There is a Vicious Dog in the Neighborhood

Artie Shaw is a terrible dog.

When Abby finds him in her ex next door neighbor’s yard, she doesn’t fully realize what she is getting herself into. How could she, really?

So when he slips his lead one summer evening years later and she chases him through the neighborhood, resulting in his coming dangerously close to biting another dog on a tie out on an adjacent property, she scolds him (mildly) and brings him back inside. This isn’t exactly new behavior for Artie, after all. He’s a bad dog.

It isn’t until later that night when Abby sees a post in the neighborhood association Facebook group that she truly begins to panic:

“Friends, I need to tell you about a harrowing experience in our neighborhood. Tonight, while walking my dogs around the cross streets of Hampton Place and Radford, a 40 to 60 pound brown dog was running loose. It circled us aggressively, gnashing its teeth and growling. It tried to bite both my dogs and I was finally able to intimidate it enough to make it run away. When it ran away, it went into another yard where it viciously attacked a small dog on a tie out. The owner of that small dog said the loose dog has done this multiple times, frequently hurting his dog.”

Abby stops reading for a few minutes, trying to replay the events from earlier in the day in her own mind. Artie slips his lead. She can’t catch up to him until several minutes after he takes off. Yes, she could hear commotion before she got to Artie. No, she didn’t see him make contact with the other dog the original poster is accusing him of attacking, nor has she ever. And this isn’t the first time Artie has gotten out or gotten into that dog’s space. She glances down at him. He is chewing on one of his paws at her feet. He is blissfully unaware of the mayhem he causes. And 40 to 60 pounds? On his heaviest day, Artie weighs maybe 12 pounds. She rubs her temples and continues reading.

“Neighbors, this dog is a DANGER. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t been a male and able to intimidate/ fight him away from my dogs. There is a vicious dog in the neighborhood. Be aware. This dog could KILL one of your fur babies”

Abby hates the words “fur baby.” She rolls her eyes.

Her stomach lurches. She stops rubbing her temples and walks into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. Her hands are shaking. She knows Artie is bad. She knows he is unpredictable.

She also knows that she loves him.

More than one vet has told her to put him down. This opinion is echoed by the trainer who specializes in reactive dogs shortly after Artie bites her in a session. (The bite requires stitches which Abby happy pays for. The trainer discontinues lessons. Abby doesn’t blame her.) But when she looks at Artie, she sees more than a neurotic animal. She sees a dog who protects and loves. A dog who is devoted to her. A dog she is devoted to.

She’ll message him. She’ll send the author of the post a private message and she will apologize for Artie. She will ask him nicely to take the post down. She scrolls his profile a bit. He seems reasonable. Yes. This is her plan. It will be fine.

“Damn it, Artie,” she sighs as he appears in the doorway of the kitchen stretching. “You’ve really done it this time dude.”

He puts his paw inside the water bowl and sloshes the remaining liquid on the floor. It cascades slowly toward Abby’s feet while he walks away. Obviously, he isn’t sorry. She checks the post again while half heartedly mopping the water with a dishtowel using her foot. Ten comments. Everyone is apologizing to the author. Telling him they’ll be on the lookout. Some are commenting the streets they live on and that because of the proximity to the scene of the crime, they will be hyper- vigilant guarding against “that monster.”

“That monster?” Abby says aloud. “Jesus.” She stops mopping. This is bad. She decides to sleep on it. Maybe confirming that Artie is the culprit isn’t the best plan of action after all. For most of the night, Abby is awake refreshing the comment section. By 3am, she changes course. 30 new comments. Some are suggesting the non emergency police line. Some copy and paste the city’s website information on where to call about rabid animals. She reads the words “animal control officers” more times than feels normal.

Artie is asleep in the bend of her knees.

Sometimes she thinks about having him put down.

When her alarm goes off the next morning, Abby immediately checks the phone. 58 comments— mostly replies to one comment in particular:

“I know EXACTLY what dog this is. His name is Bear and he lives at 1518 Radford. We called animal control on him idk how many times bc he’s always out and he’s always causing

trouble. He is DANGEROUS.”

She turns on her bedside lamp and hits “view replies” over and over.

“Oh my God. This is really really bad,” she thinks. Artie wakes up and snuggles into her side.

“What have you done?” She asks him. She keeps reading.

The homeowner from 1518 is defending her dog now; telling the comment section Bear was actually inside all night and that she was home. Others in the comments are arguing with her.

A woman named Heather calls her a liar.

Abby wonders if she should move.

For the next few days, Abby only takes Artie out at weird times. She is terrified that he will be recognized. She feels like she is in a detective novel; hiding out, waiting to be caught. One morning while she gets his leash ready, she sees two neighbors out walking. She lets him pee on the rug.

Everyone’s still talking about the vicious dog roaming the neighborhood in the Facebook group. Abby can’t stop refreshing the comment section multiple times every day. No one has seen the dog out. Everyone’s still looking for him. No one feels especially safe. Everyone’s certain it's Bear from 1518. The woman living in 1518 is threatening to call an attorney to issue acease and desist letter and to force the deletion of the post. Other posts populate the feed now:

“1518 is acting this way because she is GUILTY. AS. HELL. Just have the dog put down.

He is clearly the problem.”“1518 you should be ASHAMED to care more about A DOG than the safety of YOUR NEIGHBORS.”

“1518 is a liar.”

Abby sends screen shots to her best friend, Erin, and tells her how guilty she feels. “The woman in 1518 is a single mom… she has teenagers… I think she’s gone a lot because she’s working.”

“Have you said that to anyone?” Erin asks. “Have you defended her?”

“Well… no,” Abby admits.

“Yikes.”

Abby stops sending screen shots to Erin because she knows Erin is right. She feels incredibly guilty. Artie pees on the rug a lot more now, sometimes even on the days he gets a long walk.

Abby has lived in her house for six months. Her divorce has been final for three times that long. She works from home. And since Artie’s incident, she feels somehow even more isolated than she did when she first moved in. She wonders how long she can keep this up. It’s been weeks since the post went up in the neighborhood group. Weeks since the incident. No one suspects her. Or rather, suspects Artie. If she thinks rationally, she knows that Artie is small. Much smaller than the offending dog’s description. She needs to get outside more. She needs to stop refreshing the Facebook group all day.

When a new post appears, this time about a going away party for someone else in the neighborhood, Abby reads it carefully. She decides to go. It will be good for her.

“1518 won’t be there,” she thinks. That thought makes her sad.

On the night of the party, Abby arrives at her destination with two bottles of red wine in tow. She walks past 1518 on the way. The lights are on. She feels guilty.

At the party, Abby feels instantly out of place. She imagines everyone can see through her. Everyone knows what she’s hiding. She opens one of the bottles of red wine.

She finishes pouring and joins a group of people making small talk.

“Where do you live?”

“What do you do for work?”

“Do you have any children?”

After this last question, Abby notices small grimaces of pity passing over her conversation mates. She can’t bear to be the divorced- childless- working from home- lonely-new neighbor.

“I have a dog,” she replies brightly. “His name is Artie. Artie Shaw.”

Someone says they love the name. Another person asks what kind of dog he is. Other dog questions are peppered in. She feels at ease. Yes, Artie is bad and has caused her a great deal of guilt and sleeplessness these last few weeks, but it is so easy to talk about him.

“He’s such a bad dog though,” she laughs. She cannot believe she said that. What if someone knows the dog from Facebook is Artie just because she said he was bad? No. She pulls herself together. A woman speaks up.

“Well. At least he isn’t as bad as the dog living in 1518. Are you in the neighborhood Facebook group?”

Abby swallows hard. Her lips press into a thin line. She recognizes the woman as Heather from the Facebook comments. “Um,” she starts, but Heather interrupts her.

“Apparently the woman who lives there is just ‘deny, deny’ that it's her dog. We all know better.”

A few of the others nod. Abby feels like she may throw up. She considers walking to the other side of the room or leaving the party altogether. She is scanning the house to plan an escape when she sees a woman walk through the door. A few people beside her begin to whisper. The room gets more quiet.

“Well speak of the Devil and He shall appear,” Heather says.

Abby realizes this must be 1518. She learns from someone that her name is Mary. Mary from 1518 with the dog named Bear. She fights the urge to run from the room.

“I wonder where her dog is?” Someone else in the crowd sneers— almost a whisper, but certainly loud enough to be heard. Abby thinks she may die. She thinks she is having a heart attack. Mary is walking closer to the group, who have now fallen silent. They’re staring at her.

Abby wiggles the fingers on her right hand to make sure she isn’t having a stroke. A few of the neighbors say hi to Mary.

Abby swallows hard and extends her hand awkwardly toward Mary, introducing herself. Mary shakes Abby’s hand. They make small talk. Abby feels a little less like her heart may beat out of her chest until Heather comes closer. Abby isn’t good at confrontation. Usually, she tries to avoid them at all costs. She sees one coming now.

“Let’s just cut the crap, Mary,” Heather snarls. Abby silently confirms she should have ran for the door earlier. “What are you going to do about your dog? We can’t just have a vicious dog running around maiming innocent people and pets.”

Abby is sweating. Mary looks at Heather.

“The dog on the Facebook post? It wasn’t my dog, Heather,” Mary’s jaw is clinched. Abby grips the stem of her wineglass so hard she is afraid it may snap in half.

“We all know it was,” Heather answers. A few more people have joined Heather. They stand on either side of her.

“No. It wasn’t,” Mary is remarkably calm. “Bear is 80 pounds. He is mostly brown, but he has a dark grey spot on his back, which the poster in the group didn’t mention. And in case you forgot, we have a fenced in yard. The only times Bear has gotten loose and been out in the neighborhood is if someone forgot to close and latch the gate.”

Everyone at the party is quiet now. Abby thinks about the woman whose going away party it is. Her party is clearly ruined. Abby is ruining so much by staying silent. Mary is looking at Abby now.

“There’s only one brown dog in the neighborhood as far as I know,” Mary is staring directly at Abby now. Everything feels like slow motion. Abby knows what is about to happen.

“Abby did you say your name was?” Mary is pointing at Abby now. Abby nods. “What color is your dog, Abby?”

Abby can’t speak. Instead she looks down, her eyes settling on Mary after a few seconds.

“Artie? Artie is really little, but, um, he’s brown,” she finally manages to say.

“Mmm hmm. And didn’t you just move onto the corner of Radford and Hampton Place a little while back?” Mary is staring at Abby. Abby wishes she could disappear into the floor.

“That’s enough!” Heather says loudly. “How dare you come in here and do this. Blame someone else—someone who just moved here— to take your own guilt away. Tell her Abby that your dog isn’t the one who did this. Tell her it was her dog so this stupid conversation can be over!”

Bile rises in Abby’s throat. Everyone at the party is looking at her. She is sweating. She wishes the floor would open up and swallow her.

“Everyone in the Facebook group says it's your dog, Mary.”

The moment Abby says it she hates herself.

“Oh. Okay. I get it,” Mary sits her wine glass down on a table nearby. “I get it. My house isn’t as nice. I’m a renter. I don’t have a husband at home. I work a lot. My dog looks big and scary. I’m the odd man out because I can’t do all the little neighborhood meetings and gatherings and this and that. So I’m the bad guy. Not the woman whose dog it actually is. Nope. Its me. It has to be me.”

Abby is shaking. She can’t bring her eyes to meet Mary’s. She doesn’t know what to say.

She is a coward, she knows this. But she also knows that it isn’t herself she’s afraid for. She’s afraid for Artie. It isn’t a good excuse. But it's her only excuse. Heather starts to say something, but is interrupted by Mary’s leaving, slamming the door.

“The audacity!” Heather puts her arm around Abby’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry about her, Abby. People here haven’t really cared too much for her for a while now honestly. And now I think we can all see why.”

Abby mumbles excuses and leaves. On the walk home she thinks about the events of the last few weeks. She texts Erin and tells her what happened.

“How ‘I saw Goody Proctor dancing with the devil’ of you, Abby,” Erin responds with a witch hat emoji and a smiley with spirals for eyeballs.

“Seriously though, I’m sorry. Call in the morning if you wanna talk.”

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Abby says in reply.

Abby pushes open her front door and turns on the lamp. Artie has eaten through all the couch cushions. The living room looks like it was hit by a cotton blizzard. He’s asleep on the chair in the corner. Abby sits in the floor and bursts into tears. She’s sitting in something. She wipes the spot beside her and smells her hand. Ammonia. Artie’s peed on the rug again. He comes over and lays his head in her lap. He is the worst dog she’s ever known.

Months pass. No one ever discovers Abby’s secret. Mary’s house gets vandalized twice. New posts about her or her dog show up in the neighborhood group weekly. Abby reports them to the moderators, but most of them don’t get taken down. Guilt eats at Abby every day. By early fall Mary moves. At almost the exact same time, an anonymous post in the Facebook group appears with a picture of the dog from Cujo. The caption says something about how much safer the neighborhood will be now. The moderators take it down after a few hours. Abby’s glad. A new family moves into 1518. They don’t have any dogs.

Abby starts seeing someone. Over dinner, he tells Abby a story about a friend from work who got attacked by a huge, crazy dog in her neighborhood and how apparently the woman whose dog it was got harassed so much she eventually moved. His friend had sent him screenshots from a Facebook group. He asks if she ever saw any of it play out in real time. He thinks it's all crazy. Abby excuses herself to the restroom. By the time she comes back to the table he’s forgotten what they were talking about before.

The first time he comes to her house, Artie tries to attack him. He slams his finger in the door trying to get away. His finger is broken. Abby offers to pay his co- pay but he won’t let her.

He does think its best, though, if they don’t see each other again.

In a strange way, she feels like this is the universe getting her back. This is her penance for the way she behaved. For not speaking up for Mary. She hopes one day the guilt will fade.

She hopes that one day she can find Mary again and beg for her forgiveness.

Artie lays his head on the pillow beside her. He licks her cheek and falls asleep pressed against her. As Abby falls asleep she thinks to herself how she loves Artie more than anything in the world.