The Dead Dog

The hallway motion-sensor light lit up the moment I stepped onto the mat, its warm yellow glow washing over the third shelf of the shoe rack. The toe of the brown leather shoe on the left was smeared with fresh mud, and a half-dried plane tree leaf clung to the heel—not mine. As I bent down to change my shoes, Duffy's tail brushed the back of my hand, carrying the evening breeze that had just rushed in from the balcony, his moist nose nuzzling my wrist. Ten years. He has grown from a palm-sized puppy into a big dog nearly reaching my waist, his front paws resting on the shoe cabinet as he tilts his head and looks at me. His paws left four faint prints on the floor, then he hurriedly lifted them, curling his tongue to lick away the dirt and sand caught between his toes—I've loathed dirty floors for the longest time, and he's remembered that habit for ten years. "Noah Shaw, come here." Windy Scott's voice drifted in from the living room, sharp as an ice pick tapping against glass. I stuffed my canvas shoes onto the lowest shelf of the shoe rack. The heel struck the wood with a dull thud, the little dog embroidered on the tongue crushed out of shape — the same one I had a tailor stitch when Duffy first came home. The living room's ceiling light was set to its brightest, glaring white. Owen Lewis sat in the center of the sofa, legs apart, twirling a fountain pen in his hands. Silver-gray barrel, the cap engraved with a tiny "Noah" — bought with my first manuscript payment, its shaft polished shiny by my thumb; I kept it on my bedside table even while I slept. My knuckles turned white from gripping tightly, the keychain in my jeans pocket pressed into my palm; the metal pendant was a silver dog paw. "Why is he here?" Owen Lewis is Windy Scott's assistant; for the past three months, his presence has loomed over this house. Last week, I saw his stomach medicine in the fridge's preservation compartment—a foil pack missing three pills; The week before last, I found a bottle of men's shower gel added to the bathroom shelf, lemon-scented and clashing with my usual cedar; and today, he was sitting in the seat meant for me, twirling my pen. "Noah Shaw, mind your tone." Windy Scott sat on the single armchair, a bone china coffee cup spinning between her fingers. Milk foam clung to the rim of the cup and her lower lip; she flicked her tongue to lick it off without raising her eyelids. "Owen Lewis is helping me with the documents. He'll be staying in the guest room later." Duffy suddenly growled low at Owen Lewis, a warning rumble rolling from his throat. His ears flattened against the back of his head, tail tucked tightly, and his front paws scraped twice on the floor, claws leaving fine scratches. Three years ago, when it shielded the manuscript pages smashed by Windy Scott, it held the very same posture. Owen Lewis recoiled behind Windy Scott in fright, his elbow hitting the coffee table; ice cubes clinked inside the glass. "Ms. Scott, this dog is so fierce..." His voice wavered, eyes fixed tightly on Duffy's bared canine teeth, his Adam's apple moving up and down. "It's just an animal." Windy Scott set down her coffee cup; its bottom struck the table with a sharp clink. She lifted her eyes, her gaze sweeping over me coldly, as though I were an inconvenient piece of furniture. "Get rid of it." Blood "buzzed" rushing up to my head. I stepped forward half a pace, shielding Duffy behind me. His body trembled, yet his tail still gently brushed against my leg, warm breaths puffing on the back of my hand — every time Windy Scott and I quarreled before, he comforted me like this. "What did you say? Duffy has been with us for ten years!" "I said, send him away." Windy Scott stood up, the heels of her stiletto sandals tapping sharply on the floor, like a countdown. She tugged at the sleeve of her silk blouse, revealing a diamond bracelet on her wrist. "Owen Lewis is afraid of dogs. Do you choose him, or a dog?" I looked at her. Married for three years, she always said the stories I wrote had a "small perspective," said I didn't understand her company's quarterly reports, said I couldn't even tell the vintage of red wine — I endured all of it. But I never imagined she could be so heartless. "I'm not giving it to you." My voice tightened, my back pressed against Duffy's head, feeling its rapid breaths. "If you want to leave, then leave." Windy Scott smiled, the corners of her mouth lifted, but there was not a trace of warmth in her eyes. "Noah Shaw, make this clear." She raised her hand, her fingertip tracing the property deed on the coffee table, her nails painted a bright red. "This house was bought outright by the Scott Family, the shirt you're wearing was bought by my assistant just last week, and even the computer you use to write that nonsense was discarded by me." She leaned forward, the scent of perfume flooding over me. "On what basis do you bargain with me?" That night, I locked Duffy in the bedroom and bolted the door. It lay at the bedside, resting its head on my slippers, its tongue briefly flicking out to lick the back of my hand. I sat on the floor, back against the door, listening to Owen Lewis and Windy Scott whispering in the living room, like two cockroaches gnawing on something.