Big Swiss(85)

Big Swiss held up her hands. “I’m not saying I’m innocent. I’m not playing the victim. I’m fully aware that I’ve done a terrible thing.”

“Yes, but you’re suggesting that adultery is somehow more refined—or genteel—than eavesdropping, and it isn’t.”

But Big Swiss was no longer facing Greta. She’d turned away to peer out the window. The sky was a dusty pink. On the horizon, a ribbon of rust. In the distance, Greta heard high-pitched yipping.

“What is that?” Big Swiss said.

“Coyotes,” Greta said. “They’re probably in the woods out back. We better get the dogs.”

The dogs weren’t in the yard, which was large and unfenced. The only reason Pi?on ever left the yard was to go on a killing spree. Greta suspected he’d discovered a nest of rabbits in a shallow burrow, that he was systematically killing them one by one. He’d wipe out an entire family, babies included, if he wasn’t stopped. She’d have to shout at him, but he never listened once the bloodletting had begun, and so she’d have to physically drag him away. Perhaps it was time she purchased a shock collar. He seemed too old for that now, at age eleven, but maybe one was never too old for a little behavioral modification. Of course, she’d test it on herself before using it on him. Only fair. Maybe they’d both wear one from now on.

The yipping grew louder, rising and falling in pitch, and seemed very near, though there was only the busy road on one side of them and the open field on the other. Either the coyote was hiding in a bush, or its voice was being carried by the wind.

“That’s not a coyote,” Big Swiss said. “It’s Silas.”

Greta immediately yelled for Pi?on, trying and failing to keep the panic out of her voice.

“He’s with Silas,” Big Swiss assured her. “Silas must be hurt. He sounds like he’s in pain.”

They high-stepped across the field, which was swampy in places and covered in tall reeds, waist-high maiden grass, and probably thousands of deer ticks carrying Lyme disease. The frogs chirped fast and loud, and she kept hearing what sounded like zippers being unzipped, as if hundreds of peepers were dropping their pants. Greta was still wearing her nightgown, unfortunately, which was only knee-length, and had neglected to pull on pants or socks. Her blood diaper felt heavy and stiff. She’d also forgotten to bring a leash, so she’d have to carry Pi?on all the way home, and he was likely filthy, in some bloodthirsty frenzy, and would try to squirm out of her arms. Sometimes she wished he were some other, dumber breed, or in any case more dependent and lethargic, more responsive to commands and treats. If Greta were dangling a hot dog in front of his face, he’d ignore it entirely and carry on with the slaughter, but hopefully the rabbits were dying of heart attacks before he could snap their necks.

They searched along the tree line where the field ended and the woods began. Perhaps Pi?on was hunting chipmunks, his second-favorite target, in which case only his behind would be visible, the rest of him underground. Greta searched for his rigid white tail in the failing light. Please let me see it, she repeated to herself. Please, please, please. And then she did see a flash of white—a doe’s tail flicking—and felt despondent.

Finally, they caught sight of Silas, still a good distance away, standing near a locust tree. Big Swiss called him, but he wouldn’t come.

“His foot must be caught in something,” Big Swiss said, and quickened her pace.

Silas stopped yipping and began howling, and it was as haunting as a wolf’s. As they got closer, he began pacing, patrolling the area around the tree. He was either guarding something on the ground, or he had to take a hard shit. He wouldn’t shit in front of anyone, not even other dogs, unless he was completely hidden behind a tree or bush. Sometimes he wouldn’t shit for days, which was why his shits were so black and evil.

When they reached him at last, Big Swiss grabbed him by the collar and pulled him toward her, and Greta saw the white fur she’d been hoping to see for the last thirty minutes. Silas had been guarding Pi?on, who lay motionless in the dirt. His eyes were partly open, whites showing, his tongue hanging cartoonishly out of his mouth, his wiry fur matted with blood. He’d been shot—in the haunch, it appeared—and his back legs were covered in his own feces.

Greta collapsed as if she’d been shoved in the back. His tongue was impossibly long and pale, stretched out like taffy, covered here and there with clumps of dirt, and she didn’t see how it would ever fit back into his mouth. Her first instinct was to blow into his nostrils, but she didn’t know if that was correct. She wanted to crush him to her chest. He still smelled like himself, like warm Frito pie. She squeezed each of his paws, which he usually never tolerated, and he let her tug at the fur between his toes, so she knew he was either dead or numb with shock. She began chanting his name. Pi?on! Pi?on! Pi?on!

Finally, his tongue retreated into his mouth. His eyes rolled forward and focused on her face. He swallowed and seemed to remember where he was but not what had happened to him. Confused, he tried scrambling to his feet. She held him down and hummed loudly, waiting for his panic to subside. He looked smaller and more exhausted than she’d ever seen him, as if he’d been swimming for sixteen hours, and she saw him in the center of one of the disgusting ponds he loved so much, barking, swimming in circles, mesmerized by sun glitter. It drew a crowd every time, made people mutter to themselves like schizophrenics. What’s he doing? Will he come to shore? Why is he barking like that? Is he drowning? She’d have to walk away or hide behind a tree and wait for him to look for her, because he’d only come back if he couldn’t see her, and when he finally climbed out of the water, she’d settle a blanket over his shoulders.