Not Gone, Just Different – by Rae White
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Our neighbour’s latest pandemic purchase lounges on the front porch, brown fur glistening in the sun and big limbs stretching across the stairs.
‘Babe!’ I holler to my wife, as I stare out our finger-smudged window. ‘Looks like next door’s got a dog.’
In the backyard sit more of our neighbour’s recently acquired bargains: a shiny new barbecue, a blow-up kids’ pool (now deflated) and a crashed drone lolling on the highest branch of a tree.
Brooke comes over and wraps her arms around me, her old woollen jumper scratching at my upper arms. She peers over me, leaning her chin on my head. ‘Looks like a good dog,’ she comments.
As if on cue, the sleeping mound jolts upright and races down the stairs with four legs akimbo, barking at a chortling kookaburra on the Hills hoist.
‘We may never sleep again,’ I say, but she chuckles and gives me a reassuring squeeze before heading towards the study.
‘Got a Zoom meeting soon,’ she says with an annoyed flick of her hand, ‘but tell me if the dog does anything exciting.’
That gets me laughing and I’m still chuckling to myself when I look out the window again. Pandemic Pooch is paused on the lawn as if frozen, grey eyes staring right up at me.
*
It had taken both of us a while to get used to our new working-from-home regimes. My reduced hours meant I had more time on my hands than Brooke did. I would wander about our flat, peeking in on her as she worked on complex-looking spreadsheets by the glow of her laptop.
I’d vocalise every odd question that popped into my head. Like, how come we never had enough Tupperware lids? Did she know the best way to fold a letter so it would fit perfectly in an envelope?
Brooke decided I needed a hobby, so she bought me some binoculars.
I started going on walks to look at birds, or I’d stare for hours out the window, eyes fixed on every honeyeater and magpie I could find. Birdwatching became my new obsession. I noted every sighting in an app and watched contentedly as my tallies increased.
It was good to feel busy, to have something to do.
It wasn’t unusual for me to lock eyes on a branch or fence outside our kitchen window for minutes or hours at a time. I would sometimes be there for so long my legs would get stiff or my eyes would feel fuzzy.
*
Today, as I watch a fantail zip across the lawn, Pandemic Pooch is munching grass in our neighbour’s backyard. I’m about to note my latest bird sighting in the app, when Pooch begins to retch, burps of air and green spittle splattering on the ground.
‘Yikes,’ I mutter, and my adoration for the fantail is forgotten.
And then, almost everything in my head is completely forgotten, the whole of my brain rewired by one sudden fantastical movement: Pandemic Pooch shakes their head and their body flickers out of view.
I gasp and adjust my binoculars.
Only pixels of coffee-coloured fur remain in my eyeline, before suddenly Pooch is back, full-bodied and trotting in the direction of the porch.
I set my binoculars down on the sideboard and blink my eyelids a couple of times. Clearly I’m tired. I’ve been birdwatching too long and need to do something else.
I imagined it.
But a voice niggles in the back of my mind. ‘That’s what main characters say in movies. They’re never imagining it. They’re just better at paying attention.’
*
The following day Brooke accompanies me on my bird walk. I have my binoculars in my left hand and her hand in my right. We’re masked up, and we walk casually down our street.
A woman with a stroller shakes her head slightly when she sees us, then crosses the road to walk along the opposite footpath.
‘Reckon she didn’t want to catch the Rona?’ says Brooke. ‘Or the gay?’
I laugh, warm breath puffing out the top of my mask and fogging up my glasses.
‘Now, now,’ I chide, squeezing her hand. ‘Perhaps it was both.’
Brooke swings our hands as we walk and I feel elated to be out of the house with her as the sun sets in gold and orange streaks.
When we pass our neighbour’s house, I see Pandemic Pooch on the front lawn, dozing.
‘Should we give the dog a pat?’ I ask.
Brooke cocks her head. ‘What dog?’ she says, as she drags her phone out of her pocket to read an alert.
The giant dog is now standing upright, quite close behind us.
‘Dogs clearly don’t know how to socially distance,’ I say, but my wife isn’t listening.
She waves her phone in my direction. ‘Says we don’t have to wear masks as of 6 pm tonight.’
‘Oh okay,’ I say, annoyed at the time I’ve just spent sewing two new masks for us. ‘But it’s not gone away, right?’
‘True, it’s not,’ she says, pulling my hand in the direction of home. ‘Not gone, just different.’
I glance behind me to see if Pooch is still there, but the only evidence of the dog’s presence is four wet paw prints on the footpath.
*
Brooke starts working back in the office a couple of days a week. When she’s away, it’s easier for me to stand in the kitchen and watch Pandemic Pooch without feeling guilty about how I’m spending my time.
In a blue leather notebook I record every time the dog barks, poops, rolls about in the grass and, most importantly, every time something odd occurs. Like at 10:04 am yesterday when Pooch glitched and flickered like a hologram while licking a deflated ball. Or at lunchtime today when the dog peed next to a bush on the fence edge and then suddenly was gone, though the pee-soaked leaves were not.
I adjust my binoculars, focusing in and scanning the backyard. A jittering figure twinkles into view like the glare of sun bouncing off glass.
I look away for a second, my vision spluttering with blotches.
I grip my binoculars with slippery hands, and look back out the window.
And there’s Pandemic Pooch, joyously bounding about the yard as if they hadn’t just shimmered like an apparition.
As if they weren’t some kind of digital, glitching ghost dog.
*
It isn’t until the following month, after Brooke has finished work for the day, that I feel I have enough evidence to bring the subject up.
In my notebook I have over 50 instances of the dog disappearing from my view or flickering in front of my eyes.
Brooke is lifting plastic takeaway containers out of the heavy delivery bag, cracking each one open an inch to take a gleeful sniff.
‘We should wash our hands,’ I say, heading over to the sink.
My wife moves behind me, non-slip socks shuffling on the kitchen tiles. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she says. ‘I forget this whole thing hasn’t disappeared yet.’
I nod as I lather soap on my hands and up to my wrists. ‘Hey,’ I say tentatively. ‘Remember that dog our neighbours got earlier this year?’
When she doesn't answer I turn around to look at her, drying my hands on the nearest tea towel.
‘What dog?’ asks Brooke, moving past me to turn the tap on.
The noisy flow of water mixes with the sudden rushing of blood in my ears. I feel dizzy. ‘The one we gave the silly name to? The big barking one?’
Brooke shrugs as she turns off the tap and reaches for the tea towel.
‘Sorry, love,’ she says, and kisses me on the cheek.
I force myself to slow my breathing, as Brooke sits down at the dining room table.
I catch the reflection of my pale face in the window. I try to get a glimpse of the dog in the backyard as the sky darkens and evening sinks in.
‘Never mind,’ I say, as I take an unsteady seat next to Brooke. ‘Easy to forget these things.’
Despite the clatter of cutlery as Brooke starts serving the rice, I swear I can hear barking reverberating off the nearby houses. ▼
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