Oogy_ The Dog Only a Family Could Love - Larry Levin [1]
I return to the family room and turn on both the front and rear sets of lights halfway. This time, Oogy lifts his head and looks at me. He is still somewhat distant with sleep, but welcome shines in his eyes like candles. His tail thumps softly against the back of the couch. Smiling, I walk over to him and sit on the arm of the sofa, trace my fingers against the thickness of his neck. I touch the well of power just behind there, high on his back between his shoulders. His strength never ceases to amaze me. It seems almost incompatible with his gentle nature.
“Hello, doggy boy,” I murmur. “You’re a lucky dog, you’re a good doggy. You’re a good boy. A good boy. Thank you for protecting the boys last night. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that anymore.” I bend over him and touch my nose to a spot just behind his neck. He makes that grunting sound that signifies absolute contentment; when I lift my face from between his shoulders, he raises his head and licks my nose. In return, I nuzzle the side of his face that still has an ear.
“I’ve got to get everyone going,” I tell him. “You and I will go out later, okay?”
He cocks his head, the ear standing up at alert. I cup it with one hand and knead it gently. I have been told that there are many nerve endings in a dog’s ears and that by rubbing them, one can relax the whole dog. Because Oogy has only one ear, the task is simplified, but at the same time it raises some odd questions. Can only half of Oogy get relaxed by rubbing his remaining ear? If so, would that be his right side, the side that still has an ear? Or are dogs left-eared and right-eared the way humans are left- and right-brained, so that his right ear controls the left side of his body? Clearly, there are many things about dogs that I have yet to learn.
“Don’t get excited just yet,” I caution him. “There are things that I need to get done before we can party.” When I rise he does, too, stretching with a soft grunt. Then he reverses himself and curls up with his head next to Dan’s hip. He sighs contentedly before he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep again.
Neither boy has moved. “Yo,” I say to them. “Time for breakfast. Who’s having what?”
There is no response.
“Breakfast time,” I repeat, a little louder. From the incoherent mumbling that rises briefly in response, I determine that the boys have lived through the night, although it is still impossible to tell whether they may have entered into permanent vegetative states.
“Breakfast orders, please,” I repeat, louder still.
“Don’t yell!” Noah moans without lifting his head from the pillow or even turning it in my direction.
“I’m not yelling,” I explain. “This would be yelling!” Oogy’s head jerks up, trying to understand whether he should be concerned about the change in timbre. I drop my voice back to normal. “I’m just trying to get your attention.” Oogy’s head goes back on the pillow, reacting to the sound of my voice as though controlled by a string. His ear flops over against the side of his head.
I manage to get the boys’ breakfast requests, then turn on the TV for them as I head out the door. Back in the kitchen, I glance out the window. The light is dim, the sky overcast and cloudy, as though freighted with rain. I put water into a pot, add some milk and a little salt, and then drop in a few raisins to fatten in the water as it boils. After securing the lid and striking a match, I ignite the gas burner; the blue flame pops up. I wrap four strips of bacon in a paper towel and place them on a plate in the microwave, then set the timer for three minutes and thirty seconds. Every brand of bacon has a different cook time for the same number of strips. Then there’s the variable of how long the bacon has been in the refrigerator