ears were his best feature—floppy in an adorable sort of way with a brown fringe for a tail. People often mistook him for a cute puppy and bent down to pet him. But Doug and the dog quickly disappeared between parked cars.
Doug had adopted Albert from a shelter, looked into his eyes, signed the papers, and saved him from being euthanized, the same sort of bleeding heart who’d loan anyone money. Even his mother said he should’ve been a priest instead of a mechanic.
Doug’s dog was larger than a chihuahua but smaller than a poodle and named after (Prince) Albert (Tobacco). Not the kind of dog you want to get close to…he’d bare a row of teeth to the accompaniment of a nasty guttural growl. For no reason, sometimes he leaped at a random calf muscle or sock. As time went on, the mutt became Doug’s personal rehabilitation project with Albert curled up in his lap masquerading as a dog in love with his Alpha Number One.
Doug and I met in fourth grade. We’d sat next to each other. My name for him was Spit because he hurled lugies at fire hydrants; he called me ScarFace, a comment on my acned complexion. We live in the same city a few blocks from each other. One day he rang me up.
“I need someone to feed Albert while I’m out of town.”
“What’s wrong with a kennel?” Anything but Doug’s miserable little dog. A cat. A reindeer. A chicken. Anything.
“You can’t be serious! A kennel wanted to kill him.”
My friend had recently fixed my car engine for free. I sighed. “Okay. But I hope you have insurance.”
“Two weeks,” he said. “Training starts tomorrow.” Doug meant my training.
I began shifts of five minutes each, walked to Doug’s house and knocked, and heard Albert’s nasty growl. “It’s ScarFace. Doug repeated, “He won’t hurt you,” which was not true. I secretly wanted to anaesthetize the beast with one of those shots they give tigers.
Gradually, five minutes extended to ten and so forth. I never touched him or looked in his eyes, one of which was bloodshot. Albert finally allowed me to place kibble in his dish.
“You don’t need to walk him. I’ll clean up the backyard when I return.”
Doug was gone at a mechanics school training in Texas, the longest two weeks of my life. But Albert got used to me, wagged his tail whenever he heard the key in the door. Food is a lifeline, and I had earned a hallowed place in Albert’s pantheon. I started bringing him toys, little snuggly things, and placed rawhide strips at his feet. One day he licked my hand. By the time two weeks had passed, I’d managed to take Albert out for a walk.
Doug asked me to pick him up from the airport. He insisted I bring Albert.
“Why?”
“I miss him. I want to see him.”
I placed him in the trunk, don’t ask me how, snapping his leash to the lever that rolls down the back seats. I wanted to prevent Albert from jumping around on the way over. Might’ve caused an accident. When I arrived at the airport, I saw Doug at the curb with his roller bag, opened the trunk as Albert bolted from the car, choking himself.
Doug hasn’t forgiven me. I haven’t forgiven myself.