John the Dog by Alex Juffer
Shorts Editor Jordan Vines on today’s bonus content:
While there’s little space to develop characters in short fiction, “John the Dog” delivers a narrator that is magnetic, perhaps despite their own effort. Readers are invited to laugh at the sardonic humor, often biting and sharp, but the intrigue lies in the emotional honesty. We loved reading about John the Dog, and hope you will also.
John the dog
“What’s in the suitcase?” a young man on the train asks me. “A dead body?” He adds a skittering laugh. He wears gold hoop earrings and three t-shirts and bounces on his toes as he speaks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
He appraises me. I don’t like talking to strangers in public. I don’t like sparring with fake laughter.
“Ha, so what then, gold bars?” He runs his hand up the sleek curved plastic of my suitcase.
I shouldn’t have worn khakis on the train. They don’t project strength.
We whine to a stop and I draw the lurching suitcase up to my side.
***
John the Dog died in my bathtub this morning and I had no place to bury him. I washed and dried him right there in the clawfoot as his muscles stiffened and then wrestled him into the biggest suitcase I own.
When he got older and his hips started creaking, I’d carry him up three flights of stairs to my apartment. It’s the closest I’ve been to love. His paws on my shoulders, my hands weaved under his butt, his breath hot on my ear and big heart thumping against my own.
Or maybe it’s just love.
***
"Airport’s that way,” the young man says, pointing for my benefit. “Where you going?” His agitated voice suggests he doesn’t like that I’m not dancing to his hustle. He paces. I stare at him, mean as I can, but he’s already talking again.
***
“John is not the name of a dog,” Mom told me on the phone when I adopted him.
“What about John the Dog?” I asked. I laughed. To me, that’s a good joke.
***
When I got tired of the routines I built, I got John the Dog and built my life around him. Every day we walked the same blocks and had the same breakfast and at night he would watch me watch TV until he fell asleep. And now he’s gone, and all he left me is a collar and a food bowl polished smooth by his tongue.
The nearest cremation place said to “bring him on down” like a contestant on a game show. I don’t necessarily want to be a guy living alone with dog cremations on his mantel but maybe I’ve been veering that way for a while. There’s no one in my life to tell me who I’ve become.
***
The train eases to a stop. A family shuffles into our section and I back up to give them space. In this moment of distraction, the young man grabs the handle of my suitcase and walks right off onto platform. He times it well. The doors close behind him.
He stops, turns around, and stares at me, perhaps waiting for me to yell or chase him. Instead, I imagine him opening the suitcase and laugh. He looks betrayed by my laughter.
I wave John the Dog goodbye and hope the young man finds what I once had.
Alex Juffer lives in a small town in Minnesota with his wife, two dogs, and a family of attic squirrels. He's won the Forge Literary Flash Fiction Competition and been a Wigleaf Top 50. His work has been previously published in Epoch, Cleaver, Monkey Bicycle, Hobart, The Los Angeles Review and more.
