A Burger for Mocha

Mocha bounced from the car the moment I shut off the engine. He had squirmed in my wife’s arms for the entirety of the ride and thankfully she had clipped on his leash, because when he darted out, he would have sprinted clear across the parking lot before we could catch up to him. Instead, he tugged her forward and Emma had to strain against his pull, like she had to when he was young. 

“Yup, still his favorite.” Olivia, my younger daughter, slammed the car door, and reached for the leash. 

  “Olive, honey, pull on your hat.” Without waiting for a reply, Emma gave me the leash and busied herself pulling Olive’s hat on. 

Mocha sat at my feet and puffed in exertion and anticipation in equal measure. I could see his breath in the chilly November air. His tongue was rolling out. His breath caught and he lowered his head, coughed twice. I leaned down and pet him. Mocha was a mutt, long haired, some sort of setter mix. His fur used to be black, but now his brows and whiskers had taken on an ashen gray. I thought it suited him, it looked distinguished. 

The black fur was of course the reason for the name. Our older daughter, Isabella, had named him after her favorite drink at the time. Since it’s a male, I suggested maybe Choco would work better, but try arguing with a four year old. 

Isa was able to come down from college in the city. She was still in the car. Assuming she was distracted on her phone, I turned to knock on her window. But I stopped. On the other side of the tinted windows, she was wiping her eyes. 

I looked away. 

The restaurant in question was, according to me, the pinnacle of a burger joint. 

White Castle. 

There was just something about those bite-size burgers, those crinkle cut fries, even the faint whiff of weed that threaded into the smells of processed burger patties. 

We ordered an inappropriate number of sliders. An obnoxious pile of fries. And sodas that’ll keep us wired until next week. I was glad for the amount of food, and nobody protested. It was like everyone had agreed to wordlessly conspire to try to make this meal last as long as possible. 

I didn’t think we’d be enjoying White Castle as much after this visit. In fact, thinking back on it, I don’t have any desire to go back there again. 

“Dad, can we give Mocha some burger?” Mocha had zeroed in on Olivia and had (accurately) marked her as the weakest link. He was deploying his flat ears/saucer eyes technique. Soon he’d move things up to putting a begging paw on her thigh, then, failing that, he’d escalate to a pitiful yowling. It hardly ever came to that, because he was very persuasive. White Castle was his favorite burger joint, too. 

Em and I had only been married a few years when we got this dog. We still lived in the small one bedroom. He’d throw it into fifth gear and run laps around our small living room and into the kitchen, slipping on the ugly hardwood floors, Isa squealing, trying to tackle him to a standstill. 

Fuck. 

I cleared my throat. I’d have plenty of time for that train of thought later. 

“Give him the whole slider.”

Isa hooted. “You hear that boy? The big leagues!”

Olive showed Mocha a fresh burger on a paper plate. He whined in anticipation, barely able to keep his butt on the ground. 

“Okay. Mocha, shake.”

Mocha, a good boy, shook.

“Up!” 

Mocha popped up on his hind feet, front paws tucked at his chest.

“Aaaaand pirouette!” 

I thought about protesting, as his hip would probably be bothering him, but for a burger, on this day, it’s worth it.

Mocha hopped on his hind feet, wobbled, but then, in a miraculous feat of canine balance, recovered, and hopped about in a circle, executing a full 360 degree turn. 

“Goooood boy!” We applauded enthusiastically. He barked impatiently.  

“Shhhh! No barking, you’ll get us thrown out.” My wife glanced around the restaurant. Probably you weren’t supposed to have dogs inside. “Okay give him the burger, Olive, I don’t want him to keep barking.”

Olivia set the burger on a paper plate and placed it on the ground in front of him. He paused, looked up at her. She said, “...aaand, okay.” 

Mocha went at it. It was a feeding frenzy. He always loved burgers, though I’m not sure if he’d ever gotten a full one. It was quite a sight, and Olive pulled on Emma’s sleeve, trying to get her attention so she’d take a picture. 

Isa leaned over to me. Quietly, she said, “I almost wish she was young enough that she wouldn’t remember today.” 

I thought maybe Isa was right at that time. 

It was dark when we were driving back home a few hours later. We had to make another stop after White Castle, and the car was quiet. It was odd, it felt hollow without Mocha’s barking. I could still smell him in the car. That was the worst part for me. 

When someone cut me off and I braked a bit hard, my right hand immediately reached over to steady Mocha on my wife’s lap. But of course he wasn’t there. Emma saw what it but said nothing, just wrapped my hand in both of hers. Her eyes glistened. 

Olive seemed to be the only one holding it together. She looked out the window at the passing lights quietly. In the rear view, I saw her catch sight of the White Castle and she twisted in her seat, following it. 

“I’m glad we gave him that whole burger,” Olive said. “I hope he’ll have someone to clean all his throwup in heaven though.” 

Isabella snorted and started laughing. Emma caught it and pretty soon I was cracking up too, and it felt right. It filled that hollowness pretty nicely, at least for a moment.