“Ruby, I’m dying,” Francis wheezed. The small tan dog stood over drunken, dirty man. She whined softly, tilted her head, then licked his sweaty face. It was dark and cold on the steps of the church where he lay. A frigid wind blew down the sidewalk, pulling an army of dead leaves over the brown grass of the park across Tremont St. past the civil war soldier statue standing solitary in the dark.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” A fit of coughing fell upon the man; his body contorted under the spasms. His eyes bugged out of his head as he coughed. When it was over, he spat a clot of blood. He put a hand on the dog’s head. “You’re going to have to” he paused to catch his breath, “take care of things on your own now.“ Tuberculosis wasn’t a good way to go. He’d most likely contracted the illness through sharing his booze with all the other local wino’s. God, anyone of them could have had it, and now, so did he, and soon it would kill him. He knew it, and so did the dog.
The dog became agitated. She paced in a circle, stopped and sat down, and then she turned her head to the sky and howled softly.
“No, no, girl. . It’s okay. I got something for you.“ Francis rummaged into his overcoat pocket, pulled out the greasy paper bag, and handed it his little Ruby.
“Here,” he gasped, putting the bag in front of the dog. “Yesterday’s tuna sandwich. Still some left.”
Ruby ignored the gift. She knew the most important person she’d ever known in her five years of living was not going to be around anymore. She wondered what she was going to do. She loved this man, this dirty, stinking, grungy old drunken man who lay beside her. She remembered how he had saved her, how she had been locked in the stifling hot car as a puppy, how she had passed out in the heat, barely alive, and how he had smashed the window with a brick to get her out. Francis hid the pup under his coat, and walked away from the bleating car alarm.
Later, he fed the puppy a can of cat food he’d stolen from the store because the can was small and easy to hide. The little dog ate the cat food in big gulps, almost choking she ate so fast. “Easy, little girl,“ whispered Francis, rubbing her back as she ate. “Now, what to call you.“ He pulled out his bottle, took a pull of cheap wine, “Hmmmm, you look like a little jewel to me. How about “Ruby?“ And that was it. From that day forward they were inseparable. He loved his dog, and she him. Francis used to say that the only drawback to having a dog is that they die too damned soon. Ironic. The dog would miss him.
Once again, she threw back her head and howled mournfully. She remembered the things they had done to survive on the streets. There were hard times, but there were good times as well. She thought about when they scrounged in the dumpster behind the supermarket for food, eating anything they could find--discarded vegetables, mushy fruit, old bread. She recalled his run ins with the law, getting locked up for several days at a time, and how she would wait patiently in the alley by the park where they lived, staying out of sight as best as she could until he returned, which he always did. The reunions were the best. She would be watching for him to come around the corner long before he arrived. Then she would run to him, barking loud, her tail wagging hard. She would roll over, and he would rub her belly. Sometimes, he‘d bring her some jail food, a piece of bologna sandwich.
“Not this time, though,“ she thought. “He isn’t coming back now.“ She sniffed him. He lay still. Beneath his usual smell of cheap wine, body odor and piss she detected an addition smell. Ruby stood on the man’s chest and kissed his lifeless face. She took the bag in her mouth. Food was hard to come by, and the sandwich would help. With one last look at the prostrate form on the stone steps, the small dog trotted away and off into the night.
