The white-haired man, who lived on the second floor, had a white miniature schnauzer. I thought that interesting. He flagged me down while I was out walking Schotze out front of our apartment building, and I’d try to avoid him and all other dog-walkers because the ensuing small talk is awkward and forced and “What’s your dog’s name?” and “What kind of dog is she?” and “Is it a she?”
But Schotze stopped to shit, and I was stuck with Sam. His little white schnauzer lunged forward at Schotze, pulling the line tight and nearly out of the man’s hands.
For the record, my dog is a schnauzer; he is gray; he doesn’t bark or shed; he is the fucking man.
Sam’s chirping dog barked and barked and barked at mild-mannered Schotze, who had seemingly gotten used to this annoyance. He eyed her confusingly. ‘The fuck you barking at, asshole?”, I imagined him saying. This made me smile.
“Hush now, he’s a friend of yours”, Sam said, which is always funny. When people talk to their dogs like real people. And just like that, Sam was in full dog conversation again, commenting about schnauzers and their intelligence. I nodded, yes, I totally agree.
Then, I whipped a small plastic bag open and filled it with my dog’s gooey shit.
He was a slim guy, 70s maybe, with a European accent. Tucked his polo shirts into his seersucker shorts. All those elements hinted at money, but I wasn’t sure where that assumption was coming from. He had a wife, I think. They’d sit together on their porch, and I’d wave as I came out, Lilly barking from above, forcing her muzzle through the gaps in the white railing. Schotze, having no concept of up or down, would dart back and forth at the sound of her menacing growls, scanning the bushes for the source, finding nothing before settling for a piss on the iron-gate entryway.
Of course, during our last dog conversation, I never mentioned Schotze’s lack of intelligence, how he’s borderline manic-depressive, how he sleeps in my brother’s closet all damn day because he’s afraid of my guitar playing, umbrellas, dark trash bags, basically any loud noises and sudden movements.
And just when Schotze was about to tear into Lilly’s neck, I excused myself from the torturous small talk, pulling my dog down the sidewalk, Sam tugging Lilly out of Schotze’s ass.
After several weeks, the cops kicked the door down and found that Sam had done himself in. That’s what my brother had heard anyway.
I didn’t ask how Sam did it, but isn’t that the next obvious question?
The blinds are drawn at Sam’s apartment, and I wonder if he closed them or his family did once they moved his things out. The porch chairs are gone, and I think of his wife, girlfriend, sister, whoever that woman was and when she got the call.
Schotze pisses on the gate and stuffs his nose into random spots in the grass. I think of Lilly, and where that little bastard is calling home now.
I didn’t know Sam’s real name, and he didn’t know mine. Our talks were limited to schnauzers, and lasted no longer than it did for our dogs to relieve themselves, and then off we went, back to our regularly scheduled lives.
And, yeah, in hindsight I could’ve said more, could’ve put an end to the monotonous dog chatter and just stuck out my hand. “I’m Lou. I live upstairs.”
But fuck me. Fuck me and my unwillingness to try swimming off my little island for two minutes. Then I would at least know him by name, and not as the white-haired man from downstairs, who chose to die alone in his apartment with a hungry white dog nearby.
