Dumpster Dogs

            by Sara Wilson

 

“Elizabeth, your alarm clock’s going off,” shouted my roommate Christina from the doorway.  I moaned and rolled out of my warm cocoon of blankets.  I turned the alarm off, grabbed my hairbrush, and stumbled out to the kitchen.  Christina was chipper as always on her five hours of sleep, chattering about her next performance and the pieces she would sing.  I tried to listen but all my attention was focused on the coffee maker and brushing out my waist length hair.  Christina had put on a Pavarotti CD and started making waffles, her blond hair done up in Heidi braids. 

Later, as I neared the corner I met up with my friend Andrew from work.  I was five foot eight, but at six five, he managed to make me feel very short.  We were two very junior members of the museum staff. 

My job at the Oglethorpe Museum of Daily Life consisted largely of sorting through documents and managing inventory, although I really wanted to help design an exhibit.  If I was very lucky I might get to read through old diaries and old documents, but that was generally left to more senior members of the museum staff. 

 “Elizabeth, could you make artifact descriptions in the clothing section?”   my boss, Allan, asked. “Andrew can help you.”

After writing eighty overly detailed descriptions of bustle dresses and throwing wads of paper at Andrew, it was time to go home.  It had been a good day.  I had one-upped Andrew, who knew nothing about clothing.  He had only been at the museum a few months longer than I, but always seemed to land the less tedious jobs.  

On the way home I stopped to get mocha and kill time because I knew that Christina would be practicing.  While I loved Christina’s singing, listening to an operatic soprano at close quarters could be overwhelming.  I finished my mocha and walked around the back of the building to extend the walk. 

As I passed a dumpster I heard a muffled squeal.  The squeal turned into a whimper, followed by the sound of scratching against metal.  The sound led me back to the dumpster.  I gingerly lifted the lid and threw it back.  A torrent of yips greeted me along with the stench of rotten meat and banana peels.  When I looked in I saw four tiny grimy puppies, covered in coffee grounds and an unidentifiable gray goop. 

I pulled out my phone to call Christina. 

“Christina?” I said into my phone.  “I just found puppies in the dumpster behind ‘The Grind’.”

“What?” she shrieked.  “Hang on I’m coming down.”

“Could you bring something to carry them in…” I started, but she had already hung up. 

A moment later she appeared with two raggedy towels and a giant, dingy tote bag. 

“In there?” she asked pointing to the dumpster.  I nodded. 

“Oh, sweetie who put you in there?” she cooed as she lifted out a bedraggled black fluff ball out of the dumpster.  “Elizabeth, hold the towel open and wrap him up.” 

I tried to wrap the puppy up without touching my clothes but gave up after he started to squirm.  Christina pulled the other puppies out and wrapped them up.

“Do you think they were dumped?” I asked. 

“It sure looks like it.  My Grandma’s cleaning lady found her dog like this,” and to the puppy she was holding, “You need a bath.”

“Where are we taking them?” I asked.

“Home,” was Christina’s immediate response.

“Be we can’t have pets, and personally, I don’t want to be evicted.  I don’t think wriggling bags are very subtle.”

As we neared our building Christina handed me one handle of the tote.  “We’ll be fine,” she insisted.  We placed the puppies in the bag.  As I held the door for Christina, a tiny grumble escaped the bag. 

“Hurry!” I mouthed, frantically gesturing up the stairs.  She scampered past the landlord’s room and up the stairs. 

Inside our apartment we put the puppies in the kitchen sink. 

“Okay, umm, baby shampoo?”  I said, dashing into the bathroom. 

“We don’t have any,” Christina called over the sound of running water and whining puppies.  “Can’t you call someone and ask them to bring us a bottle?  I need help in here!” 

I went to the phone and called Andrew, explaining our predicament and would he please, please, please bring us a bottle of tearless baby shampoo and canned dog food? 

“Shampoo is on the way,” I said and began rubbing a wriggling puppy. 

Ten minutes later Andrew arrived bearing a bottle of baby shampoo. 

After much squirming, splashing, and rinsing, the three of us got them washed.  We blocked off the kitchen to keep the puppies off the carpet and sat on the floor to play with them. 

“What are you going to name them?” Andrew asked. 

“Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter,” said Christina sarcastically. 

Eventually it was decided.  The boys were Figaro and Alfredo, after the famous opera characters, and the girls were Mimi from La Boheme and Laska after Levin’s dog in Anna Karenina. 

“What are you going to do with them?” asked Andrew who was scratching the tummy of a sleeping Laska.  Christina and I looked at each other and back at Andrew. 

“Hide them?” I suggested.  Andrew stared incredulously at me.  “What else are we going to do?”  I asked, picking up Alfredo.  He was a fluffy little brown thing with ears that flopped over. 

“Can you take them, Andrew?” asked Christina hopefully.

“I can’t have pets in my apartment either,” he said.

* * *

 “Are you sure about this?” asked Christina as I carried two collapsible animal carriers out the door.

“Of course I’m not,” I said, glaring at her.  “But we can’t leave them here and you can’t take them to an International Phonetic Alphabet class.  Besides, Allan’s a dog person.” 

“Well good luck,” sighed Christina.  “And call me if there’s a problem.”

“Sure,” I smiled.  I wouldn’t of course.  She was too busy with her recital.  She was always too busy for everything.  When I met Andrew at the corner I handed him a whimpering carrier. 

He gave me a wry smile. 

“Elizabeth?” he said taking the carrier thrust at him.

“Oh be quiet,” I said and smacked him with my purse. 

We entered the museum, as usual, through the back door and put the carriers under my desk.  Mimi began to whimper.  Then Figaro, Laska, and Alfredo joined in. 

“Elizabeth?” Allan said, poking his head into the room.  “Is there something whimpering in there?  Oh, hello Andrew.” 

Andrew looked at me with a half anxious, half laughing expression. 

“Allan, I have to show you something,” I pulled out Figaro and placed him on my desk.  Allan’s eyes bugged an inch out of his head.

“I’m sorry Allan, but we knew you’d like to see them,” I said, noticing a lot of squirming at my feet. 

“They?” Allan sputtered. 

“Yes, well,” I said, pulled out the other three.

“She found them in a dumpster,” Andrew explained, suppressing a smile. 

“Yes, and I can’t leave them in my apartment because we can’t have pets and they make noise and my roommate has a class, so I really had no choice, see.”  At this point Andrew had hidden his hand behind his mouth, but his eyes were clearly laughing. 

Figaro began sniffing my pens and knocked them over in the process.

“OK, but only today,” Allan sighed. 

The next morning was Saturday, so naturally I was, naturally irritated to be woken before noon by a practicing Christina.  These at-home practice sessions were becoming more and more common and the neighbors always complained about it.

“Christina,” I moaned as I walked into the living room, “Couldn’t you get a practice room?  I’m sleeping.” 

“It’s the weekend Elizabeth.  They’re booked.  You look ridiculous by the way,” she said, referring, I assume to my morning slouch and hair. 

 I shuffled to the kitchen and tipped over the cardboard puppy barrier that I had devised.  The falling cardboard resulted in yips and squeals of surprise. 

“Hi poopies!” I cooed, mopping up a puddle with a paper towel and being mobbed by jumping furballs.  I washed my hands and had just put some bread in the toaster when the phone rang.

“May I speak to Christina?” I heard an irritated voice wheeze from the other end. 

“Sure,” I said after some hesitation. 

Mrs. Beehive I mouthed to Christina as I handed her the phone and poured myself coffee.  I buttered my toast and picked up Mimi to let her lick the butter off my fingers as Christina gave her usual weekend practicing explanations. 

“No, no.  I was singing to myself at night.  Yeah.  So it sounded squeaky,” I heard her say.  What?  I mouthed.  She grimaced as she hung up the phone. 

“You were squeaking in the middle of the night because of your singing,” I said tonelessly. 

“Well, I didn’t know what else to say!” she shot back.  “I’m sorry.  I’m just not sure what we’re going to do with these puppies.” 

“No, I get it.”  I picked up Figaro, who was gnawing at the table leg.  “Christina we can’t keep them here.  You know Beehive will tell Mr. Donaldson.”

“Not if they’re quiet,” she insisted.

“They’re not quiet, Christina,” I persisted.  “The Beehive heard them last night.”

“So she’s a crotchety old lady.  Plus she’s probably not home during the day.”

“Christina,” I said trying to control my voice, “If she’s cranky enough to call us about suspicious noise, then she probably sits around all day with nothing to do.  Plus all the neighbors hate us because they get sick of you practicing all the time.” 

Christina sucked in her lips. 

“I’m not trying to annoy people when I sing.  We talked to all of them before we took the apartment.”  Her voice shook slightly.  “Sometimes I don’t even notice that  I’m singing.  You know that, and I’m trying to get better.  I really am but it’s not like it’s easy.  What do you know about it anyway?  You knew I sang…” she buried her face in her hands. 

“Christina,” I said quietly, regretting my words.  “I love your singing.  You have a beautiful voice and someday you’ll have a fantastic career, and where will I be?  I’ll be an anonymous research worker or archivist.”  She turned away.  “I know I shouldn’t have said anything about your singing, but I just don’t think we can leave the dogs here.” 

“I used to think I was a good singer,” she said into a couch cushion, “because everybody said I had a beautiful voice.  But when I started taking lessons I learned about everything that’s wrong with it.  You have no idea how long that list is and when you read criticisms of even the best singers they’re so brutal.  They just rip them apart and the only singers who make it are the ones with willpower.” 

“Yes, so you can’t listen to people who say things like that.  I’m sure the neighbors love your voice, they just wish they could turn it on and off like the radio.” 

She nodded. 

“I’m just trying to be realistic about this.  If it’s the first time we’re caught with pets, Mr. Donaldson won’t evict us.  He’s really not a bad guy, and he knows people have secret pets in lots of apartment buildings, so we’ll leave them in the kitchen on Monday with lots of newspaper, like you suggested, and see what happens.  Okay?”  I said giving her a hug. 

“Okay,” she hiccupped.

* * *

When I opened the door coming home I was blasted with the smell of dog poop and piddle.  Four squealing, yipping little dogs ran at me.  I scanned the room slowly.  The puppy barrier meant to keep them in the kitchen had been knocked over.  The couch cushions were torn apart with stuffing sticking out, the chair legs had been gnawed on, the lamp was overturned and broken, and the carpet was covered in smeared poop and wet spots.  I dodged the spots and went across the room to the kitchen where I righted the barrier and herded the puppies back into the kitchen.  Why why why did I agree to leave them?  I knew of course, but I couldn’t help thinking that if only I hadn’t brought up her singing then I could have talked her out of it. 

I scooped up the poop, cleaned up the lamp and began to Lysol the offending patches of carpet.  I then obtained a carpet cleaner from the couple next door and set to work on the carpet.  When Christina got home she was shocked. 

“What happened to the lamp?” she asked. 

“Ask me about the carpet,” I said flatly. 

“Oh my god, they got out didn’t they?” she groaned.  “What should I be doing right now?”

“Write up a puppy ad for Craigslist,” I said. 

“But–” she started. 

“I know, it’s bad, but look at this place,” I said gesturing around the room. 

“I’m going to talk to Mr. Donaldson,” said Christina, setting down her bag. 

“What?” I squeaked.   

“If we don’t intend to keep them maybe he’ll let us keep them until we can find them homes and if worst comes to worst we can make Andrew take them for a day until we can sneak them back in,” and seeing my horrified expression “which I doubt will happen.”

While I waited for Christina to come back from talking to Mr. Donaldson I sat on the kitchen floor with the puppies.  Laska curled up in my lap and rested her golden muzzle on my arm.  Mimi was nestled up next to me and Figaro and Alfredo were playing tug-of-war with a dishrag. 

“We’re clear,” I heard Christina say as she shut the door.  “Elizabeth?”

“I’m here,” I said gloomily. 

“We’re clear,” she said again. 

“I heard you,” I sighed.  I stared at Figaro and Alfredo who were now busy growling and biting each other’s ears. 

Christina sat down next to me. 

“What are we going to say about them?” she asked scooping up Figaro and receiving a kiss on the nose.  “I know,” she said reading my thoughts.  “I don’t really want to get rid of them either.” 

“Yeah, but it’s also no like we have a choice,” I said. 

“They don’t really look like any dog breed that I know of,” she said.  “Shall we just call them ‘classic mutts’?” 

“I suppose.”

* * *

“Classic friendly mutt puppies” our ad read.  “Four charming mutts.  Spirited, playful, good-tempered.  Figaro, Alfredo, Mimi and Laska.”  We included a photo of each and insisted on interviewing everybody who was interested.  Andrew teased me about how we should demand visitation rights.  I smacked him with my purse.