Together, in the Golden Hour

BIGGEST ONE LEAPS OFF THE GROUND, shakes the house, bellows with forced levity. “You’ll never guess where it’s made!”

Hair Scrunchie’s gaze goes soft. “So, the obvious places are out.”

“Yep. You’ll never guess.”

Other Dog whines from a crate that’s different from the one she’s normally in. She’s bigger than Sick Dog, so normally gets the bigger crate. But Sick Dog is wearing a neck cone, and the door on the smaller crate’s too narrow for her to get the plastic shielding past.

Potty Trained’s bladder expands, playing with trains, instead of urinating.

“What letter does it start with?”

Biggest One’s gaze goes hard. “No, you’ll get it too easy.”

“Where?”

Suddenly, a FedEx truck. From behind the bars, Other Dog barks. Sick Dog trots toward what she thinks is the front door. But she is on drugs, from the surgery, and ends up in the bathroom. Hair Scrunchie follows, tripping on railroad tracks.

Knocking. Biggest One says, “What the fuck,” quietly, and it feels good, to say that, to lock eyes with Potty Trained and raise both eyebrows, letting Potty Trained know that what goes on, in the house, day-to-day, is just the tip of the iceberg. Then, a guilty feeling, on the way to open the door. After all, Biggest One is an adult, is the biggest one in the family, shouldn’t need to remind a child who’s in charge. But the kid has been peeing his pants lately and nobody can keep up with the laundry because something’s up with the electrical.

Sick Dog is scrounging next to the toilet, where Potty Trained must have dropped some crackers. Hair Scrunchie says, “No,” sternly, partly because Sick Dog is only supposed to eat kibble soaked in warm water for ten minutes, and partly because there weren’t supposed to be any deliveries today, specifically no interruptions today, and now, less than an hour after Sick Dog has returned from the vet, the peaceful environment that Hair Scrunchie had taken time to setup, is ruined.

Biggest One, turning the knob, imagines the delivery is a new smoke detector, the third one ordered in as many months, each replacement shrilling for a split second, in the middle of the night, because something’s up with the electrical. Hair Scrunchie believes it’s seeds, ordered in bulk, since the microwave won’t work right and wouldn’t it be great for the family to grow food for themselves, because something’s up with the electrical. Potty Trained hopes it’s a new flashlight, since the current one is way too weak to see exactly what is going on inside the circuit panel, and flipping the switches back and forth when no one’s looking is getting boring.

Sick Dog coughs on a crumb, bleeds onto the stepstool. Other Dog bites her own paw.

FedEx driver is holding a small box. Biggest One’s gaze goes stunned. “I always waive the signature.”

“Not this one.” FedEx driver’s gaze goes far, past the door, past the living room, to the double latch of the wire crate. Other Dog howls, which FedEx driver has heard plenty before, but hasn’t actually seen Other Dog, until now. Other Dog looks smaller than the sound she makes. FedEx driver’s gaze goes farther, past the walls of the house, through the woods, through Vermont, New York, Pennsylvania, past the relieved sigh of getting beyond Dayton’s city limits, Route 49 northwest, the hour mark, if driving fast, to Redkey, Indiana, where FedEx driver grew up and until last December was living with and engaged to Treble Clef Tat. The couple planned on getting a dog, before getting married, and it was FedEx Driver’s job to choose a crate. FedEx Driver searched and searched online, but couldn’t find one made in the USA, and had decided, as of late, apropos of a certain kind of burgeoning political awareness, that it was very important to only buy one that was made in the USA. Treble Clef Tat kept bookmarking dogs that were up for adoption, only to have them scooped up by other, maybe inked, loving arms. Treble Clef Tat said, “This is something we agreed to do, together.” And FedEx Driver said, “I posted a question on the Tractor Supply site, but no one responded, look.” And it was true, FedEx Driver had written, “This crate doesn’t say where it was manufactured, what country?” And no one had responded. FedEx Driver said, “I know people are active here, because look.” And FedEx Driver showed Treble Clef Tat a question that had been asked, after FedEx Driver’s question. The question was, “Is the wire heavy gauge?” And someone with the username Hot Gas replied, “Yes, I foster German Shepherds and none of them have yet to bite through.”

They broke up a few months before the wedding. Now FedEx Driver is here, in New England, and suspects the crate in the house was made somewhere else, far away. Biggest One signs for the package and raises both eyebrows, but not as high as the demonstration for Potty Trained, since FedEx Driver is actually bigger than Biggest One. FedEx Driver walks slowly down the stoop, pulls carefully away from the driveway, but stops at the top of the hill.

Hair Scrunchie joins Biggest One by the open door, watching the unmoving truck. They open the package, together, in the golden hour.

It is a soft neck cone, a recovery collar, from Biggest One’s mother. “Did you tell my mom about the surgery?”

Hair Scrunchie’s gaze goes close, almost cross-eyed, inspecting the drawstring. “We’ll need to cut that, I think.”

Other Dog accidentally nudges the latch, while biting her own foot, and the gate, having not been locked, swings open a bit. She nudges it more, then slips out, picks up speed, bursts through the threshold, toward the truck.

“Candyland,” says Potty Trained, underwear soaked, coming out of the bathroom, misreading the stamp that says Made in Canada, Sick Dog’s old neck cone around a human throat.