We Always Trust Each Other, Except For When We Don’t

When Brock came inside today, I thought his foot looked weird.  He thought so too.  We both stood there in the kitchen just off the back porch looking at each other. Brock considers his weird foot for a second or two before returning his attention to me and asking without asking:so what now, chief?

Brock is a 6-year-old Vizsla, probably 50-some pounds which makes him little undersized for a pointer, but damn’d if he isn’t scrappy as hell.  A lady I know who does Vizslas for a living always says: they certainly got a little edge to em, that’s for sure.

Brock has a lot of edge to him but he still relies on me to have an answer in circumstances such as this one.

So what now, chief?

So now here we are, buddy.  He sits over there in the sun, watching me.  I stand across the kitchen floor, nearer to the hallway, watching him watch me.  It’s pretty clear we are both intensely evaluating the situation we have here.

The first problem I can see now is that his odd little limp is due to the fact that he’s somehow managed to crack�"but not completely sever�"one of his longer rear toenails from the look of it, halfway down, leaving the nail cocked inward and sort of crazily knurled.  It really looks more like a claw out of a scary monster movie.

The second problem I can see is that Brock absolutely, positively f****n hates his feet being touched.

I walk over his way so that I can get a closer look at him and kneel down so that I can be on his level.  He draws his ears back and, to me, he looks sheepish and Chiroptera-like�"that means he kind of looks like a f****n bat when he does that thing with his ears.  I can tell he’s almost apologizing to me, like he’s saying: you know I love you, man.  But if you touch that nail, we’re gonna have a problem.

Brock sucks in a deep breath and sort of like snorts it back out half through his nose, all the while never taking his eyes off me.  My wife, Jenni, says that he’s got little boy eyes.

I tell him he isn’t going to like this but it’s not going to hurt and I promise him that�"though I can see the reservation he has about this whole ordeal in general.  I tell him I just want to assess the damage, that’s all.  There’s no trace of blood on the floor, so that’s a plus, right off.

I slide my left hand under his collar and gently clutch at- and then release- the fur around the scruff of his neck to test the waters before I do anything else, itching real hard behind his ears and jaws like he likes.  He’s not stupid, so he knows all this itching is a bribe.

He trusts me and I trust him, but goddamn does he just really hate his feet being touched, and he and I have simply come to a basic, overall understanding about this.

After another few seconds of each one of us sizing up the situation, with respect to the whole change in proximity to one another thing, I firmly�" though not roughly, just firmly�"take hold of his collar.

He snorts at me again�"his eyes, unblinking.

With his collar secured in my left hand, I reach my right hand down and gently touch his funky nail, probing around to see what all we’re potentially dealing with here.  Brock lets me know he’s only gonna tell me once to mind my Ps and Qs with a real deep, guttural growl that’s not too loud because we understand one another that way.  

No need to go getting loud about it.  But he’s not really in the business of repeating himself either.

I’m just tellin you I’m not really all that keen on this, chief, that growl of his says.

I cinch up a little bit on his collar and his growl turns up a couple notches on the volume knob.  But like I said, we trust each other.  We trust each other as much as a man and a dog can when faced with a situation that calls for addressing the reality of what’s happening or what needs to happen.

We always trust each other�"that is�"until the time comes when we don’t.

The toenail/claw’s definitely in a predicament.  That much is certain.  Brock’s somehow managed to crack it, twist it all up six ways from Sunday but, of course, not enough to where that little sonofabitch shows even an inkling of separating.  It’s still firmly attached somehow, almost as if it’d grown that way on its own. Gnarly.

The instant I take my hand away from his foot, he starts licking all over my hand.  Water under the bridge, he says.  I shift my weight to my haunches and he more or less does the same damn thing I do�"rearing up on his own little haunches�"putting his front paws on my chest and licking my face.

No hard feelings, right, chief?

I scratch his head and reassure him we’re five-by-five and good to go.  When I stand up, he stretches big, wagging his stumpy Vizsla tail and yawns before he returns to that perfect sithe’s got.  What now? his expression asks me.  Good question, I say.

I should probably admit here that the reason Brock hates his feet being touched is just about all my fault.

When he was real young, just a pup, I’d trimmed his toenails a little too short on more than one occasion, and let me just tell you this: Brock was a little bleeder if I’ve ever seen one!  The bleeding that’d usually result meant Brock and his bloody nail, cut to the quick, got to spend some time confined to the shower so he didn’t get blood all over the light-colored carpet, while I went to fetch some stypic powder for his mangled paw.

Thus, he and I’s overall understanding about his feet and my relation to them.

So now we wait.  We’re back to where we started, he and I looking at each other: him looking at me for instructions and me needlessly scratching my head while I try to think.

And then I finally say to him�"because the look he’s giving me convinces me that he understands�"I say to him: OK, you have about two hours till your mom gets home.  You can take care of this yourself or she and I are gonna take care of it later.

I give Brock this first option because he frequently chews his toenails, which, when you actually watch him, you can’t help but find it pretty f****n adorable�"totally unlike when you see people in public places chewing their nails.  That s**t’s just disgusting.  But Brock only chews on the back ones and if he catches you watching him, he gets embarrassed and stops immediately.

He eats the clippings too, so there’s never any mess to clean up which, I admit, is part of the overall appeal of letting him taking care of it.  The other part is that I don’t have to touch his feet.

Two hours pass and Brock has, by default, decided his time would be better spent curled up on the couch letting the sun bathe him in the warm and lazy glow of afternoon light while he nods off, rather than addressing his crazy toenail himself.  I peaceably acquiesce to his decision; it’s his toenail.

The sound of the garage door jounces him awake, at which exact point in time he gives me a look that says�"in no certain terms�"Oh s**t…  He and I understand each other that way and he knows it’s time to deal with things.

Neither one of us is looking forward to this.

Jenni comes inside and we say hi and I break down the situation for her, just giving her the essential bullet points leading up to this specific minute.

Brock never leaves his corner of the couch.  The paralyzing effect the warm sunlight has on him proves too much for him to overcome, even in the face of arguably his worst fear and so he simply lies there, waiting for whatever fate has in store for him. He’s accepted it.

I hand Jenni the canine toenail clippers and walk over to Brock who’s immediately showcasing his bat-ears again.  And like earlier, his gaze stays locked on me, unfaltering.  He’s, of course, long-since revoked and all toenail clipping authority where I am concerned.

OK buddy, I say, let’s do this.

His expression is inscrutable, stolid.

I sit down beside him and scratch his batty ears.  This has become a ritual, one he’s totally stopped buying into.  I apologize to him and then easily rotate his smallish 50-some-pound body to where he’s ostensibly sitting in my lap�"his back to my chest like he’s a child�"his hind legs sticking straight out.

His deep growl returns briefly but this time it’s all for show.  What he’s doing is saving face.

In half the time it took me to examine his paw, initially, Jenni has the hangnail clipped, trimmed and normal looking.

Just like that, it was all over.

Brock springs from the couch and gives his pedicured toenail a few customary licks, shakes his entire body as though he’s soaked in a layer of imaginary wetness, and off he bounds, up the stairs.

No hard feelings.  He’ll probably have forgotten all about it in ten minutes. Unconditional love.

Except for the next time I try to touch his feet.

Reviews

[Pareidolia]

This story is wonderful: easy-on-the-eyes language, stellar sentences, and a great story that I could relate to perfectly.

[deeps]

I really enjoyed this story, so much wisdom in this.
This is a very well written story as well.
You are a very powerful writer.