Dogchaser

I have learned that divorce makes one do new and crazy things. She
left the house with a scowl, dragging a duffel bag full of clothes,
some of which were freshly dry cleaned. No matter; she ripped them from
their hangers and shoved them in a duffel bag that she appeared to have
bought for the occasion. She moved with a deft, studied precision, as
though she was suddenly not familiar with the house, but knew where she
would find her clothes. I sat on an ottoman and watched; not a word was
exchanged. I balanced her energy by turning on the television; a city
council meeting was being televised. I turned the sound down low and
watched her go back and forth in front of the screen, while the torpid
and makeup-free council members droned on about water fees. She dragged
the duffel bag down the stairs in a series of twelve soft bumps, at
which point I padded to the landing and watched her drag it to the
door. If I didn't offer to carry it to her car, it would get soaked as
she dragged it across the grass. She slammed the door behind her,
shaking her head the entire time. I turned back to the television and
wondered what it would be like to marry the redheaded
councilwoman.

That was a Monday. I spent a chunk of Tuesday chasing a dog. It was a
Lhasa Apso from a couple of streets over, and I caught him licking the
grease that had dripped from my barbecue. He must have slipped under
the fence, because the gate was closed. I was home because my boss
convinced me that I needed some time to sort things out. I dropped a
brick at the hole in the fence and chased the dog around for an hour. I
was trying to overheat him, so his heart would explode, but instead he
barked as I chased him in wet, sloppy circles. By the time I was worn
out, my bare feet were stained green. I got the dog a dish of water and
went inside to cool off with a beer and a long bath. After am hour or
so I felt better, and I called the office. My boss said I sounded like
a million bucks. My body tingled with endorphins from the dog chase,
and I saw the Lhasa curled up in the shade beside the water dish. There
were foot-shaped green stains on the carpet, which would have angered
her to no end, but she was gone.

One tiny moment after she announced her demand for a divorce, I
imagined an improved version of myself, standing alone on an oceanside
cliff. I think I got the idea from all the car advertisements in the
back covers of her old National Geographics, which she'd inherited when
her father died. They made a long yellow ring around our family room.
Her lawyer told me I was free to keep them, which I planned to do,
since I couldn't remember which of them had my favorite story about
piranhas. Sometimes we would get drunk on schnapps and flip through the
magazines, guessing which of the wild animals would taste best on the
barbecue. It was then that I got the idea that her ideal was the
outdoorsy type, a guy who could stand and gaze at the ocean, master the
waves, make love in the sand. The improved version of myself would
drive the piranha through a stake and hold it to the fire, just as the
Brazilians do, and she would go crazy with lust. That was her way; I
could even feel it as she dragged her clothes through the wet grass.
She described her ideal man during a therapy session, and I told Dr.
MacShane about the time we went camping and she set up the latrine near
an antbed. She had about a hundred antbites on her behind, and the
three of us had a long laugh before we got back down to business.

I went outside and stood next to the Lhasa. Our eyes met for a few
moments before he growled and stood up. Suddenly I was chasing him
again, feeling my lungs burn with every sobbing gulp of air. We ran in
wide circles, my feet beating down the grass that was not beaten down
before. The Lhasa tucked his ears back and loped in measured bounds.
His barks and yelps were more joyous than fearful, and before long I
got tired. My chest heaved and my clothes were damp with afternoon
sweat. My scalp itched a deep, crawly itch. The Lhasa stood in front of
me, barking his exhortations. I refilled the water dish and ran the
hose over my head. His owners would probably be looking for him soon,
but I didn't remove the brick from the hole in the fence. Instead I got
a plate of sausages from the refrigerator, and we shared them on the
back porch. He could not have known that my original plan was to kill
him.

My boss called from home to see how I was doing. Her own divorce was
recent and nasty, so she assumed that I was wandering miserably around
the house, missing my wife. As we exchanged pleasantries, I watched the
Lhasa curl back up on the patio to sleep. I was not attracted to my
boss, but she was calling from home, and her softer tone made me wonder
what it would be like to be married to her. I wondered if she would
like an improved version of myself, the one that gazes over the ocean
from a majestic cliff, sitting on the hood of a 1976 Cutlass. I did not
know what she would like, so I invited her over for a drink on the back
patio. She told me that this was all so sudden and inappropriate, but
she was flattered by the offer. While she stammered her responses, I
watched the Lhasa get up and defecate on my lawn. I asked my boss to
think it over, but not to hold it against me, and she promised to try
both. After we hung up I cracked another beer and stepped out into the
dusk. The Lhasa stood at my feet. I walked over to the fence and
removed the brick, and the Lhasa squeezed underneath and ran home. I
went into my family room and started the search for the article about
the piranha.