A Good Boy

The letters began to show up a week after the storm that caused the city-wide blackout. The same week I’d rescued the scruffy little mutt that had been wandering the neighborhood. His sad eyes bore into my soul every time I left the apartment. I just couldn’t bear it anymore, with his big, dumb face looking at me like he pitied me more than I did him. He and I were the same. Lost souls, drifting through life just looking for scraps of happiness in all the garbage that was thrown our way.

“Hey boy, you hungry? Thirsty? Want some water?” The humidity that day had spread across the city like an infection. No air conditioner only made it worse. I hoped he wasn’t dehydrated. After some coaxing, I finally got him to follow me to my apartment.

I’d had to feed him dry Ramen and a half a can of spam because my cupboards were bare and everything in the fridge had gone bad without electricity. And because I’d been tricked out of vacation pay by my boss. I know, not the most nutritious food for a dog, but it was better than starving. I told him not to sleep on my bed or get on the furniture, but he didn’t listen. And I was too lonely and he was too cute for me to really be mad. I told him he was a very good boy anyways, and spent the night telling him all about my life. He was a great listener.

I named him Pickle. He was kind of a big dill.

Later that night, we snuggled in my full-sized futon. After two baths, his fur pressing against my face felt like the hug of all hugs and I fell asleep with him curled around my legs. The electricity kicked on right before we fell asleep. I sent a silent prayer up to the gods of air conditioning.

The first letter came the next day.

Dear Emily,

You should quit your job. Mr. Haskell isn’t going to give you that raise. He’s just going to keep guilting you into working weekends and staying longer. You are too talented and too good to waste away in a cubicle for the rest of your life. Get out of that stupid gray box and go sing in the park today. I double dog dare you.

Signed,

GB

The note was sitting on the floor by the front door, as if someone had slipped it underneath while I was sleeping. It’s funny, because I loved to sing but rarely did it anymore. It was something that had brought me joy for years, but joy was no longer something I recognized. The note perplexed me, because I didn’t know anyone with the initials GB, and no one who lived near me knew I liked to sing. I didn’t know my neighbors, except for Mrs. Rockwell, and she was far too uppity and smelled like Vick's. And her initials were AR. She wouldn’t care a fig if I stayed at my job for the rest of my life until I keeled over at my desk. And she certainly wouldn’t try to inspire me to sing. I went to work, trying to come up with ideas on who could have sent the letter, wondering who GB was.

“Ms. Greene, I see you decided to grace us with your presence today,” Mr. Haskell said when I walked in, as if there were more than just me and him in the office.

“Yes, Mr. Haskell, just as I do every day, except when I’m on vacation. By the way, have you figured out when I’ll get my vacation pay?” I already knew the answer. It was futile asking.

The day dragged on. Until a loud barking outside the building set Mr. Haskell off.

“Call someone to come get that stupid dog!” he yelled at me from his office.

When I went to check it out, there was Pickle, barking at the office door. The damn mutt actually grinned when I came outside.

“What are you doing here, boy? Huh? How did you get out?” Had I left the window cracked? Maybe someone had gotten into my apartment?

It was almost lunch, and the apartment was only a few blocks away, so I grabbed twine and made a makeshift leash to walk Pickle home and make sure I hadn’t left the door open. But he refused to follow.

He tugged on the leash, dragging me along to the park, where a crowd was gathered. A young girl with one arm was playing a neon pink violin. Just below her left elbow, a raw red scar pressed against the handle of her violin, holding it in place while she played with her right. Her furious bowing created a melody so beautiful and haunting that it was almost a visual. A sad story wailing from her bow and strings, emotion rippling through the crowd like a palpable wave.

When it was over, they erupted into applause and Pickle barked his approval. When the din died down, she began to play another song and the mood shifted. It was one of my favorite songs. Over the Rainbow, the Israel Kamakawiwoʻole version. I used to sing it to my grandmother when she was still alive. Something about it always made me feel happy and hopeful that things would work out. And I’d been missing hope and joy for a long time. I began to sing along, softly. But Pickle yanked on the leash and dragged me to the microphone, disrupting the whole song. Mortified, I started to pull him back, apologizing to the girl.

“No, please, sing with me,” she said, smiling. She began to play again. The crowd cheered us on.

And so I sang with the one-armed violin siren, charming the sea of people as they listened to the words. Of trouble melting like lemon drops and skies of blue, and how wonderful a world it really was. And for a little bit, it was wonderful.

When we left, I walked Pickle home, stopping at the deli on the corner to get us a big roast beef hoagie to split. He deserved it, after all.

Later, after work, I took him for a walk and as we waited at the light, I saw the coffee shop I used to go to before I’d lost my mojo. Back when I would go sit all weekend and write. When I thought I’d make a living as a novelist. There was a guy who used to go there, and I’d talked to whenever I was there. A computer nerd with a sense of humor and a love of good puns. His name was Jesse. Sometimes, we’d talk about the 80s and how much we missed bad fashion and Saturday morning cartoons. Sometimes, he’d leave me a simple origami flower on my table, allowing me the space to write. He always seemed to know what I needed.

We stood at the corner, waiting for the green light. When it changed, Pickle and I walked across the street towards the coffee shop. Jesse was sitting at a table in the corner. His nerd glasses halfway down his nose, his hair all over the place. I thought about going in to say hi, but it had been almost a year. He probably wouldn’t even remember me. So I pulled Pickle’s leash, and we walked the long way home. That night, we watched dog movies on Netflix. I told him about my book and Jesse, and he cocked his head thoughtfully, as if he understood every single word.

“You’re a good boy, Pickle.” I made sure to give him extra treats before we went to bed.

The next day, there was a new letter.

Dear Emily,

You are unforgettable. You’re a story that is yet to be told. Every day is a new page and a word for you to write. Don’t close the book on yourself just yet. Go get a coffee, write a little love song to yourself, and get ready for the next chapter. I double dog dare you.

Signed,

GB

I started to wonder if I was crazy. I’d locked the door, the deadbolt, and the chain last night. No way anyone could get in. And I’d tested it: you couldn’t slide a piece of paper beneath that door. The gap was too narrow. Maybe I was just imagining these letters. Oh god, what if I had a tumor? What if it was making me conjure up things that weren’t real?

But then the paper sliced my finger open and the sight of the blood and the sharp sting on my pinky proved my going-crazy-maybe-I-have-a-tumor theory completely wrong.

I put it out of my mind and went to work. It was Friday, and I prayed the whole way there that Mr. Haskell wouldn’t try to find a way to get me to work that weekend.

“Good morning, Ms. Greene. I’m glad to see you’re on time today.” I was never late. His comment was just a way to get under my skin. To put me on the defensive. But today, for some reason, I felt too good to let him have his way.

“Thank you, Mr. Haskell. I appreciate a boss who recognizes my dedication.” I smiled and went to my desk.

I spent most of the morning working to get everything done so there was no reason to come in the next day. At lunch time, the barking started.

“For Pete’s sake, get that damn mutt to shut up!” Mr. Haskell yelled. He came storming out of his office with a rolled up magazine.

I ran out in front of our building, knowing it was Pickle out there barking.

“Hey boy, how did you get out again? You need to be quiet and go home!” He tilted his head. Then he started to growl when I heard the door behind me.

“This is your mutt, Ms. Greene?” Mr. Haskell asked, sounding disgusted. “I should have known with how badly behaved he is.”

I don’t like people who don’t like animals, especially dogs. It used to be a litmus test that Nan and I had.

“Emmie,” she’d say, “anyone who doesn’t like an animal IS an animal. Believe that. You’ll find your people when you find the ones that love all creatures and treat them with kindness.”

“He’s not misbehaved,” I turned to Mr. Haskell. “He’s a good boy. He just misses me.”

“Well, get him out of here. You can make up his disruption by working tomorrow and Sunday.”

I realized I really didn’t like Mr. Haskell. Or my job. And I can’t trust someone who hates something as pure as a dog. It was time to write a new chapter.

“Mr. Haskell, you don’t have to worry about Pickle. He won’t be bothering you again. And neither will I. I quit, effective immediately.”

I grabbed my things and Pickle and I walked home. On the way, I stopped to get a coffee. It was a dog friendly shop, which made Pickle happy. When we went in, I went to the counter to order and Pickle pulled on the leash, breaking free and heading straight for Jesse, sitting in the corner.

“Hey good boy, who do you belong to?” Jesse asked, rubbing his head happily.

“He’s mine,” I said. He looked up and smiled.

“Emily! I haven’t seen you in a while.” We spent the rest of the day talking, Pickle between us basking in the attention.

A new letter came the following morning.

Dear Emily,

The thing about people is that they don’t think they deserve all that same goodness they put out into the world. But they do. You do, Emily. You’re kind, creative, smart, and loyal. You’re thoughtful and honest. Now live fully and love faithfully. I double dog dare you.

Signed,

A Good Boy