Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [82]
Despite the hot breath of the dog on his face, its angry growls, and the tug of war taking place between the two of them, Martin suddenly realized that had he simply continued chanting the ABCs until the window was closed, this never would have happened.
Breaking routine, violating his rules, was continuing to haunt him.
The dog growled and continued to tug, snapping up more fabric, pulling Martin even closer, and as the neckline of his shirt shrunk, the dog gathering more and more fabric in its jaws, Martin felt his airflow begin to constrict. He wondered if Cujo might choke him to death before the dog ever managed a bite.
With fear and frustration rising from his belly, Martin lashed out, head-butting the dog in the muzzle with the center of his forehead. The dog let out a piercing whine and released the shirt, tumbling back into the room and out of view.
Martin’s victory was short-lived, as seconds later the dog made another attempt at his wrist, leaping into the air and coming even closer than before. Realizing that the angle of his pull on the window was likely the problem, Martin used the brief respite in the battle to reverse his hands so that they were grasping the outside of the window rather than the inside. Using the full weight of his body, he pulled as hard as he dared, fearful of ripping the window from its frame, and this time he was rewarded with the rapid descent of the glass. As his hands passed the sill, the dog made one final attempt at grabbing hold of his wrist, and Martin actually felt the dog’s hot breath on his skin just before the window sealed shut, knocking him and the dog back in opposite directions.
Martin released the window just as it slammed shut, falling backward into the bush behind him. Prickly limbs lashed at him as he descended to the ground, his fall broken by a combination of the bush’s branches and the mulch piled beneath.
He had survived.
Feeling more tired than he ever had in his life, Martin marshaled his energy and picked himself off the ground, pushing past the branches until he emerged into Laura Green’s backyard. Free of the house and dog, he expelled a premature sigh of relief.
“What are you doing?” a voice announced from behind him.
Martin spun, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and saw a young, blond-haired girl, perhaps six years old, sitting at the Fisher-Price picnic table that he had mentally inventoried earlier. She was staring up at him, her brows furrowed as if a question mark had lodged in her throat.
“Hello?” she said, louder this time. She appeared to be friendly but dreadfully curious, and in possession of a distinct accent, English or perhaps Scottish.
Martin thought about turning and running, getting back to his car as quickly as possible, but instead he stood his ground and replied with a hello of his own, adopting the hitherto-undefined accent of the girl.
He hadn’t meant to speak in the accent. It just came out that way.
“Are you still looking for your dog?” she asked.
“My dog?” Finding Cujo in the backyard was the last thing that Martin wanted to do. And again he had replied in an awkward facsimile of the girl’s accent, as if he’d been suddenly saddled with Alfredo’s verbal limitations.
“Your dog,” the girl repeated emphatically. “I heard you calling for him a wee bit ago. Andy, right?”
It took Martin ten painfully long seconds to make sense of what this girl was saying. The only dog that he could think of was Cujo, the one who had nearly strangled him to death just seconds before. But then it came to Martin. In a flurry of words, still mimicking the girl’s accent as best he could, he answered. “Oh, you mean Sandy. Sandy is my dog. Yes, I’m still looking for Sandy. You heard me calling for Sandy, right?” As he spoke the words, he began scanning the backyard, looking for Blondie’s parents. He assumed that they were close by.
“Is Sandy a boy dog or a girl dog?”
Remarkably, Martin didn’t know. He had never assigned his fictional dog a gender. He thought about the Sandy