Astor W. Heinemann
When sitting down to read old Lou Schultz liked to put the book down on the table, hands together with fingers interlocked resting his forehead on his crossed out thumbs while he caressed his knuckles with the fingertips from the opposite hand. Though he seldom got distracted while reading this time he noticed how dry, ashy and coarse his knuckles felt. Not that this fact was unusual, but he rarely focused on his body or the fact that he was getting old. "Hmm", he thought as he macro focused on the back of his hands from above the rims of his thick, time-worn eyeglasses, "they sure look a lot like my father's". He squeezed his lips into a fake quasi-smile then realized there was nobody there to pretend to about what his father's memory meant to him.
"I never even liked the bastard" he muttered to himself as his mind raced with all the things his father was...and wasn't. All the trauma caused in his own life because of him, the way he had made him the despicable man he was today. Nothing but bitterness accumulated inside his mouth as his head got warmer, his spinal cord tensed and he frowned. Even from the grave his father was still torturing him, now unable to continue his reading. Only the beatings, the drinking, the psychological abuse occupied his mind now.
"I've been dragging around a twenty year old corpse and it's been slowing down my life ever since, getting heavier and heavier by the day". His dog Ida whimpers and he kicks her. At that moment he asks himself why he always did that, and soon realized it's what his father always did to him. In those moments when as a boy he needed his father the old man got annoyed and angered by it and responded by yelling him off or giving him a beating. "I am my father's son". The bitch cried out as his boot hit her stomach. She loved him and would put up with all his mood swings, aggression and complete disregard of her just for the sake of that love. The dog stared at him from the far corner of the room with that sad expression they're known for and he stared back for a minute. "What!" and the dog replied back with what seemed like a reassuring howl, as if saying "don't worry, I'm here for you, all of me", but all he said was "oh, go to hell you stupid bitch!" as he turned around violently, poured himself another drink and went back to his book. Ida licked herself where he had hit her and rested head on paws, facing him, waiting for the slightest glimpse of affection from old Lou to make her happy.
Hours went by on his book. It had been days since Lou had been outside of the cramped little apartment and last time he did was to get some booze. Fridge was empty but for a couple of beer cans and a two week old box of Thai take out. Cupboard only housed a few cleaning products and dusty dishes. There was no dog food in the place, he had never bothered to give this animal any kind of special treatment, let alone spend scarcely available money on purpose made food when he could use it to buy alcohol. Ida always had his leftovers, only he had been eating out last few weeks and was bringing nothing back for her. The sole purpose of her being there was to keep him company, so he wouldn't feel alone, and when he did that's when Ida was called over. She always did so with a wagging tail. When he was satisfied she was thrown back on the floor, pushed away to complete disregard. She woke up from a pleasant dream where he loved her and cared for her even when he didn't want to, just because she was special to him. But this was the real world. Who says dogs don't have dreams?
Her stomach was growling and she was weak, could barely walk. Lou had passed out drunk at the table again and she didn't dare make a sound, say for the light thumping and tapping of her paws and nails on the linoleum floor, not risking a beating. She climbed up on the second chair, the aluminum tube ones with the stiff vinyl cushions, looked up on the Formica table for something to eat. There was nothing but an ashtray full of cigarette butts, a glass, an empty bottle of cheap scotch and his book. She was so dehydrated her nose wasn't shiny, wet and cold the way dog noses are.
Lou was out for over fifteen hours. When he came to he removed his eyeglasses, rubbed the palms of his hands on his face and looked around confused. He realized he was still home and his dreaming of being a famous physicist was just that, a dream inspired by his reading. He called out for Ida. After a few minutes of staring out the window at old maroon and gray brick buildings he noticed the dog hadn't come over like she always does. He went to the bathroom to take a piss, washed his face and came back out calling out for Ida again. No answer.
When he found the carcass, cold and stiffening by now, he ran to it and held it up. He found a dried out discharge around the blank eyes of the dead animal and shed a single tear of his own. His heart sank and his body quivered, not at the realization that his Ida was dead, but the fact that he was now completely by himself, probably for good. He went out to get another bottle of booze and as he locked the door behind him he mused "I wonder what the bitch really thought of me..."
Ende.