Sit, Stay, Die

By Upama Bhattacharjee

All bark and no bite.

What good is a dog anyway

if it doesn't protect

my good suburban home?

If it doesn’t bark loud enough to drown out the cracks in my marriage,

if it doesn’t bare its teeth when the wrong kind of neighbor walks by,

what good is it?

The golden retriever would've been too obvious, and

I was looking for something quieter, I'll admit.

Something used to sleeping on concrete, so it'd find our rugs a gift.

But now if it doesn't fit in my christmas card aesthetic,

would it not be better to put it down?

The shelter did charge a hefty price,

but my kids were so taken by it, you know?

It had appeared so obedient,

so brave, a good guard dog for my dream suburban house—

with a porch swing and a mortgage.

But what can I say?

My old dog lost its devotion.

It's lost its teeth, and it's getting soft.

Stopped jumping at the sound of my key.

Stopped wagging when I told it to smile.

Now it growls at me— that ungrateful bitch—

backs away in the line of fire,

shivering, ears drooped, under my couch.

Tragedy, isn't it?

Such a good dog like this, learning to defend itself?

But oh, how it had served.

A good dog.

The kind men build empires on.

Sat when I said.

Played dead without protest.

Let the kids pull at its ears.

Listened to me scream into the sink and never made a sound.

But a dog should be put down when it gets old.

When it gets complicated.

When it no longer smiles with its tail

or pees with excitement when you walk in the door.

When it starts looking at you.

When the eyes start watching.

Isn’t this mercy?

That’s what the vet said last time.

Or at least that’s what I heard.

"Mercy," he muttered as he slid the needle in.

Or maybe he said “payment due upon service.”

Who can tell with masks these days?

All I know is,

you can’t let a dog get too smart.

Too sentimental.

Too... aware.

Because then one day

you’ll wake up in your king-sized bed

with an anxiety disorder in a dog’s body,

whining at the door,

refusing to heel,

staring back at you with eyes that say:

I know what you did.

I know what you are.

Yes, it'll be hard on my wife.

(oh, such a good dog, useful dog)

She’s the sentimental type. Cries at diaper ads.

But she'll tell the kids that it got sick.

That’s what we always call it in this part of the town.

When the wild thing gets tired of being tamed.

When the leash burns red into its neck

and it learns to bite.

We say: it's suffering.

We say: it was never really safe to begin with.

That’s what I’ll say.

And what good is a dog like that?

Better to put it down.

Real quiet.

Don't want the neighbors thinking we don’t clean up after ourselves.

We’re respectable. We compost. The kids have piano recitals.

But before I do,

I’ll make it sit one last time.

I’ll whisper its name like a lullaby.

I’ll scratch behind its ears like I used to,

before the growling will start.

And I’ll look it dead in the eyes

when I do it—

so it knows.

(Yes, of course it’s mercy.)

By Upama Bhattacharjee