Good Boy
by Charles Holdefer
I don’t always listen to my dog because he can be a whiner but last night we were talking about the possibilities of afterlife and accounts of near-death experiences where someone travels down a tunnel toward a bright light which opens onto joy and sometimes a reunification with lost loved ones.
“I’m pretty skeptical,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s an evolutionary coping mechanism. The trauma of all systems going down, the terror of annihilation of the self? So your brain chemistry kicks in and generates a psychedelic cocktail to ease you through the door.”
“Perhaps,” Scotty said. “On the other hand, maybe you’re being a dick. Why deny others a needed comfort? Put yourself in their shoes.”
“But I’m not in their shoes, I’m in my shoes. I want the truth. Either you arrive on the other side, fair and square and legit, or you don’t. No fudging. And by the way, dogs don’t talk.”
“Plus ça change...” He blinked his long brown eyelashes. “Tell me, Bruce. Why are you uncomfortable listening to me?”
That was the thing. I could put down my phone and switch off the TV and avoid the computer because lately, the world was crowding me, I couldn’t take it anymore, and instead of peace I got this conversation.
Scotty paused to lick his testicles, adding: “The art of our necessities is strange, and can make humble things precious.”
“No! Would you please just stop?”
Just by being himself, Scotty had the ability to remind me of the bitterness and unhappiness in my heart. I don’t think he did it on purpose. He was ignorant of fundamentals, stubbornly so. At bottom I suppose I envied him. Content with a bowl of food and a spot of sunshine on the rug. Yes, it would be nice if life were that simple. But for me to be like him, I would have to give up my values, and then would I even be myself?
He yawned in my face. “Maybe you’re right about the tunnel of light. All that happy stuff when you cross to the other side is just an illusion. It’s a set-up. You follow the lure and once you’ve arrived, it all falls away and you discover you’re actually in hell, Bruce. hell, in a solitude of your own making.”
“Huh?”
“One way or another, you’re gonna answer for your actions, my friend.”
His muzzle on his paws, he looked at me and thumped his tail.
“Geez, Scotty. You’re definitely not a good boy.”
He got up and went to the kitchen. From where I reclined on my lounger, I could see him by the sliding glass door, wanting to be let out to the back yard. But I pretended not to notice. It was tedious, all this back and forth, in and out, from one place to the other. Why couldn’t we respect our boundaries? Wasn’t that the source of our problems? He scratched at the glass. But I pretended not to hear. Then he came back to the living room.
“Come on,” he said. “I can’t hold it forever.”
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“Oh, please. I was just trying to break the ice.”
“Break the ice? Ha!” I levered the lounger and found my feet. “You judge me. You say I’m going to hell. Now that’s rich. Scotty, are you a Christian?”
He tilted his head to one side, as if listening closely. He sniffed. “Naw. Fire and brimstone aren’t my thing. I suppose I’m an olfactory Buddhist. What goes around comes around.”
He turned and jumped up and put his paws on the back of the couch and looked out the picture window, at some kids running down the street. But I wasn’t going to let the subject drop.
“Well leave me out of it. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sniff my way.”
Now he hopped down and went to the front door. He stood still, waiting. I made no move. I would open whenever I felt like it.
“Fine,” Scotty said. “You know which way the wind’s blowing. Not like I have to sniff hard. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’ve always played by the rules. You comply and think you’re safe. That’s your cocktail. Who’s a good boy? Bruce! Oh, such a good, good boy!”
I didn’t like his tone.
“Fuck you, Scotty!”
Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. It startled me, and I jumped.
“Keep it down,” Scotty growled. “They might’ve heard you.”
After a pause, the door banged again, shaking on its hinges. Scotty circled behind me, and I took several steps back. Through the picture window I could see a white van parked at the curb.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s judgment day.”
“What? For what?”
I turned and ran after Scotty into the kitchen where, through the glass door, I saw a masked man in the back yard, walking in my zinnias. Suddenly another masked man appeared from the side, crossing the patio, and came up to the glass door.
He looked straight at me. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He tried it again, rattling.
Behind me, more banging at the front door.
“What do you want?” I shouted through the glass.
“Open up!”
“Do you have a warrant? Show me a badge!”
Scotty piddled on the linoleum. “Woof!”
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Charles Holdefer is a writer based in Brussels. His latest book is IVAN THE TERRIBLE GOES ON A FAMILY PICNIC (2024, stories) and his novel MOVE THE MOUNTAIN will be published in Spring 2027.