Scruff

I’m not sure if it was the vinegary stench in the air or the sound of the cocking shotgun that woke me up. What I am sure of, however, is that I had left my bedroom window open, just like every other warm night that summer.

“I can smell the food. Give it to me, or I’ll shoot.”

I could only stare ahead at the sliding door of my closet. I lay on my side, with my back against the window into which the raspy voice had poured. I was frozen. A light comforter was the only thing between my back and the shotgun, bar some space and air. I could hear the wind that carried the vinegared air, the quickening beat of my heart, and the interloper’s labored breath.

I’d pretend I was still asleep. Without a confrontation, the threat might miraculously make itself scarce. Like so many other times, I decided inaction was the best choice. I deemed it the safest option. If I died, it could not be argued that it had been because of an unmeasured reaction on my part.

“I can smell the food. I can see you there. Give it to me, or I’ll shoot.”

I remained frozen. I was satisfied my bet had paid off when I heard the interloper’s feet shuffle away as he began to move on. I listened as the backyard grass brushed against what I imagined were the rubber soles of a man’s work boots. He’d reached the end of my backyard, just one in a series of interconnected neighborhood backyards separated only by six-foot wooden fences.

I dropped to my bedroom floor and sighed heavily in relief for the first time since I’d woken up. As my body hit the carpet, I stopped breathing again and hoped to hear the muffled pounding of the interloper’s boots on the next yard’s grass after the six-foot drop. The sound didn’t come.

“I can smell the food. Give it to me, or I’ll shoot.”

The next window over, not quite the next yard. My mother’s bedroom window. I was running before I finished standing up. I threw my bedroom door open.

“I can smell the food…” I heard as I thundered across the hall. “Give it to me, or I’ll––”

BANG!

As the sonorous bang of the shotgun’s blast finished reverberating into my heaving chest, I saw my mother talking on the chorded landline phone as she sipped on a glass of wine, sitting with her back against the open window and the wind-waving translucent curtains closed behind her.

As the adrenaline peaked, I could begin to make out a scene through the curtains and outside the window. My neighbor was sitting on the fence, smoking a cigarette, looking sideways at the man, also sitting on the fence, pointing the smoking shotgun up at the sky.

“I ain’t got no food, man.” my neighbor said as the shotgun smoke merged with the smoke from his cigarette.

As I gestured to my mother to drop to the floor, a frightened expression took over her face.

“I can smell the food. Give it to me, or I’ll––” As I finished lowering my mother to the ground, wine spilling on her bed and carpet, my eyes met the man’s own. I could swear they were gray.

I reached across the window and pulled the man in from the collar as he motioned to point the shotgun at me. I acted so I wouldn’t have to react. He had the high ground, but I had a stable footing and, thus, the advantage. Well, he also had a shotgun. And yet, as his back hit the floor and I pinned him down, the shotgun was no more. I now stared down the barrel of a handgun.

I right-crossed him in the face, my punch landed on and pushed against a steel wool-feeling beard. It was faster than immediately reaching for the gun, and I had better odds trying to disarm a man who had first been stunned by a fist across the face. I punched him one more time for good measure before I thrust both hands at his armed fist. Before I finished taking the gun, he shot it three times into the ceiling as I pushed it away from my face.

The handgun felt light in my hand. For some reason, three bullets were all it ever had loaded into it. I threw it into the hallway, away from us. I never heard it land. I was left to deal with a less threatening man altogether.

As I pulled him out of my mother’s room, he groaned, whimpered, and grumbled unintelligible words. Before he could free himself from my grasp, I pinned him down and got on top of him again. As I tried to flip him face-down, he gnawed, not bit, at my hands. It was gloriously ineffective; significantly sharper teeth had gnawed at my hands before.

I managed to get him face-down, pulling his arms behind his back as to restrain him. “Mom! Get me some rope; We need to tie him up!” I exclaimed as I tried to pull him towards the house entrance. He grunted once more, mumbled something or other, nothing anyone could’ve made out. In the heat of that moment, I couldn’t have told you what the man looked like, except that he was scruffy.

As my mother handed me a pair of police-issue handcuffs she found in the miscellaneous kitchen drawer, I asked her to call the police. As I cuffed the scruffy man’s hands behind his back, I looked up and behind me towards the front door. A large dog was in the house, looking out the open door. The dog looked back at me. I met his gray eyes; I could only make out the brightness behind him. It was daylight.

I didn’t recognize this dog, but he made me think of my dog. “He should be sleeping in his crate. He should be safe.” I thought to myself. As my eyes remained locked on the dog’s eyes, I decided this feral dog must belong to this feral man I had restrained.

My mother handed me the phone, the fucking landline, which I pulled next to my ear, against the tension of the uncoiling chord. Before I could speak, I heard what must have been the most cheerful lady ever to step foot in the world.

“¡Gracias por llamar al servicio de emergencia!” (“Thanks for calling the emergency service.”) “¡Mi nombre es Estafany, es un gusto servirle!” (“My name is Estefany, It’s a pleasure to be of service.”) “¡El gobierno del estado se enorgullece de haber reducido drásticamente el tiempo de respuesta de los servicios de emergencia en tan solo tres años!” (“The state government is proud to have drastically reduced the emergency response time in just three years!”) “Antes de ayudarle con su emergencia, en gustaría presentarle la oferta de nuestros varios servicios.” (“Before I help out with your emergency, I’d like to present to you our offers for our various services”) “Tenemos descuentos en paquetes turísticos, fiestas para niños, rentas por hora de salas tipo ‘lounge’, coaching personal, lecturas de cartas astrales ––” (“We offer discounts on tourist packages, children’s parties, hourly rentals on lounge furniture, personal coaching, astrological readings ––”)

“Mom, what number did you dial?” I asked my mother calmly. “066.” She said, my hometown’s old emergency number. “Mom, please call 911; we’re in the United States.” I begged and gave the phone back to her.

As I looked behind me again, I recognized my own dog. He was lying down, wagging his tail, and looking out the front door. He turned to me, panting. An energetic smile occupied his face.

As she handed me the landline again, I asked my mother to get my sister, who should have been watching my dog. At this point, it was strange she hadn’t already come out of her room with all the commotion. My mother walked calmly back up the stairs to get her as I put the phone back to my face, with the interloper still squirming in handcuffs, mumbling neurotically under me.

“Hi!” Says another excited lady. “911, how can we help today?” I proceeded to explain the situation. “Please send someone immediately; I don’t know how long I can hold him. I’m at––” “Yes, we know where you live. Someone should be there soon.” “Make sure you also send animal control; he brought a dog too.” I said as I looked down at the leashed dog I had captured earlier. The dog was gnawing at the leash, trying haphazardly to escape, but otherwise, he stood calmly at my feet.

Still feeling a sense of urgency, but not quite knowing why, I looked up to see my mother dragging my sister by the hand down the stairs, my sister’s eyes fixed on her tablet, noise-canceling headphones around her ears. Surely, she was watching some Netflix show.

“What the hell?” I asked, “Are you okay?” “Yeah, you?” She says, looking up from her tablet. “Why are you freaking out?” She asks as if I hadn’t just captured a murderous, albeit hungry maniac and his dog.

I was still on the phone, and this emergency operator was gleefully telling me about her day while I fruitlessly tried to impress upon her the importance of sending the police to my house. I scoffed and gazed down to check in on the handcuffed man-turned-leashed dog once more, now recognizing my dog quite clearly, looking up at me, smiling as he does when we go for a walk and a game of “Tug of War”, waiting for me to do something. He seemed hungry. Cute and scruffy-looking, as he’d always been.

(Yes, this is a fictional story.)

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