The Neighbor’s Dog Started Sleeping on My Porch

The dog’s name was Pickles, which was unfortunate because Pickles weighed eighty pounds and looked like he had personally survived several civil wars.

The first night, he slept against my front door.

The second night, he brought me a glove.

Not a work glove.

A winter glove.

With a hand in it.

I recognized the wedding ring.

My neighbor, Dale, had worn it for thirty-two years and complained about the marriage for thirty-one of them.

I stared at the hand.

Pickles stared at me.

“Bad dog.”

His tail thumped once.

Technically, that was feedback.

I wrapped the hand in a Walmart bag and walked next door.

Dale’s truck was there. The porch light was on. The television was playing loudly enough that I could hear a man screaming about reverse mortgages.

I knocked.

Nothing.

I opened the door.

Dale was in the kitchen.

Most of him.

There are moments when the human brain refuses to process information because the alternative would require paperwork.

This was one of those moments.

Dale had apparently been assembling a sandwich when his dog killed him.

The sandwich remained untouched.

The mustard was open.

Dale was spread around the room like a complicated warning about pet ownership.

Pickles sat beside me, panting.

“You did this?”

He sneezed.

I found the rest of Dale behind the refrigerator.

Not all at once.

I considered calling the sheriff.

Then I remembered Dale owed me four hundred dollars.

The question became less ethical and more administrative.

I searched his wallet.

Forty-three dollars.

Cheap bastard.

Pickles watched from the doorway while I dragged Dale into the bathtub.

This was harder than television makes it look.

Dead people have absolutely no interest in cooperating.

At one point Dale’s foot caught under the toilet and I had to stop and apologize, which seemed ridiculous considering the circumstances.

Pickles brought me another piece.

“Stop helping.”

Tail thump.

I eventually called 911.

I told them I’d found Dale dead.

This was completely true.

They asked if I had touched anything.

I looked at the mop in my hand.

“No.”

Pickles barked.

I glared at him.

The deputies arrived twenty minutes later.

One stood in the kitchen for about five seconds before stepping back outside.

The other asked whether Dale owned any dangerous animals.

I pointed at Pickles.

Pickles wagged his tail.

The deputy crouched.

“Who’s a good boy?”

Pickles walked over and dropped something at his feet.

Dale’s ear.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

The deputy slowly stood.

Pickles sat proudly beside him.

“Well,” I said.

The deputy looked at me.

I looked at the dog.

The dog looked at the ear.

Then the deputy said the sentence that finally broke me.

“Sir, is this your dog?”

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

Pickles lives with me now.

The county said they couldn’t prove what happened.

Technically, neither could I.

He still sleeps on my porch.

Every morning before breakfast, I check his mouth.

Not because I’m afraid of him.

Because the bastard still owes me three hundred fifty-seven dollars.