This work was published in The Avenue Journal, Issue X: Dogs
Better Than TV
by K. M. Watson
“Don’t tell ’im.”
“He’s seen you already.”
“But he don’t know we talk.”
* * *
They had been this way—except for the talking part—from the beginning, when Radley first found the mutt crouched near his front door in wet and cold misery after a downpour. “You’re a dog,” the man had whispered in disbelief. “Just like on my TV.” He inspected the wiry fur, rusty spots on a dirty white coat, and sharp standing ears. Yes, a dog, he thought. Looking away, he squinted with aging eyes through mist settling on the seedy country yard and surveyed the long dirt driveway he walked every day to check for mail. No one. Nothing like this had ever happened during the six decades he’d been in the house, still sleeping in the same barely changed room that had been the center of his childhood.
“Where’d you come from?” he had asked. The dog said nothing, and didn’t for a long while.
* * *
“Maybe he’d let you inside if he knew.”
“No. Only you can hear me.”
“Why?”
“Dunno. Just some can and others can’t.”
“The cold’l be here soon. It’d be nice for you to be in.”
“I’m used to the cold, but it would be nice.”
* * *
Radley felt along the edges of his loneliness. Mother dead and father soon to be dead of age, distant neighbors separated by fields of hay, Gennie and Jamie gone long ago, the hurtful words they had slung at him while growing up still hanging in the stale air throughout the house. “Ugly like a monster.” “Slow as a turtle.” “Off in the head.”
No one around but the people on his beloved TV shows that played all day into the night, screen glow lighting his small bedroom. An ache pressed against his heart. I like some of the TV people. A lot. But it’s not the same as real. I can’t touch them. We can’t do things together. We can’t talk. I’m missing out. Just stuck here. He looked around him while TV noise filled the room.
* * *
The first day Radley discovered the dog he told him, “You are mine.” And the stray had stayed, sleeping under nearby bushes, sunning on the driveway, marking the borders of the quiet property, eating whatever food Radley had left out in chipped dishes under the porch overhang.
“I like it when you’re with me,” Radley had said, as the dog walked next to him while he slowly rolled the trashcans down the driveway to the edge of the road—back hunched, hair wild, sweatpants soiled. It was one of the few times during the day he went outside. Garbage. Mail. Delivery groceries on the side porch. But he was never out for long, at least before the dog. Now, he remained on the porch each day, sitting on the steps, petting the dog next to him the only way he knew how, both hands slowly clapping on each side of its scruffy middle in a gentle drum
beat that soothed him.
Radley talked, a little surprised at hearing his rarely used voice. Reedy. A thin stream of words spilled out about his life. Growing up confused, watching his mother’s slow death, years and years of sameness. His voice became louder and words flowed more rapidly as he talked about his pa, who kept him at home, who refused visitors, who filled his parents’ bedroom now with the smell of decay.
On one of these days on the porch, feeling a little lighter with the release of so many words, he looked at the dog leaning against him and said, “Friendsy. I’m calling you Friendsy.”
The dog hadn’t spoken yet, but Radley had wished he did.
* * *
“Please let ’im in.”
Radley’s voice rose as he spooned tomato soup warmed out of a can. Dried drops from previous feedings caked his pa’s mouth wrinkles. The old man swallowed slowly, willing the thin liquid to go down his reluctant throat. Radley looked around the bedroom. Curtains pulled closed. Dust coated the shelves. Stacks of adult pull-ups at the foot of the bed, a bin for used ones near the bathroom door. His pa, once a robust state trooper, now almost invisible in the midst of rumpled bedding.
Radley didn’t think about time much, except to know when groceries came and when to walk out the garbage cans to the road. But he knew too much time had passed living by himself. I want more. The words crept into Radley’s throat and slowly grew more insistent. They never made it past his lips, but he could feel their pressure. I want more. I want more. I want more. Nearly a shout as his heart beat faster. His pa glared at him.
“No dog,” he replied in a ragged whisper. “Too dirty, too smelly. No.”
* * *
It was after one of these struggles that Friendsy surprised Radley. Tired, he had pulled his worn, gray hoodie —the warmest thing he owned—over his head before stepping out of the door, food in hand. Friendsy stretched up against his legs, tail wagging, in his usual greeting. Radley put the bowl down and slowly sat on the steps.
“What’s wrong?”
Startled, Radley looked around, searching for who was talking.
“You never cry.” The voice again, low and guttural.
“You?” Radley studied the dog that had finished eating.
“Me,” Friendsy said.
Radley’s stared and then slowly smiled. “You can talk, really talk,” he blurted and reached down to stroke Friendsy’s back. “So much better than TV.”
* * *
The day the ground froze was the day Radley made up his mind. Friendsy shivered while waiting on the side porch, and Radley didn’t own a coat against the dropping temperatures. It wouldn’t hurt, he decided, for Friendsy to be in the kitchen. He put the dog’s dishes along the side wall, and shut the door to the dining room. In one corner, he piled a few worn-out towels for a bed. On the day of the first snow, Friendsy came through the door, shook, and curled up.
“Why do you stay?” the dog asked, as Radley pressed the buttons on the microwave for his frozen dinner. A favorite: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn.
“Pa won’t let me leave.”
“Why?”
“Don’t really know. Pa said it was better if I stayed here, safer.”
“Don’t make sense.”
“Not to me, either.”
Weeks passed and Friendsy left the walls of the kitchen to follow Radley into the living room, the dining room, and his bedroom. Radley opened long-closed curtains to see him better and made towel beds in each room, though Friendsy ended up sleeping at the foot of his bed, snug in his blankets. Radley patted him while watching TV. They wrestled on the floor, and they talked, a lot. Words and questions and ideas trapped deep inside Radley flowed without a break, sometimes in such a rush that he became lightheaded. I didn’t know it could be this way, he thought. This is what I wanted without knowing I wanted it. How could Pa have kept me alone? Why? I can be a good friend. Coulda been years ago, if he’d a let me.
* * *
Twice a day, Radley entered his pa’s room to feed and change him. They didn’t say much to each other, especially since his pa no longer had any teeth and could barely move on his own. Radley’s mind often wandered as he did his tasks, almost automatic after so many years. Recently, he had begun to imagine life with his new friend and everything they would do together.
“Heard the dog.”
Radley looked up from adjusting his pa’s pull-ups.
“Heard ’im barking,” he spat out, voice as loud as he could muster. “In. The. House. Told you already. NO.”
“He’s my friend, and it’s too cold for him to stay outside.”
“Don’t matter.”
“Why didn’t you let me leave? Why have I been stuck here? Gennie and Jamie left and hardly ever come back. Why?” Radley tossed soiled pull-ups into the bin and turned to face his pa.
“You were born messed up, son, that’s all. Different. Not normal. Your ma and me wanted you to be safe. You could be safe with us. People wouldn’t understand.”
It was the most Radley could remember ever hearing from his pa. It confused him.
“I can make friends,” he cried. “The dog you want me to leave outside is my friend.”
Cursing from the bed pelted him suddenly, then stopped.
“Boy,” his pa growled. “Git here.”
Radley bowed his head. He could hear Friendsy’s nails on the tile floor in the hall, their tapping light and familiar. Shuffling slowly, he crossed the room to the doorway. His hand flicked the light switch off. A click, and the room was dark. He closed the door as cursing erupted again.
Friendsy sat in the middle of the hall waiting, his tail thumping on the floor and eyes looking up at Radley. They walked away together, no words.
-End-
K. M. Watson writes from Maryland’s farm and horse country. She is a retired educator and journalist. She writes mostly about the natural world and aging. Her fiction is published in the international anthology Best Climate Change Stories and in the Bay to Ocean Journal.
Webmaster’s Note: This piece was originally published on this website under the title “SPEAK,” which did not match the piece published in the journal. It has now been corrected. We apologize for any confusion.
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