Teddy's Spot

Three dead men lay bloody and broken, inches from my face, their souls twisting into the air and drifting from their rotting bodies. 

I shake my head at the rough sketch, ripping off the page and tossing it to the ground. “Makes no sense,” I mutter, wiping my lead stained hands on my shorts. I’ve been up since 4 A.M, sketching, and I’ve come up embarrassingly empty– not a single reference point, nor an outline I feel even slightly satisfied with. I glare at the assignment sheet I’d printed out in my manic procrastination phase of finishing the overdue assignment, protected in a sheen cover and laid neatly in my thin red binder. On the top, in unreasonably large letters, reads THE TRAGIC HERO. What a bullshit class final.

I’ve been terribly “sick” for the past week, but I can’t forge any more doctor notes, and I feel guilty enough lying in the first place. The assignment is far past due and I’m sure if I don’t get it in soon, my professor will storm in my doctor’s office himself and demand I be fixed so he can publish my grade and finally be finished with his last semester, ever. That situation would be horribly awful, considering I’m not sick, never was, and haven’t been to the doctors office since my last yearly checkup, which I procrastinated as well, so it really wasn’t that long ago. 

I feel a warm weight on my thigh, and glance down merrily from my spot on the too-small stool I stole from my parents house. Teddy, my mutt, who is a little blind and a little deaf and a little fat, rests his head on the little divot in my leg. His face seems to fit perfectly in the little bump, the one that made me wear baggy jeans every day from sixth to tenth grade. I smile down at him, and his eyes smile up at me. I know he just wants his food, it’s 8 A.M, and he woke up with me, as he always does, which sometimes means 12 P.M, and sometimes, as in today's case, means much earlier, but I’m pleased with his presence nonetheless. 

“You are so lucky you don’t want to be an artist, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done,” I whisper, and pat his head. I ruffle the little patch of extra fur atop his head, and bend down to kiss it. He sneezes, takes a couple steps back, and tilts his head in the direction of his food. I laugh, my first laugh that hasn’t been manufactured by the television in the past week of complete isolation. “Alright, you old fart, I can take a hint.” 

Teddy scarfs down his food in minutes, and is at the door just as my brother strolls in, not giving so much as a knock to alert his entrance. 

“Well pardon me, I didn’t realize I sent an invitation.” 

He snorts, the same way I snort. We’re too similar, forever told that our laughs and screams and whines sound the same. The only difference is in personality; he’s outgoing and smart and funny and… well I suppose it’s just a long list of ways to say that he’s far more likable than I am. “We shared a womb, privacy has never been an option,” Jonah plucks a donut from the almost empty box on the counter, shoving it in his mouth as he surveys the place. It’s only then I remember to be embarrassed at the state of my life, at the state of my apartment. It looks like I hosted a small village and encouraged them not to clean up after themselves– clothes and plates and yes, trash, litter the small space. I’m once again thankful the tone of my skin masks how warm my face suddenly feels, as I see that, in fact, the only considerable amount of clear space is Teddy's spot. It’s not even a dog bed, just a scratched up space between the vent and my grandmother's old bookshelf. I did buy him a bed, by the way, when I first bought him from that horrible neighbor who kept him crouched in a too-small cage all day, but he sniffed it, sauntered over to that corner, spun, plopped, and stayed there for the next three years. He loves that spot. It’s Teddy’s spot. 

“I really can hire a cleaner,” I finally hear from Jonah, whose sharp eyes are now focused on me. Teddy leans against his leg, and he plays with the same hair I was just twirling in my fingers. “I have the extra cash.” 

“Cool, anything else amazing you wanna tell me about your life Jo? Can I also borrow your amazing boyfriend and perfect new car too?” Unfair sarcasm drips from my voice. God, I really am awful. 

He just shrugs, and I wish he’d yell at me or spit out some insult so I can be more mad at him than I am at myself. He’s too used to my awfulness, and I cringe at the realization.“Just keep it in mind,” he says. 

Jo stays for twenty minutes before he gets a call from his office and has to rush away. I spent the entirety of the time complaining to him about my tragic assignment, pun intended. 

“What even is a tragic hero? Isn’t the whole point of a hero that they’re, like, better than everyone else? How is that even remotely tragic?” 

“You need to invest two hours away from rotting and watch a fucking movie. Tons of heroes die at the end, or sacrifice their wife or something to save everyone else. That’s the tragedy of it all.” 

Teddy’s at my hip again. He always greets guests, but somehow makes his way back to me in a matter of time, as if he misses my very presence, and the knowledge that we live together and spend almost every second side by side matters little.

“If my hypothetical husband sacrificed me to save everyone else, I would not consider him a hero. I would find a way to rise from the dead and fuck his hypothetical bestfriend.” 

“Your point?”

“Perspective, Jo, perspective. Everyone’s a villain in someone’s mind.” 

“Yeah, maybe. But if that’s true then the opposite has to be too.”

“And that is?” 

“The opposite of a villain is a hero. So if everyone’s a villain, then maybe everyone, in at least someone’s mind, is a hero too.” 

—-

The sun glares down as I march Teddy along the same path I’ve marched him down for the past three years. Nowadays it was more of a weak stroll, for both of us, but I considered it exceedingly productive nonetheless. 

“Well hello Teddy!” Martha, an older flower cart owner, with a thick country accent, short gray hair, and small pink lips waves at us. “You look handsome today sir!” 

I smile, but don’t slow down. For one, I couldn’t really go much slower, but for second, and much more importantly, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, because I’ve made no progress on my painting, and my heart is in my stomach, and I have no friends and I think I should have stayed in Indiana and gone to state school. 

Teddy, however, has other plans, because he sits his butt on the pavement and pulls me back to him. Martha trots over to us, a smile plastered on. “Well, it has just been forever since I’ve seen you two rascals! I was beginning to think y'all moved!” She bends down and plants a kiss on my dog’s head.

You were supposed to be a guard dog, I growl at the traitor in my head, because really, he was. The day I met him I had just picked out a baby doberman from a local breeder, and was convinced that I’d train it to attack anyone that got a breath too close. But my neighbors were in a rush, their door cracked open just far and long enough for me to peer through and see a large black dog, with sad eyes and a nervous posture, crouched in that hideous crate, covered in piss and missing patches of hair. I offered them 500 on the spot, even though they got evicted that same month, and probably would’ve settled for fifty. I glance down at him, and a familiar warmth swarms my chest. I was supposed to have a guard dog, but instead I got a Teddy, and thank God for that. I don’t think it could be possible to love anything, or anyone, more. 

“Uh yeah, must’ve just missed you.” I push the memory of switching sidewalks for the past six days to avoid such a wonderfully cheerful woman, simply because I had no capacity for conversation, out of my already full brain. “I’m glad to see you now, though. I think I want to buy a bundle of flowers.” 

This delights her, almost overwhelmingly so, and I leave ten minutes later with a sweaty face and an overpriced bouquet of roses. The deep red clashes with the messy black and gray of my outfit, and I’m not entirely sure why I bought it, but I think it’ll look nice on my counter. I’ve always liked roses, and I’ve always wanted someone to buy me some. No one ever has though, and I cringe at the thought of being 21 and chronically single, but I admire them all the same. Yeah, I think, Teddy dragging his feet at my side, a smile plastered on his face as well, I can buy myself my own damn roses.

—--

I was utterly right about the roses. They look beautiful, and give me the perfect push to clean my apartment. “Pretty flowers deserve a pretty background,” I repeat out loud, then in my head, convincing myself that’s why I have the sudden rush to clean, and not because an overdue assignment haunts me from the corner.

You moved to Manhattan to be a painter and you’re still shit at it, the blank canvas drawls, crawling over me like a swarm of pesty insects. You’re embarrassing, so humiliating. You’re talentless and unlikeable and a failure. You’d be better off dead, really. You should kill yourself, do everyone around you a favor.

“Oh fuck off!” I scream, grabbing a pillow and launching it at the canvas. It bounces off and falls softly onto the floor, mocking my anger with its utter gentleness. “And fuck you too stupid pillow. Fucking useless stupid fucking pillow!” I rant about the stupid fucking pillow for the next two minutes before picking it up, putting it back, and settling one my stool to restart the painting.                                     

It’s quiet as I sit, waiting for inspiration to strike. I always did like the silence, but something feels off about it now. Do I still like it, have I ever really? “The tragic hero,” I murmur, titling my head as if the idea is just stuck on the wrong side and will eventually roll over. I hmph annoyedly, and hear another humph behind me. I turn to glare at Teddy, who lays in his spot as if pays the bills staring up at me with big brown eyes. He looks so cozy, I want to go cuddle up beside him, but I don’t, because I am a serious woman and will not be reduced to lying on the floor crying into my dog. Not at the moment anyway, I have to finish the assignment first. 

“What’s a tragic hero, Teddy? Any grand advice?”

He blinks. I laugh. “Yeah, that’s about where I’m at too.” His eyes flick to his food bowls. “Oh,” I hold up my hands in defense, and for a second wonder why I make the same joke every time I feed him, but say it anyway, because it makes me laugh, and I miss laughing. “Sorry I thought I was just having a conversation with a friend, didn’t realize I had to pay with food to speak to his highness.” 

He strolls over after the kibble is poured, and I go to sit down, but he stops in front of me first, a few feet from his food. He nudges his head against the bump in my leg, and I scratch the long patch of fur atop his head. It’s such a small moment, such a mundane task and reflex-like interaction, and yet I taste my tears before they wet my face. It’s moments like these, where Teddy gives me a thank you for feeding him, and walking him, and petting him, and loving him, that I think how dare suicide stay stuck in my mind. I’m loved, yes, by my brother and my parents and probably a few distant friends, but I’m also needed. Teddy needs me, and that’s enough. Maybe not enough forever, but it’s enough for now; it’s enough for this moment. 

I stand like that for a few minutes, and Teddy stays sat. I wonder if he knows how much I need it, but eventually he makes his way to devour his food. He’s back in his spot in less than ten minutes and I decide I’ll finish the damn painting tomorrow and resign myself to bed. 

It’s a quiet night. I fall asleep easily. Teddy’s warmth– his love– cascades down my soul and allows me to rest. A real rest, for the first time in a long time, and damn if it doesn’t feel good. 

—

Yet, Teddy’s rest lasts much longer. I rushed him to the emergency vet just two hours ago, felt my blood run cold as the chill of his skin rushed down my spine. Carried him down the stairs as if 80 pounds were a weightless feather, watched him from the mirror in my car as his breaths became lighter and further apart. Screamed at an undeserving receptionist to Hurry up and help him and watched as the Veterinarian felt for a pulse and gave a solemn head shake. Fell to the ground, grabbed for my stomach because I could no longer breathe, then

sobbed, 

and sobbed, 

and sobbed. 

Signed the papers, wrote a check, requested his ashes. 

Drove home, stayed in the car, heaved out the window, let my fingers shake in my lap. 

Left the car, walked up the stairs– failed. Sat down, got up, sat down again. Why was it easier to walk carrying the 80 pounds? 

Made it in my apartment. 

Collapsed. 

Realized that nobody needed me anymore. 

—

It’s no longer a question in my mind, I hate the silence. Even without television and music and podcasts, cars rush past far in the night and young people, perhaps myself in another life, stumble home from the bar in fits of laughter and playful arguments. It’s the five minutes when somehow it all comes to the same halt. When the world collectively agrees to still, and I am again at the conclusion that my entire world is gone, he died last week. 

But I have to finish the painting. My professor emailed me yesterday, today is it. I submit my final, or I fail the class, which would mean I cannot graduate next year, which would mean I’m a fucking failure, and every bad thought I’ve ever had was completely fucking right.

A tragic hero. 

I googled the phrase a million times by now. Lots of basic definitions and many articles on Shakespere, but I’m not compelled to draw anything and I don’t feel a drop of inspiration. I’m suddenly wishing Teddy were here with his face on the bump in my leg, distracting me. But it didn’t distract me, really. It calmed me more than anything. Made me feel like my least favorite part of myself was someone else's favorite, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. 

My spine straightens a tad. I stare at the canvas and tear slips down my cheek. I can feel him again for a moment, leaning against me, supporting me. I glance around the room, and my eyes land on the roses. They’re hardly alive any longer, and I want to hold onto them forever because I got with Teddy. Or really, I got them because of him. Without Teddy, I wouldn’t have been on that walk, and even if I had I sure as hell wouldn’t have stopped to talk to Martha. The only reason I have flowers right now is because of him– because of Teddy. 

I glance at Teddy’s spot, but can't help to notice the odd cleanliness of my apartment. I only cleaned because I was able to use the flowers as an excuse, which I wouldn't have if not for my dog. 

I think of my brother, how everyone always chooses him first, everyone but Teddy, that is. Teddy loved him, that was undeniable, but he always made his way back to me. Teddy was the only one who ever made me feel like I came first, like I was special just for existing. 

I decide then to draw. I draw and draw and draw, until my hand is tired and my arms ache and my head hurts. But I don't stop until I'm done, and when I finally finish, I lean back and sigh. It was always him, it was always Teddy– my tragic hero.

  He lived a horrible life before he met me, he had every reason to be mean or lifeless, but he wasn't. He loved life into my soul. He got me roses, and let me laugh at my own jokes, and accepted my flaws. It strikes that Teddy was everything I've been looking for in other people for so long. I never had the courage to stop looking around and just look down.

We know loving our dogs that eventually it'll hurt, horribly so, and yet, we love them anyway, because they save us. They’re our heroes, trapped inside the most beautiful tragedy of them all.