Nancy

It was nearly Christmas when Lori’s grandchildren, both in their twenties, arrived with a gift. Lori, my neighbor across the street, had spent the better part of a decade as a widow and she lived definitively alone inside her fading yellow house. It was this solitude that inspired the present.

I was tending my roses when the girls raucously emptied out of their tiny red Volkswagen—they could not have been bubblier. One of the girls had tied a pink ribbon around the animal’s neck. All of their excitement and joy was met, on the cement slab that was Lori’s front porch, with an equal and opposing force of disapproval.

“Fine, we understand, you don’t want her. We just thought it might be nice for you to have a friend, that’s all.”

“Well, I thank you for your intentions, but I don’t need the extra burden of caring for an animal.”

The girls had expected this resistance.

“Could you just watch her for a few days, until we get back?” asked the brunette.

“We’re going to Aunt Pauline’s,” said the blonde, “She doesn’t allow pets.”

“Well, girls, you should have thought about all this beforehand. If you would have thought to call first, I would have told you no over the phone, and saved you the trouble of buying a…” Lori paused to recall the breed.

“Staffordshire Bull Terrier!” reminded both granddaughters in unison.

“Right, a dog, and transporting it two hundred miles!”

“We’re sorry! It’s only for three days and she’s already potty-trained,” said the younger, more persuasive blonde-haired grandchild.

“Fine, I’ll watch her, but you really should have better thought this through, girls.”

“We’re sorry. This is her food and this is her leash. She’s had all her shots so if you want to take her for a walk, feel free.”

“And we haven’t named her yet so call her anything.”

If the girls had chosen to do so, they would have been the first visitors to go inside their grandmother’s yellow house in several years. The car’s engine never stopped running and they were gone in twelve minutes, just enough time to leave a dog and a bag of supplies.

Lori took the animal inside and I didn’t see them again until that evening—she took the dog once around the block. The couple walked unhurriedly, calmly, as if they had done the walk a million times before and would do the walk a million times again.

Early the following morning, Lori left the house again. This time, the tiny dog was wearing a hand-knit purple sweater, presumably to combat the mildly cold weather. Lori was wearing a purple jumpsuit of the same fabric. I was already outside in the garden that morning; it was the first time I heard the dog’s name. They crossed the street in royal fashion: Lori held the leash high in her left hand so as to encourage the dog’s head to be upright and alert. They trotted proudly across the street, as if competing at the Westminster Dog Show. Lori was only eighty three then.

“Hello Beth, I want you to meet a little friend of mine. This is Nancy.”

I had not seen Lori smile in a decade and would soon get used to seeing her perfect false teeth. The red Volkswagen came back late the following day, but, of course, the girls left without Nancy.

For the next fifteen years the two walked twice a day, three loops in the morning and three loops at dusk. I never asked why they chose to walk counterclockwise during the evening hour, I assume it was to better see the sun set. Lori must have knitted twenty or more sweaters for that dog. On most days, the color of their garments matched almost to perfection. They were in love from day one. Lori became an expert on the breed, eventually competing in dog shows. I cut out a photo of Lori and Nancy, from the newspaper, after they won a statewide event.

“Well, it’s Nancy that does all the work. I just have to hold the leash and try to keep up,” Lori would say laughingly.

Although the dog stayed relatively short, its small frame packed on gratuitous muscle. The animal’s head was disproportionately large in comparison to its body. After researching Staffordshire Bull Terriers at the library, and discovering how the breed was once used for bull baiting in England, I no longer allowed my grandson, Alex, to play with Nancy.

One day, without forewarning, Lori brought a puppy home, a pug I believe. The following morning Lori didn’t take either dog for a walk, nor did she endeavor outside that evening. The next day was the same, a silent yellow house. I figured Lori was busy trying to train her new puppy. It is my opinion that the new dog was meant to learn the finer qualities of a dog, from Nancy, before she died. However, after not seeing Lori leave the house for an entire week, my concern grew. I crossed the street carrying a can of pepper spray in my purse. When Lori failed to answer the door, I turned the knob and admitted myself. Immediately both dogs mobbed me with licks.

“Lori, are you home?” There was no answer. The house smelled of scented candles and dog feces. The kitchen was empty, except for several poops spiraled neatly atop the linoleum floor. The living room was vacant and the hallway was still. The door to the master bedroom was cracked open and I peered inside. There, tucked snugly under the blankets, lay Lori. I stood in the doorway and watched her tiny body—she was not breathing. I walked over to her bed and stared down, expecting to see the pacified face of an elderly woman who had passed to death painlessly in her sleep. This was not the face I saw. Her eyes, though grayed and lifeless, still beamed with terror. Her mouth, half agape, was silently screaming. Upon grabbing the sheet, in order to cover the head, I felt an unsettling texture—the linens had been soaked in blood and dried to an unnaturally stiffened state. Small red holes confirmed that Lori’s neck had been clamped shut by the mouth of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.