El Perro

July 1, 2009

Today I ventured out to drop off a rent check. Okay, I didn't exactly venture out since I never left the building, but considering I haven't left the apartment in a few days, it counts as something. It wasn't a rent check for our apartment — Deborah took that one to the management office on her way to work yesterday — instead, it was a rent check for the basement garage where I park my truck. When we first moved in, it felt like a decadent luxury to park in a garage, but considering my current situation, I'm not sure what I'd do if I had to worry about the street cleaning laws.

I asked Deborah to take the check down to the basement on her way to work today, but she said, No. Partly because she wants me to maintain a certain level of independence, but mainly because she is afraid of the garage owner's Rottweiler. The dog nipped at our friend Jason’s ankle last weekend. Jason and Deborah took my truck to return a defective air conditioner, and when they came back with a new one, the dog lumbered toward them to investigate. Jason cautiously lifted the new air conditioner out of the truck bed and put it onto a luggage dolly, careful not to make any sudden moves. But when he began to roll the dolly, the wheels scraped across the cement floor, startling the dog, who suddenly bit at the hem of Jason's pants.

A growling Rottweiler is an evil specter, but a nipping one is a menace. Deborah and Jason called out to the garage attendant, asking him to watch the dog. The garage attendant doesn't speak a lick of English, but there was no reason to believe he didn't understand what they were asking. Especially since he did exactly as they asked: he watched.

The dog looks damaged. Mentally challenged, with a perpetually dopey expression on its face that's perhaps the result of breathing a mixture of gasoline fumes, exhaust, and cat piss all day long. (The cat piss smell comes courtesy of the garage's other menace, though one far less life-threatening, a dirty, grayish-orange tabby.)

The dog's coat looks like an oil-stained rag, and its paws are covered in greasy dust. I feel bad for him, but in the way someone might feel bad for Mike Tyson. Maybe he had a hard life, maybe he's misunderstood, but still—

This afternoon, I rode the elevator to the garage and lurched toward the office on my crutches. The dog heard me coming and started barking a sinister bark that echoed through the garage.

I could see one of the attendants through the window of the office. He glanced over his shoulder to see what the dog was getting riled about. The dog's massive head hung low as he stalked toward me. I continued slowly, but when his barks morphed into growls, I stopped. I pulled the rent check from a bag slung over my shoulder and waved it for the attendant to see, hoping he might come out to meet me, or at least settle his dog. Instead, the attendant just nodded. I continued slowly until I reached the door and then knocked. I had only seen one guy through the window, but there were two guys inside the office. They were watching Spanish-language soap operas. The second guy opened the office door. He looked almost exactly like the dog, except he was wearing a shirt. I handed him the check.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Can you keep an eye on the dog for me. I think he's a little freaked out by my crutches."

He didn't understand me, or pretended not to anyway. Either way, he just cocked his head. "¿Que?"

"El perro," I said, pointing to the dog with my right crutch.

The dog was quiet, watching us with something resembling a smile, drool dripping from the side of his mouth, his tongue hanging sideways, pink and bumpy like lobster meat.

"El perro," he said. "¿Si?"

"Never mind."