Oogy_ The Dog Only a Family Could Love - Larry Levin [2]
The pulsing of the water in the coffeemaker is accompanied by a sighing sound from inside it, as though, resignedly, it is finishing its assigned task. I hear the volume of the TV rise and make a quick foray back to the family room. Both boys are sitting up on the old couch now, facing the TV; a sports talk show is on. They are, to be generous about it, half-awake, each wrapped in a comforter, looking like refugees. Behind them, his head directly above and between where their shoulders touch, Oogy sits alert, watching me. Illuminated by the murky light behind them, the outlines of Oogy and the boys blur together; they look like one being, a three-headed mutant.
On the way out of the room, I push the light switch toggles all the way on in hopes that it will help the boys to wake up. I walk to the foot of the stairs and yell up to Jennifer, who reluctantly confirms that she is, in fact, awake. Her voice sounds muffled, as though she’s under a blanket. I return to the kitchen, where I am once again buoyed by the smell of the coffee. I pull Oogy’s food bowl from the drainer in the sink and prepare his breakfast, after which I place it on the floor by the water dish. By now, the water in the pot is boiling. I add some cinnamon and rolled oats to the pot, stirring the contents until the mixture starts to thicken, then I turn down the flame. I hit the button on the microwave to start the bacon cooking, open the toaster oven and slide two muffins inside. I am the maestro of the breakfast symphony. I put sugar on the tray for Noah’s oatmeal and some maple syrup into a glass for Dan to add to his. I pour Noah a glass of cranberry juice and a glass of nonfat milk; Dan gets some orange juice and a glass of milk as well. Each boy gets a multivitamin and, thanks to their sports injuries, two of the same joint pills I give Oogy for his aching knees.
The coffeemaker emits an electronic death rattle to signify its task is complete just as Jennifer wanders into the kitchen in pajamas and a flannel robe. We exchange morning greetings. She has an 8:30 meeting she has not yet prepared for, so she needs to get going. I assure her that everything is under control. She pours herself a cup of coffee, adds milk from a plastic quart, and heads back upstairs after stopping by the family room to check on the boys. I return the milk to the fridge and pour myself a steaming cup of coffee as well. Then I take a sip, black, unsweetened, feeling it slide down to my feet and shoot back up to my brain; it seems to resound like a hammered weight striking the gong at the top of a “Test Your Strength” game at a cartoon carnival. I am officially awake.
The microwave beeps. Before I pull out the bacon, I stir the oatmeal one last time and turn off the range. I dry the bacon in another set of paper towels and heat the maple syrup in the microwave. After I drop the paper towels in the trash, I add a few dollops of ammonia to the bag to mask the odor and deter Oogy from rooting around inside. Then I hear the soft click of toenails on the tile floor and look up to see Oogy standing by the swinging door to the kitchen. His forelegs look almost comically bowed because of the massive bunched muscles and the enormous square chest from which they stem. His feet appear oversize compared with the rest of his body; he looks as if he is wearing doggy clown shoes. I walk over to him, and he leans his head against my leg. I rub him behind his ear. I rub the little black hole where his left ear used to be, then bend over and, with my nose on his neck, rub the ropelike muscles on either side. Oogy makes “chuffing” sounds like a small steam engine. He is happy.
“You’re a good doggy,” I tell him. “You’re the best doggy.” I mean that, and he knows I mean that. “You’re in a special place. Aren’t you a lucky dog? I know that it’s weird to hear that, but you are.