Jofi
Six months after I retired from my job as a university librarian, my psychiatrist advised me to get a dog. “I don’t like dogs,” I said.
“Perhaps you’ll learn to.” She jotted the word “dog” on a script and handed it to me. Her familiar soft brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and silvery voice offered a modicum of comfort.
Still, I said, “Somehow, I doubt it.”
“Look, George, I’ve known you for seven years. You’ve tried hypnosis, meditation, and yoga. Why not try a dog?”
I adjusted my tie and smoothed a crease in my vest. “Imagine dog hairs on the Oriental rug,” I said. “Or, heaven forbid, piddle on the hardwood floors.”
“You’re an active man, George. If I up your medication, you’ll spend your retirement snoozing in an armchair. You know I seldom give advice. But now here it is. Take that script, and get a dog.”
After the session, I walked up Madison to Eighty-First and then turned east. It was a brilliant winter day, and tidy, white-haired ladies walked miniature poodles with matching white fur. A man wearing a bow tie and a houndstooth suit strolled along Third. His Scottish terrier wore a Glen plaid coat. Both the man and the dog boasted a calm, self-contained mien.
At home, I brewed a cup of Viennese coffee and drank it over the Times. An article in the Science section discussed the side effects of a certain medication. I’d never heard of the drug. Still, it made me worry about my own prescriptions. I breathed deeply to calm my nerves. Then I went to the kitchen to wash the cup.
I retained privileges at the university library, so the next day, I headed downtown to search for some reading material. Two canine-themed books caught my eye. I borrowed them, and then I continued my walk. Along the way, I imagined owning a Scottish terrier, black and sleek, like the one I’d seen. But though fit, I verged on stout; walking a petite dog would have highlighted my girth. A dog park on the way roused me from my thoughts. Eight or ten motley hounds barked and ran and peed. Their owners, dressed in sundry versions of grunge, tossed soggy tennis balls to their charges. One young man used newspaper to dispose of his dog’s waste. As he carried the parcel to the refuse bin, the contents fell on his shoe.
* * *
“No,” I said to the psychiatrist the following week. “A dog is out of the question. The next thing you know, I’ll be living in a mud-sloshed dive.”
“Really, George. Must everything be a slippery slope?”
“Karen, you know very well I can’t even live with another human being. Remember what I told you about my college roommate who put his shoes on the bed?”
“Look, it’s your life, George. But maybe a dog’ll contribute to your peace of mind without the side effects of all those meds.”
I fingered the chain on my pocket watch and smoothed out the kinks. “Perhaps,” I said.
* * *
That night, I sat in my armchair and perused the books. Several breeds drew my attention. I especially liked the ones depicted in Renaissance art; they, along with their masters, appeared well-groomed and staunch. I put my feet on the ottoman and removed a piece of lint from my robe. A dog might be lying beside me just now. A mastiff seemed a solid choice. But it required more space than a one-bedroom apartment afforded. A basset hound sounded appealing for its size. But it slobbered and howled. I read on. Apparently, Freud had a chow. The photo before me depicted the analyst hunched in his chair, his arm round his pet. His three-piece suit appeared impeccable. So did his office.
Still, to be on the safe side, the following day, I increased my service with Heavenly Maids. Then, I searched for a dog. A week later, I brought home a chow.
For the first five minutes, Jofi stood in the hallway on the hardwood floor and stared at a piece of lint. So as not to disturb her, I laid my overcoat on the armchair and stared as well. When the mantel clock struck twelve, I said, “Jofi, would you like some lunch?” She ignored me. Finally, I had no choice but to remove the object of her attention and place it in the trash. She looked at me with soft, brown eyes. I imagined I saw a thanks.
According to the lady at the kennel, Jofi had been a surrender dog. The previous owner, an elderly man, could no longer attend her. “It’s not easy in the city,” she’d said. “You know, having to walk them two or three times a day. That poor man didn’t even have an elevator. He had to take her up and down four flights of stairs morning, noon, and night.”
“I’m in fine fettle,” I said. I meant it, of course, in a physical sense. She nodded and handed me the leash.
After lunch, Jofi and I walked along Museum Mile. I felt dapper in my tweed overcoat and flat cap with Jofi by my side. Several poodles approached to sniff her, and the white-haired ladies nodded faintly and then, unsmiling, looked away.
As we turned down Second, Jofi and I passed the man with the Scottish terrier. His dark wool pants fit his sturdy figure well, even when he bent to clean up after his dog, which he did with aplomb.
When we returned to the apartment, I removed my shoes, and Jofi spent a good ten minutes cleaning her paws. She licked them meticulously, producing a sound akin to that of sucking on a marrow-filled bone. Then, she jumped on the armchair. My heart raced, and I yelled at her to get down. She did so but then went to the corner to sulk. Feeling despondent about the matter, I invited her to sit beside me on the sofa. She laid her head on my lap, and I petted her as I read.
* * *
The radiator in the psychiatrist’s office blasted steam, fogging the window and all but concealing the air shaft on the other side. I unfolded my handkerchief and wiped my brow. “Karen,” I said, “I wonder if this is cause for concern.”
“So, George, if I understand correctly, you’re concerned about not being concerned.”
“Precisely. If I don’t mind her on the sofa—if, in fact, I invite her to be on the sofa—then the next thing you know, I’ll not care if people wear shoes in the apartment. Or, for that matter, put them on the bed.”
“And so?”
“And so my material life will be as disordered as my inner life.”
“Might Jofi be making your inner life more serene?”
* * *
One bright spring morning, Jofi sat by the door and wagged her tail. I placed my empty coffee cup in the sink and got the leash. We strolled along the East River Promenade watching joggers and boats. When I sat on a bench, Jofi hunched beside me and placed her paw around my leg. I took out a book and read for a while. On the way home, we saw the man with the Scottish terrier headed in our direction. This time we nodded. Jofi gamboled in delight.
* * *
It rained heavily for the next four days, and so Jofi and I limited our walks to within a block of the building. White poodles abounded in raincoats and booties, but the white-haired ladies made themselves scarce. Instead, at the other end of the leashes were maids in black dresses with white aprons and trim. Jofi did her business but then tugged on the leash toward the building. When we entered, she wiped her paws on the mat.
I thought of the man with the Scottish terrier but did not see him again until the following Friday when the rain cleared and Jofi and I ventured east. He had just finished curbing his dog and was now headed west. The two beasts pulled us toward one another. I breathed deeply and then spoke. “I appreciate your doing your share to keep our city clean.”
“It’s rather inconsiderate that some people don’t.” He had a plangent voice, which contrasted with self-assured eyes. We continued our discussion of tidiness and dogs before proceeding to other matters. By the time we’d circled Conservatory Garden, I’d learned, among other details, that Lucian worked as a book editor specializing in Renaissance art.
* * *
“Well, George,” the psychiatrist said. “It’s been, what, a year now since you got Jofi? Eight months since Lucian came into your life? You were my first client in New York, and now, you’re my last. I trust you’ll continue to function reasonably, which is to say within the normal range of neuroses. As for myself, I plan to retire.”
A month later, we had our final session. As a gift of appreciation, I gave her a photograph of Jofi savoring a bone on the Oriental rug. She gave me a set of bookends. We thanked one another, and I removed a handkerchief from my pocket to dab my eyes.
When I opened the apartment door, Jofi greeted me with a wag of her tail. I placed the bookends, two bronze canines, on the mantel beside the clock. Lucian suggested we name them after our dogs. Now the bronze versions of Brigitte and Jofi stand neatly on the bookshelf securing our canine-themed books.
As for the actual terrier and chow, evenings they sit on either end of the sofa while Lucian and I relax between them and read.
FELICIA ROSE
An editor and writer, Felicia Rose’s work has appeared in Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Poetica Magazine, The Lavender Review, The Sun, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn.