When George got home he was still in a haze about what had transpired during his improvised exit interview; the conversation about it with his wife worked nothing loose and left his wife even more confused and worried about what would happen. Despite the unusual start to the morning, and the following impassioned interrogation by his wife before she left for work, the remainder of the day unfolded like any other: play with the kids, feed them, and put them to bed. It wasn’t until after his daughters were both asleep for the night that George thought about his exodus from Public Utilities or what he planned to do. He grabbed a beer, sat down at the dining room table, and crouched over his open laptop. George couldn’t stop thinking about how normal everything else had seemed despite the monumental decision he’d made earlier, how easily he’d forgotten about all of it. Unsure as to why he sat down at the laptop, George leaned back in his chair and closed its lid. The resulting space showed his dog, Jack, sitting on the floor opposite of where George sat at the table. The two stared at each other, blinking idly. What is he thinking right now? George thought. Is he disappointed in me? Are dogs able to sense big events in life? He knows, somehow he knows. He knows, and he’s judging me. Where is my food going to come from dad? How are you going to feed me? Why is he just staring at me? What does he think he is communicating to me right now? Is he wondering what I’m thinking about like I’m wondering what he’s thinking about? Maybe he knows I’m thinking about what he could be thinking about and is trying to comfort me by being as unconcerned as possible. Jack shifted his weight gingerly from one haunch to the other, unloosing a clipped fart that could’ve been mistaken for an untied balloon flying by overhead, his ears perking up as if to say: whoops! George let the dog outside. He sat back down at the table taking sips from his beer and trying to avoid thoughts of the upcoming days: what would he do, where would he apply, what does he want to do, how long would his savings really last. When he heard the dog scratching at the door, he let him back in, finished his beer, and went to bed.
The next day George’s wife was working the morning shift, and she dropped their daughters off at their grandparents; for the first time in eighteen months, since the birth of their first daughter, George was able to sleep in. He was awoken eventually by the soft, extended whines of Jack, who, George speculated, was sitting at the top of the stairs locked out behind the child safety gate installed a month ago. George lay in bed for few minutes, letting the dog whine, starring at the ceiling. When he realized he was in danger of falling back asleep he abruptly threw his legs out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He stood up, stepped into his slippers and met Jack at the top of the stairs. As he pushed through the gate and walked down the stairs, the dog excitedly followed him: constantly looking for a way to bypass George’s sluggish pace, anxiously jutting his nose between leg and wall, but ultimately trailing until they reached the bottom. George stood in the doorway while the dog went out. He took in the fresh sunlight and light breeze, welcomed it into the stale house, reveled in the majestic feeling that is a day off work with no immediate responsibilities; his mind began to whirl with choices, but was humbled when he remembered the surrounding circumstances. He closed the door and sat down at his laptop. George opened the lid and pulled up his homepage; before searching the internet for jobs he pinged his own brain for ideas. As he was doing so he noticed the surging sunlight outside increase its intensity: a day that already seemed perfect swelled with even more sunlight. He could see the dog out back bouncing up and down, dive-bombing the ground with his front paws, and thrusting his snout into the dewy grass; chasing butterflies, leaves, or his own shadow. George felt unprepared to start his job search and decided he needed some breathing room from just waking up before he would start. He exchanged his slippers for sneakers, grabbed the dog’s leash and collar, called him back inside, and headed out for a walk.
George and Jack used to be old pros when it came to walking outside, but with the birth of his two daughters, and a move to a new, less-friendly, neighborhood, their skills had withered. Despite the dog’s undisciplined zigzagging fifteen feet in front of George, something that would have never happened eighteen months ago, presumably in search of every smell to cross his path, the walk was very pleasant. As they approached a two-story cape cod, Jack inhaling the earth beneath his snout, George noticed a giant Saint Bernard, which he immediately nicknamed Beethoven, lying down on the porch alongside a woman in a rocking chair. The woman looked to be in her mid-seventies, and the Saint Bernard appeared to match that in dog years. As George and his dog drew closer Beethoven’s head darted up and began to follow them. The laid back nature of the woman, gently rocking in her chair, paying no mind to the massive Saint Bernard, led George to assume the dog possessed the same slipshod attitude, despite its alert posture. As they reached perpendicularity with Beethoven, he bounded off the porch, sprinting straight for them. George was caught so off guard that he froze in place, making him look a lot calmer about the situation than was truthful, while Jack dove back, shielding himself from Beethoven with George’s legs. At the last second a steel-cable revealed itself and yanked the Saint Bernard backwards, undoing his last three feet of progress. As George and his dog continued on, the Saint Bernard barked, continually testing the distance and strength of the lead. The woman continued to rock in her chair, never acknowledging George and his dog, or the demon incarnate that was Beethoven.
As they rounded a corner to a side street they could still hear the raucous Saint Bernard in the background, but the noise was slowly being overtaken by what sounded like a chronic smoker having a viscous coughing attacking. George immediately regretted the decision to take the side street and was already thinking of possible ways to avoid the potential interaction with the hacking man: George’s experience with smokers was that the more phlegm they had in their throats the more they wanted to talk to you, while working said phlegm out. The closer they came to the hacking man, the louder the hacking got, and the more rhythmic it got. George began to think that it was too regular to be an unexpected attack, and was more than likely a routine cough to clear out the hacking man’s lungs so he could fill them back up with more smoke. As soon as the duo passed a row of Medora Juniper trees the volume of the coughs skyrocketed, and the cougher was revealed to not be a man at all, but a salt and pepper coated dog with different colored eyes standing behind a chain-link fence. The dog’s bark sounded like equal parts cough, choke, and bark, while not being particularly committed to any of the three. The strain caused the dog’s front legs to hop off the ground about a foot, and made the barking seem involuntary, despite the consistency. George and Jack stared in unison at the hacking dog as they walked down the street until it was obscured by the converted trailer attached to the chain-link, at which point the dog stopped coughing/choking/barking; presumably to continue smoking.
When they returned home forty five minutes later, George realized that he hadn’t said a word all morning. It was an inspirational realization that left George energized with the possibilities of sustaining it for the rest of his life: getting by on smiles, or nods, or variations of insignificant throat clearings. No more miscommunications large or small, no more miscued greetings in hallways, or awkward conversation at check-out lines. The daydream quickly evaporated with thoughts of his oldest daughter, and how every morning started with entering her room and talking gently to her, trying to elicit some new form of gibberish she had developed in her sleep.
George sat back down at the laptop, still open from his earlier, tapped it awake, and stared at the homepage. Trying to think of the exact keywords to search that would find his perfect job, George was having difficulty collecting his thoughts. He stood back up and went into the kitchen to make coffee. He still felt a little groggy from the morning, possibly sleeping in too much, although the thought seemed absolutely ludicrous to George at this point in his life. He folded his arms and watched as the coffee grinds floated in the boiling water; fighting each other for a place at the top, the rest being submerged and used as support. After five minutes he pushed the filter down and poured himself a cup. On his way out of the kitchen George checked the microwave clock and saw that it was only a quarter past nine. Much like his speaking revelation, George recognized that he hadn’t bothered to check the time since waking up, and was surprised when he saw how early it still was, way too early to be looking for jobs, George thought. From the kitchen George looked to the dining room where his laptop was positioned, still open, the screen now a dim glow, eventually turning off. George checked the microwave again: 09:16 am. Wanting to wake up a bit more, to get his brain working so he could be in top form when filling out applications, George headed to the living room. He needed time for the coffee to take effect and to play some video games.