Walking the Dog by Elizabeth Swados Read Free Book Online

“We’ll pay double.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, thinking how craziness on the outside feels so much like craziness in prison.
    â€œWhat do you plan to do?” Ralph asked suspiciously, as if he envisioned electrodes and hypodermic needles.
    First, I cleaned their apartment. Cleaning a place is how I introduce myself to it. I sanded the expensive, now-scratchedup parquet floor. I introduced the worried men to Nature’s Miracle, known for getting rid of secret dog smells so they won’t piss where they have before. It felt so good to be scrubbing until my hands were raw. The only reason I didn’t take cleaning-lady jobs when I got paroled was because I fold clothes and bedding and towels like shit. I can never get a corner to exactly match another, or there’s always a lump in the pants seam even if I think I’ve got it creased and smoothed out.
    Ralph and Evan were intimidated but grateful for me. Pookie tried, at first, to win me over by prancing wherever I’d just scrubbed the floor, leaving dirty, wet paw prints. She leaned over and licked my face and tried humping my back, all while Ralph and Evan giggled at her antics. I completely ignored her. She was one of the sleekest, most gorgeous poodles I’d ever seen, but she’d taken advantage of those two sweet, dotty men and she couldn’t be allowed to do that. In the weeks that followed I walked her on a chain collar, locked her in her crate except when it was playtime, and gave her a treat or a toy when she shut up.
    At first it was all La Traviata and La Bohème with wails, moans, and silent suffering. She’d turn her back whenever one of us walked in the room. I know Evan and Ralph consideredfiring me more than once, but fundamentally, they were relieved. Sometimes, bored with her own divaness and phony sorrow, she’d scratch politely on her double-locked crate. I’d let her out, and she’d approach one of the men and press her head against his leg. They were not allowed to kneel down to their queen—she was nearly taller than them as it was and I didn’t want her getting off on her height. Poodles are indeed smart, and Pookie the socialite caught on quickly that, as long as I was around, her reign was over, or at least diminished. But she didn’t hate me. We ladies have an understanding. And I let her run like an antelope free of it all at least once a day in any unsupervised park I could find.

A LETTER TO BATYA SHULAMIT
    Dear Batya Shulamit,
    You probably will never see this because Leonard will be censoring your mail. He’ll take a glimpse at my handwriting and know right away. I don’t own a computer yet, but even if I did, no one would let me have your email. Since I was an artist I still like the feel of pen on paper. It’s almost like eating spaghetti, swimming, or pulling long fingernails through sand. I know I sound stupid. My letters from prison were much less ootchy-kootchy than this, but they always came back unopened. If I was the daughter of a convict I’d be curious about her life and I’d search for the letters full of apologies and sorrow.
    I’m writing to tell you I looked up your names in the dictionary, and they are well thought out choices. It was brave for the Pharaoh’s daughter to rescue a Jewish baby from the river. Is your second name connected to the Queen of Sheba? That beautiful black woman who shows up in the Song of Songs? You know all the answers but you can’t reach me. When I was involved in my research Batya appeared to me in a kind of brick red and Shulamit in Caribbean blue. I have a condition where I see numbers and letters in colors. Not that you’d give a shit. I’mjust trying to do what psychologists call “relate.” I wish Leonard would let you read this so we could begin to take down the monster image of me just a little. Our lunch turned into two dinosaurs ripping each other to shreds over a pat of