Bruce (Carver’s Dog, The Remix)

The old man hitched his pants over his bulging waistline and snorted. He stood on the porch, proudly surveying his freshly-spruced front lawn.

“Good job, Bruce. Right down to the last weed. Never seen it lookin’ so good since I bought the place. That was when Margie was still with us, of course. How much did you say I owed you?”

“Hundred bucks flat was the deal, Mr. Farmington.” Bruce had not eaten in days, except for an unclaimed Snickers bar he found in the vending machine at the bus station.

Farmington deeply inhaled the aroma of cut grass, the gray hairs in his wide nostrils twitching, and spat on the lawn. “Tell you what: you shave, say, thirty bucks off and I’ll give ya somethin’ really rare in exchange. Are you a reader, Bruce? Do you like books?”

I can’t eat books, Bruce thought. I knew the bastard would try to cheat me down.

“Yes, sir. I live by my wits, as you know, don’t have the luxury of a roof over my head, meaning I don’t watch TV except in the bar but mostly I prefer to stick my nose in a book. Helps me forget my troubles.”

Farmington snorted again. “Familiar with Raymond Carver?”

“Of course. He lived up the road apiece. I did his lawn once, not long ‘fore he died.”

“You maybe want one of his dogs? I got three pups from a litter. From his dog. Carver’s dog. That’s at least worth thirty bucks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Bruce considered Farmington’s offer. A dog would be awfully burdensome, he knew, but a man needed friends and Bruce had not a friend in the world.

“I’ll take the dog, Mr. Farmington,” Bruce said. “Maybe I can teach him to hunt.”

Related Reading: Carver’s Dog (The Trace Tale)