No Lions in Sight

Max lies near the feet of Mary and Doug Upright in the early morning sun, drool hanging from his brown jowls like snot from a kid’s nose.

Mmmmm. Max sniffs. Crispy bacon, egg, melted cheese, tangy ketchup, my favorite.

“Did you see the weather forecast? The temperature is supposed to reach 105 this weekend! Maybe global warming really is happening,” Mary says to Doug, as they drink coffee and eat bagel sandwiches under the patio umbrella at their summer house.

“I don’t know about global warming. It’s something liberals made up to account for their progressive environmental policies, to make money from those damn windmills.”

“Hmm. I don’t know.”

“Maybe the city will see 105, not us out here by the shore. But forget the beach on Saturday. Let’s stay home in the cool house and enjoy the pool. I won’t even have to turn the pool heater on.”

“They’re recommending people prepare, especially the elderly.”

“How? By installing new AC systems? Doesn’t everyone have central air these days, anyway?”

“Good question. I could ask Siri.”

“Well, our parents are fine in Florida. Floridians know how to handle the heat.”

“True. Remember growing up here without air conditioning?” Mary asks.

“Yes, we had none in Queens, but when we moved to Long Island, my parents had one in their bedroom window. On steamy nights my brothers and I would sleep on their bedroom floor. Guess it wasn’t so steamy for them!” Doug laughs.

“I remember summers living in Holtsville, wishing a friend would invite me to swim. She had one of those ugly above ground pools. And I slept with a small fan next to my bed and the window open, listening to the trill of locusts, whirr of traffic. It was kind of nice.”

“Nice?” Doug shakes his blonde head. “Central air is nice. I don’t miss those days. Here ya go, Max.” He slips Max a small piece of bacon, then after taking a last bite of his sandwich, gives Max the rest.

It’s about time. For a minute, I thought he’d forgotten me. Max engulfs the food like a sailor lost at sea who is finally rescued and fed. What’s all this talk about air conditioning? Who needs it?

“I told you not to feed Max table food. It encourages his begging, and it’s not good for him.”

Max resents this. I am not begging. Hoping, is all. Don’t listen to her Doug. Who is she to say what’s good for me? Are the bottles of wine she drinks every night and those brownies she eats for dessert, and, by the way, never shares, good for her?

“I’m going to my office, to earn money to keep our central air going,” Doug chuckles.

Max wonders what is so funny.

During the week, temperatures climb, heating the Tri-State area to a nearly unbearable swelter. Community leaders ask residents to conserve energy and warn of heat related dangers.

I guess only a dog like me can appreciate this balmy weather, Max thinks, not understanding what all the fuss is about, he being an African hound, or as he prefers to be identified as, a Rhodesian ridgeback. Let the huskies have the winter, I’ll take this over a romp in the snow any day.

Max stretches his limbs across the patio’s undulating bluestones, rippling like a river in the hazy heat. He gets up to drink from his bowl of tepid water, the ice Doug just tossed in instantly melted. Back in his spot, Max watches as the Upright kids, Melinda and Peter, step gingerly towards the pool, then run, crying as the stone’s shimmering surface sears their toes, until their father sprays it down with the hose, creating a rise of steam like that of a boiling kettle.

“Don’t walk barefoot unless it’s wet!”

Max shifts, slightly nervous. Keep that spray away from me. I prefer to stay dry.

“C’mon in, Max,” Mary, says. “It’s so hot! You’ll bake there.”

Nah, I’m good right where I am. Max prides himself as a highly qualified pet, but swimming is not at the top of his list of qualifications.

The youngest Upright, Melinda, runs to him, dripping wet, vapor rising from the stone as she crosses and pulls on his collar.

“Let’s go Maxie. Don’t bake like a cookie.” Giggling, tugging harder, she slips and falls back, crying as she scrapes her skin.

Great, now I’m in trouble. Especially since her brother is splashing in the pool, has an alibi this time. Doug usually can be trusted to defend me, but not when it’s his little girl’s happiness in question.

“Are you OK honey?” he asks.

Melinda returns to the water.

“Yes, but Dad, tell Max to come in.”

“You know what, Melinda’s right,” Doug says, approaching Max.

Of course she is. Max knew she would be.

As Max feels Doug’s wet hands wrap under his belly, he thinks, What the hell? Wait, I wasn’t expecting this. An admonishment, not a damn ambush. Stop, no, I don’t want to go swimming!

Doug, his forehead perspiring, struggles to pick Max up. Max scampers to his feet as Doug heaves under the dog’s weight, but manages to half carry, half push Max into the pool. The water is warm, but the shock of its assault against the heat contained in Max’s short brown coat chills Max’s bones. He sinks under, a gurgle sounding in his sensitive ears, aware of kids’ limbs kicking nearby. Within seconds he rises to the surface, flapping his four legs through the water as if fighting for his life, reaching the steps quickly, then scrambling out of the pool. The Uprights look on, roaring. Max shakes violently, sending a spray across the patio.

“That felt good, didn’t it Max?” Doug asks, backing away from the spray, then kicking off his flip-flops and diving into the pool as Max lays down to dry.

They call it a pool, but torture chamber, death trap is more like it. I can’t believe Doug betrayed me that way. And the rest of them, laughing, humiliating me. Well, they had their fun. They’re ignoring me now, so maybe this is my chance.

Max rises, walks nonchalantly to the wooded area near the fence, the space designated for Max to relieve himself. He empties his bladder while Mary and Doug exit the pool. They grab vodka seltzers from the cooler and lounge on terry covered chaises in the shade, complaining about the fiery sun as it moves through the sky, fueling their yard like gas heating a grill. They give Max no notice as he digs by the fence, where he has been tunneling for days, considering, but not settled on making an escape.

Why not? Max contemplates. It’s not as if I’m appreciated here. Doug insisted on having me, but I know damn well, Mary isn’t a fan. I hear her say, “Well you were the one who wanted a dog” as if I have no feelings, whenever Doug complains about my barking or jumping. But she’s right, what did Doug expect? I’m not some lazy Saint Bernard! And the kids, you’d think they’d want to play outside with me. But no, unless ordered to go out, they’re inside, eyes fixated on screens, as if under a spell! Yes, I do believe it’s time to go.

Max slips beneath the fence, and at the first taste of freedom, runs. He winds his way through the woods, bounds over a creek, crosses a street, then reaching open land, really turns it on, doing what he was born to do. Well, not quite. Unlike his ancestors, he is not in Africa, is not trained to hunt, and there are no lions in sight, but still, he races across the fields, passing cars that are moving along the adjacent road, oblivious to the sizzling sun scorching the grassy landscape to a brittle gold. By the time Doug and Mary notice Max’s absence, he is miles from home, panting, thirsty, but without regret.

Who needs them? This is the way my life was meant to be. Max rests near a tree, appreciating the view of land and brush, the sound of birds’ tweets, the scent of remote car fumes mingled with dry earth, sweet wildflowers, organic corn crops. Max perks up at a squirrel scaling a tree trunk but stays put. Falling asleep under the open sky, he misses seeing the beauty of the blazing sunset.

Meanwhile, at the house, as afternoon fades and the oppressive heat lingers, the Uprights discover Max’s disappearance. Worried and annoyed at this inconvenience, they begin a search, like any responsible pet owners would. Through their neighborhood by foot, then the surrounding area by car, calling “Max, Max, come Max”, until the heat, and their hunger and fatigue, send them home empty-handed.

“Where the hell could he be? I hope he doesn’t get hit by a car.” Doug says, his voice and face strained.

Mary gives Doug a look that says, Stop, you’ll worry the kids.

“Dad, maybe we should keep looking.” says Peter.

“I want Max home!” Melinda adds.

“Maybe we should...”

“He’ll be fine,” Mary interrupts Doug, smiling her pretty, confident smile. “He’s a smart dog, can take care of himself. I bet he’ll come home on his own soon.”

Mary calls to order Italian takeout for dinner, but local restaurants have closed early, heeding warnings to reduce energy consumption, so she makes a quick antipasto, and the Uprights do their part, settling for the hors d’oeuvre, ham sandwiches and macaroni salad for dinner. Mary, exhausted, thinks of Max, wishing him well, but doesn’t miss opening his can of dog food or scooping his poop tonight. After dinner, the family microwaves popcorn and watches Happy Gilmore, a movie they all could agree on. In a last futile effort, they call out to Max from the back door before retiring to their cool bedrooms, the hum of air conditioning fans lulling them to sleep.

One by one they wake to a stillness so stifling, they don’t understand what is happening. Is it a bad dream, a joke, or hopefully, some kind of simple mistake that will be rectified quickly?

“Dad,” Melinda cries, heading from the hall into her parent’s room, “it’s so hot!!! I’m all sweaty!” She isn’t exaggerating. Her blond curls are soaked and matted to her face, her light pajamas drenched.

Peter joins in. “What the fuck, Dad?”

Before long the Uprights learn that over consumption in the northeast has not only reduced gas and electrical power to negligible levels, but short-circuited transmitters, causing the system to fail to deliver the little energy available, blacking out the entire eastern seaboard. It seems some haven’t been doing their part.

“It’s OK, kids. I’m sure power will be back soon. Why don’t we take cold showers, or better yet, go for a midnight dip?” Mary says but fears this nightmare could worsen.

“Damn, the pool,” Doug thinks, remembering he turned off the filter early yesterday, hoping he’ll have power to run it by morning.

But no. The blackout and heat wave wear on, and the pool begins to turn a sickly green, algae growing like germs in a petri dish. But that is the least of their worries as a freezer of meat spoils, and ice and gasoline shortages have consumers lining up around blocks. And worse, sleepless nights and heated days dampen the Uprights’ spirits, incite their tempers. Worry over Max is placed on the back burner, reduced to a slight simmer.

The Uprights aren’t the only ones burning out by the week’s end. Max, enjoying his vacation in nature, begins to miss creature comforts, and even his family. The soft rugs, the couch the kids let him lay on when Mary wasn’t around. The traitor, Doug, who isn’t such a bad guy. And especially his dish filled with food every night.

Dog food is better than nothing, Max supposes, after two days without coming across a scrap or handout. It’s time to go home.

Heading back, Max stops to drink from an evaporating but still trickling creek, when the pungent, salty waft of roasting hot dogs reaches his nose. He follows the temptation to find an old man grilling in his small backyard. Damn, that smells good. Max salivates.

“Hey fella,” the whiskered, wizened old timer says to Max when he sees Max lingering near the gate. “You a friendly guy?”

Max wags his tail agreeably. Yes sir, I am anything you want me to be, right about now.

So, Max is petted, invited to stay. He’s fed hotdogs and hydrated with gulps from a gushing hose. And he’s told Whiskers’ story. How Whiskers lost his beloved lab recently, how Whiskers grew up here on the farm and refused to sell it all to a developer, keeping enough for himself to live out his life, this modest ranch house and three acres now sandwiched between communities of three-million-dollar homes.

Later, Whiskers opens the gate and says, “Let’s see what you got,” throwing a stick across the field an impressive distance for an old man. Max snaps like a whip, returns with the stick within seconds, to a chortle, a whistle of admiration, and a pat on the head, sealing the deal.

After a week without relief, Mary says to Doug, not for the first time, “I told you to buy a goddamn generator last year.”

“Well, who the hell expected this?”

“You couldn’t part with $10,000! It would have powered half our house.”

“Well, generators also need fuel to run. We’ll be OK. Where’s your pioneer spirit?”

“I’m no pioneer. Let’s go to a hotel. I can’t take this anymore!”

“Hotels are without power too.”

“In Canada they’re not.” Mary says, her face steadfast.

“Canada? Why on earth would we go to Canada?”

“Because it’s 75 degrees, has electricity, and some beautiful places to stay.” Mary had been sitting in her car all morning running the AC, making calls to find a way out of this disaster. “I made a reservation to stay in Vancouver for two weeks. Screw summer in the Hamptons.”

“But Vancouver isn’t in our budget. I spent our travel budget and all our savings on this summer house that you nagged me to buy. And we should be here when Max comes home.”

“Max?" Mary asks, laughing ironically. "Who knows if he’ll be back, and dammit, he’s just a dog!”

“Our dog.”

“We have ourselves, our kids, to worry about. The kids and I are going. I’ll pay for it myself."

"How?"

"I bought Metaplanet stock when you told me not to and sold it at a huge profit.”

“Then why don't you buy a fucking generator?”

“Maybe I will. Are you coming to Canada with us or not?” Mary looks directly at Doug.

Doug looks back into his wife’s striking, defiant eyes, searching for the girl he fell in love with in ninth grade, the girl who was happy living in Holtsville, listening to the sound of locusts on hot summer nights. Then he looks out the glass doors to his prided property, its festered pool and brown lawn, weighing his responsibilities, Mary’s determination to escape.

As days pass, the weather cools slightly, to a sultry near norm. Max settles in with Whiskers but feels guilt for his new happiness, for leaving the Uprights.

I didn’t have it so bad, they weren’t horrible, as far as upright beings go. Doug brushed my coat every week, played with me and the kids on Saturdays. And those donuts he snuck under the table on Sunday mornings were damn good. And Mary, I don't think she really meant to insult me.

Max must make a difficult choice. He has been hearing crickets chirp, noticing birds flocking south, smelling fall in the air. The Uprights will be returning to the city soon. He wouldn’t blame them if they left without him. He decides to step up, to be the loyal pet he has always credited himself as. He takes comfort knowing Whiskers enjoys frequent visits from his daughter and son-in-law, and their labrador, Goldie, will be OK without him.

Max’s journey home feels familiar and quick. But as Max approaches the Uprights home, something feels wrong. The place is silent, still, unlived in.

Where the hell is everyone? Slinking under the fence, he sees the green murky pool, its surface covered in a thick, infested slime, mosquitoes hovering. Ugh, gross, how could Doug allow this to happen? Hopefully he’s realized by now he doesn’t need this damn pool.

Max reaches the house, barks at the backdoor. No response. Then suddenly, the lights, the volume of a TV, the lawn sprinklers, the buzz of a pool filter, three AC motors, simultaneously flash on, bringing the place almost to life. But still, no Uprights in sight. Max sits patiently, expecting they’ll be home soon.

Darkness falls, gives way to light. The sun reaches the same position it was when Max arrived yesterday. Max decides to give up the wait. He follows his tracks back to Whiskers’ house, where the old man greets Max, seemingly unaware Max had left.

“Hey boy, how was your run today?” Whiskers asks.

It wasn't exactly the homecoming I expected, Max admits, but hey, I tried.

Max jumps up to lick Whiskers’ bearded grinning face.

Never mind now, I’m happy to be home.

“Come in out of the rain.” Whiskers says, holding open the door as the heavy sky explodes, relinquishing the drink the earth has been thirsting for.

After dinner, Max and Whiskers watch the news, hearing reports of uncontrollable wildfires in Canada.

Max wonders, Does this explain the weird smell outside while I was urinating?

“Canadians would sure appreciate this rain heading their way,” says Whiskers.

Max sincerely hopes it does. But Max sleeps soundly that night, comfortable on the foot of Whiskers’ bed, listening to rainfall through the open window.