Silent Whimpers

Barlow Crassmont

The mutt was emotionally attached to the drifter.

Of all the people it’d encountered across the barren, desolate land, he was the only one to show it uncommon kindness. Men who’d fed it the little they could spare were rare; those who’d pet and comfort it even rarer. The mutt learned to appreciate human affection above all else, for in the land of anarchic lawlessness, any physical contact that didn’t end up with the animal spit-roasted over an open flame was uniquely humane.

The drifter’s hands smelled of alcohol and cheap cigarettes, and for a long while, the mutt would associate this aroma with the ragged man’s essence. Together they would face the hardships of the contemporary world as an inseparable duo. In frigid winters, they’d dodge the icy flurries by taking shelter in shoddy abandoned shacks, a meager fire their only source of warmth. During the monsoons, the drifter would shield the famished canine from the boisterous downpour with his battered coat. The strident precipitation thundered upon the dog’s sensitive ears like bombastic applause. Thankfully, the man’s comforting touch was there to assure the animal the world had not ended. A lone wolf for so long before encountering the gentle drifter, the canine could no longer imagine life as a solitary tramp.

The arrival of the red haired woman was the first sensation of envy for the insecure mutt.

She meandered aimlessly, daring onlookers to flirt with her, clearly looking for trouble. When she flashed her crooked smile at anyone willing to smile back, the mutt’s master was more than game. The woman was quick to compliment his warm coat.

“I thought my husband was the only man who wore a coat like that well.”

“Where is he now?” the drifter asked.

“Rotting in hell, I hope.”

The abandoned freight train was a rare remnant of yesteryear. Covered in moss and dry leaves, it’s where transients and vagrants alike reminisced about the past. The six destitute souls who congregated behind the railroad tracks and sat around the flaming barrel smelled of urine, wet trash and rancid alcohol. All listened attentively as the elder derelict spoke in intermittent spurts, as if catching his breath in between words.

“I’m glad… there’s no… police anymore,” he said. “I’d rather… live like this… than have the rich… stomp all over us.”

They passed the tainted bottle around, the backwash residue removing any purity from the foul smelling drink. As the flame died down, the hobos dispersed to their respective shelters. The mutt watched his master place his hand on the red haired woman’s leg. Their speech was slurred, and they giggled like immature children. Gradually, their lips met. Upon laying together in the shabby cardboard box, the woman’s laughter was at length quieted, then abruptly silenced, like a noisy appliance suddenly unplugged. The following morning, the mutt expected the woman to accompany the drifter on their journey, but his master rose from the soiled box alone, his hands stained and crummy.

“We better get going,” the man said to the dog.

***

When they reached the vast plains, the mutt’s legs were heavy, and the drifter’s feet covered in blisters. The gray skies resembled extracts from putrid coal factories, and any blueness was as distant as the infinite cosmos. They camped next to the narrow green river, the contents of which were rich with gross toxicity. The man shared the little water he had left in his bottle with the thirsty dog. Afterwards, they slept under the murky stars, the chilly country breeze hardly dampening their unified bodies on the soft grass.

The adjacent ghost town over the hill housed several nomads and itinerants. They gawked at the dog like famished carnivores. The drifter filled up his bottle at the water pump, surrounded by curious stares. That’s when he caught sight of the green eyed girl in the red shirt and faded jeans. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and only when he made sure she was unaccompanied did he take out his hand harmonica. The girl had never heard such melodies, and was instantly smitten with the man who produced the glorious tunes. The drifter flirted, told a few jokes and complimented her enchanting eyes. At dusk he introduced her to his dog, and she embraced it heartily as a genuine dog lover.

“My sister had one just like it,” she said, her high voice cutting through the thin air. “Now she’s buried on our farm, like the rest of our family.” Her touch was comforting to the needy dog, her petting reassuring. As long as her hands were rubbing its neck, the canine was at peace.

Gradually, the animal became fond of the girl. The man masked his irritation behind his music and easygoing charm, and smiled as best he could while watching the dog’s affection for the teenager. At length, he exhausted himself with his harmonica, and became light headed. When he sat and leaned against the rough cement wall, his rhythmic snoring became a nuisance for the sleepless bystanders.

Drunken chatter from the nearby dump reverberated through the cool air. The green eyed girl couldn’t sleep, and came to lay next to the mutt. The animal kept her warm, and she emitted an aroma more pleasant to its sensitive snout than it could previously recall. The mutt only hoped she’d still be there when the skies became brighter.

With a nudge of his dirty shoe, the drifter woke up the mutt in the cold, damp morning. The girl was not there. The dog followed her familiar scent, and the enticing aroma soon turned sour and repulsive. It led the dog to the large trash container behind the abandoned building. Her small feet stuck out from underneath. She was as still as a stone. The drifter called the dog while putting on his torn brown coat.

“We better get going.”

The man stuck out his hand to the bewildered dog, but the canine was perturbed by the red stains on the drifter’s thick fingers. This new redolence no longer made its heart leap with joy. The dog hesitated before it followed the impatient man, dragging along lazily, and looking back towards the container with a hopeless sense of longing. The ensuing drizzle moistened the dirt under the two travelers’ feet, until it gradually transformed into mud, turning every step into a taxing endeavor for the malnourished animal and man.

Cold soon became the norm across the wasteland as they ventured further north. The limited daylight ensured the elongated night would present unforeseen threats from the destitute, the hungry and the desperate. They reached a ruin of an old post office, half of its roof demolished, and a rubble of debris scattered throughout. The drifter sat on the dusty floor, and called the dog to him, but the animal remained some distance away, downcast and sulky, with a hint of melancholy in its brown eyes.

The man took a piece of stale bread from inside his coat, and threw a hardened slice to the animal. It sniffed it a few times, then left it untouched. Echoes of shouting and arguing sounded off from nearby, until the noises were sealed with a woman’s calamitous scream. The dog’s ears perked upwards. The man merely smiled and shook his head.

The deserted amusement park they’d run across on the following morning towered like a graveyard of deceased dreams. Cheerful music played over the one functioning speaker, drawing all the wanderers in the area towards it like frantic children to an ice cream truck. A freckled face girl sat on a plastic horse of the Royally themed carousel. She shivered from hunger and fright, and quietly wept, wiping her eyes periodically with her dirty green sweatshirt. Several vagabonds laid scattered throughout, most of them too unconscious to pay her much mind. Sight of the curious mutt wagging its tail brought a smile to the girl’s face, but the shadow of the drifter instantly replaced it with uncertainty.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” the drifter asked in his silky smooth voice. The girl was silent until the dog sniffed her leg.

“Veronica.”

“Are you alone, Veronica?”

“My brother was with me, but I’ve not seen him in three days.” She wiped her tears, smearing the dry dirt across her cheeks. “Do you have any food?”

The drifter took the girl under his wing, gently petting her unwashed hair as he fed her stale bread and a stringy piece of smoked meat. The mutt watched the girl’s indigent visage with its ears aroused, and a silent growl simmering in its vacant belly. The sun was starting to set, and the temperature was quickly dropping.

As the girl’s hunger was quenched, her spirit elevated. She smiled more frequently, and giggled at some of the man’s remarks. When his harmonica made an appearance, its enticing euphony lured her behind the go-cart tent, the smiling drifter leading the way. The mutt’s memory made mental pictures of the recent past, and all the faces that flashed before its loyal brown eyes filled its starved gut with regretful sorrow. The dog’s suppressed growl suddenly escalated, turning into thunderous barking that woke all who slept in the vicinity. The drifter turned, his face somber with concern.

“We’re not going just yet,” the man said deliberately. The mutt sprang upwards in a moment of unleashed rage. It sprinted at the surprised man, and sunk its fangs into his ankle. It struck a vein, and soon blood sprayed everywhere. The drifter howled in pain, and the ensuing commotion of animal and man frightened the girl so that she frantically ran, screaming beyond the rides, the carousels and the nearly collapsed funhouse. Her fearful screams faded as she put some distance between herself and the festival structure.

The remaining vagrants dispersed in horror, fearing the dog to be infected. It continued to intimidate any who doubted its vigor, flashing its ominous cuspids, its snout covered in red. The dog growled threateningly towards the one whose body had supplied it with sustenance, comfort and warmth for so long. The drifter limped away in agony, covering the low spraying wound with a crummy rag from his pocket. Behind him, the dog ran beyond the barren land, leaving the carnival setting in its wake, until its silhouette was no longer visible against the distant mountains.

***

The muddy, brown puddle would have to suffice in quenching the mutt’s parching thirst. Its protruding ribs resembled bendy branches of a deflated bush absent of growth. A chilly gust arrived from across the horizon, and the dog associated its essence with a painful recent memory. Its curious eyes followed the source of the whiff where the land met the purplish sky, until it spotted a familiar figure limping along. It was as recognizable as morning dew, ominous as a rumble of thunder. The dog walked in the opposite direction, at first slowly, then with a quickened pace.

Past the hill, the sloped road gave way to a valley where the mutt, for the first time in years, came upon members of his own species. The scattered dogs growled, flashed their teeth and otherwise intimidated the newcomer. The mutt growled back, defending itself by thrusting forwards in short bursts. Three of the dogs ran away, their tails as limp as noodles. The lone remaining canine was a white and brown collie. She let him get close and sniff away, but as he tried to mount her, she responded with a fierce bite that left visible blood on the mutt’s neck.

Both canines stood their ground, barking in turns, until fatigue forced their tongues to hang out of their snouts.

The Collie advanced away from him, and the mutt, at first, dared not follow. After several minutes, she stopped and waited. He meandered after her, and only when both had reached the summit of the following hill did the mutt begin wagging its tail. As they trekked across the patchy fields, the mutt’s whimpers were heard no more, not by man or dog or anything living.

AUTHOR BIO