The World’s Been Ending for A Few Thousand Years

Seymour died today. He was the family dog. We hadn’t had him for too long. Seymour came from the SPCA; and they told me that he was a “low-energy pal”. That seemed okay, considering we weren’t going to give him much exercise at home anyway. I’m always working and my wife is indifferent to dogs. Our son, Troy, is a junior in high school. He doesn’t really talk to us anymore except when he needs money or wants to borrow the car.

It was a rash decision, really, getting that dog. He was a Christmas gift to all of us, from Santa — or so said the tag I had pinned on his bed. When my wife walked downstairs that morning, Seymour was asleep on his back, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. He didn’t even notice us come in. I stood in the living room and smiled proudly. “His name is Seymour,” I said.

“Seymour,” my wife replied quietly. “Our Seymour.”

A few minutes later, Troy came down and laid eyes the dog. My eyes bugged out and I strained my jaw, rolling it back and forth like I had a marble between my molars. His pubescent voice caused Seymour’s ears to perk up. He said, “You got us a dog? Mom hates dogs.”
“No,” I said. “She doesn’t hate dogs, do you, Bonnie?”
“Your father named the dog Seymour,” she said as she walked out of the room.

— -

I don’t know why I chose Seymour. He was an indeterminable amalgam of breeds; and had no discernable qualities that most would desire in a dog. His legs were too short to run with any speed and his ears were long enough to flap in his face when he laid down. He was a stubborn ass, total hell to walk on a leash. He grunted like a boar when he ate and had a bark like tires screeching on the highway. He growled at the black mailman and pissed by the front door if we were gone too long. Seymour was an all-American shit-hound. My son didn’t even look at him most days.

It was my friend’s idea to get a dog. Russ, who works with me at the refinery, said that a dog would bring the family together again. He had bought a dog for his wife just after her mother died. Apparently she perked right up- that’s what Russ said.
No one had died in our family; but things had just grown stale. In the past year, Troy had stopped playing baseball, the thing we used to do together. “Something different,” that’s what he told me he wanted to do.
“What does that even mean?” I asked him.
“What does what mean?” he replied. I let the question hang still in the air until Troy walked out of the room.

On occasion, I would try to get Troy to throw the ball around with me if we were both home and had nothing else to do. He did it once recently but I think it will be the last time. I attempted to ask him a few questions about school and if he was dating anyone. “These are things fathers ask their sons,” I said. He gave me short answers and used the word “nothing” a lot. To his credit, he was nice enough to hit the ten-minute mark before saying he had to go meet up with some friends. Then he asked if he could borrow the car. I stood in the road in front of the house and watched him drive away.

Russ couldn’t believe that the dog hadn’t solved everything.
“Hey, Bud. Give it some time. Plan a family outing. Go to the river. Bring the dog. Bud, give it time.”

— -

My wife always called it “your dog” whenever she told me that Seymour was shedding too much or that he had dug a hole in the backyard. Once I saw her bend down and smile as she patted Seymour on the head. When she saw me smiling, she pushed the dog away and got the broom to start sweeping the hair that had fallen off. “Hair everywhere”, she muttered.

Things hadn’t been the same since Troy was five. We realized that we couldn’t have another child and I think she carried that disappointment. “Bonnie, I love you. You know that, right?” I would say when I noticed her sad eyes returning. “Sure, yes, I know,” she would always say.

The disappointment has weighed hard on me too. The anxiety still eats away at my stomach lining when I lay down to sleep. For the last six years, I have taken up residency in the guestroom so that I don’t keep Bonnie awake with my tossing and turning. I remember when it finally hit a breaking point. Lying in bed one night, I finally said, “Hey, I can’t sleep. I can’t ever sleep. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’m going to the guest room until I calm down, okay?” I said.
“If Troy asks, I will handle it,” she replied.
“He ought to know”.

— -

Seymour was a can of chunky potato soup with legs. His bulbous torso, corpulent and rotund, was pock-marked with growths and scars and goiters. The folks at the SPCA told me he was found wandering in the woods near the abandoned coal mine, having survived for months on carrion and creek water. They were able to remove the tumors and cure the mange, but they couldn’t fix the yellowing in his eyes. They also told me that Seymour would have thyroid issues for the rest of his life, which could be anywhere from one to fifteen years. “One to fifteen years,” I said. “Hey, I can live with that.”

“One to fifteen years, dear. What do you think?” I told my wife that first Christmas morning.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll make some soup for dinner tonight.”
“Hey, some potato soup sounds great. This is our family now. I love you,” I said.
“Troy used to love dogs,” she said. “Now he loves skateboarding and things I haven’t heard of.”
“He said he wants to do something different,” I replied.
“But how will we know when it’s different enough?”
I looked at Seymour. His speckled belly, sprinkled with little grey wispy hairs, rose and fell with his rhythmic breaths. My mouth fell open and my stomach turned over.
“I bet he still loves dogs,” I said.

— -

Russ came over for a beer after work last night. He wanted to see the dog. He just couldn’t believe that our family was still having problems.
“It’s such a good-looking dog.” he kept saying. “If I could take him home myself, you’d best believe I would. Fine dog, Bud. Just fine. Handsome.”
Russ would grab the dog by the jowls and lower his head to stare directly into Seymour’s yellow, cloudy eyes.
“Seymour. You’re a damn fine dog. Yes, you, dog. Fine, fine.”
We sat on the back porch and drank Miller’s while we waited for dinner to be ready. Troy came home and tried to go straight up to his room.
“Son,” I said to him, “Come say hey to Russ.”
Troy came down and gave a begrudging hello. As he turned to leave Russ said “Seymour is sure special, ain’t he? I’ll bet you’re real glad your dad got him, ain’t you?”
“Sure.” Troy said as he walked away.

I drank five beers before Bonnie came out to say that dinner was ready. She offered Russ to stay and eat.
“Well, I don’t want to impose,” he said. “I’ve done a number on your Miller’s already.”
Bonnie darted her eyes at the pile of empty beer cans. She turned away without saying anything. She took all of the Miller from my insides away with her. I felt like a bride without her wedding dress.
“It’s really no trouble to have you,” I said. “Stay and eat with us.”
“Well, okay then. Thanks, Bud. I’ll stay, sure.”

Troy came down while we were in the middle of dinner. He grabbed a plate of spaghetti and left the room. Seymour waddled in and planted himself with a loud thud at Russ’ feet. “This dog,” he said, beaming.
Russ spent the next fifteen minutes complimenting my wife on her cooking. “Damn fine pasta, Bonnie. I tell you. Say, has anyone told you how good your cooking is? I could eat this sauce all day. It’s just great.”
“How is your wife, Russ?” Bonnie said.
I stood up to get another beer. Seymour rolled over on his back and groaned, shaking the whole kitchen floor. Our forks and knives rattled loudly on the empty plates. Russ looked at Seymour and grinned before turning back to Bonnie.
“Oh, Darcy is fine. Sure. I mean, I guess it depends on what you mean by that word. We split up a few months back. Well, she left, that is. Didn’t take anything except the dog. Haven’t heard much from her other than a call from her new apartment, letting me know that when I sell the house that she wants her half. I don’t know. I had a feeling it was coming. Our son thinks the world has come to an end. But he’s in college now so I figure he’ll soon learn that the world’s been ending for a few thousand years. He’s majoring in business finance, so he’ll be fine. Reckon he’ll have to face the music in a few weeks when the semester ends for the summer. I wonder if he’ll even come home.”

I looked at my wife. She was staring off into the hallway that leads to the front door. Seymour had his face buried in Russ’ lap. He was scratching Seymour behind the ears vigorously. He continued, “And she won’t tell me why she left but I think we know. I tell you, Bonnie, I thought I had her with the dog. Really. I thought she would stay and look at me with love again after she saw how I can still get her things she enjoys.”
“Let me get you another Miller, Russ.” I said.

I got one for Russ and myself. I drank most of mine on the walk back to the kitchen. By the time I sat down, my wife had turned to look at Russ again. Her eyes were fixed on the movements of his mouth. Her hand was perched, with her fingers covering the side of her cheek. Her eyes were wide like saucers. The hand that held her wine was trembling slightly. I stared at Bonnie’s eyes and wondered when the last time she affixed them so intently on me. Russ was talking but, for the life of me, I couldn’t make out any of the words he was saying. Seymour let out a loud, congested snort that startled me out of the trance.

Russ took a huge swig from his beer. My wife refilled her wine glass and said “I’m so sorry, Bud.”
“Hey, let’s not spoil this great night any more than we always have,” Bud smiled and gave Seymour a loud slap on his fleshy underbelly. After giving him a few more scratches under the chin, Seymour sauntered into the living room and flopped down hard on his bed. The whole house trembled and the walls in the kitchen all cracked. Bonnie’s wine glass toppled over; its contents spilled across the table and into my lap.

I took a long drink from my beer and stared at the table, wine dripping slowly to the floor between my feet. Russ clanked his empty beer can down and said “Yes sir, Bud. That’s a damn fine dog you’ve got there.”