The Kingdom of Dog Read Free

like I’d flipped some kind of switch in the homeless guy. He stuffed his screwdriver in his pocket and backed away. Though my heart was pounding, I stepped toward him, physically forcing him even farther back. I dropped the last box in the trunk and closed it.
    The man walked around the front of the car, to stand on the curb looking at Rochester, who kept on barking. “Dog isn’t very friendly, is he?”
    â€œHe’s a good boy.” I forced myself not to hurry around the car, or to break eye contact with the homeless man until I slid into the driver’s seat. As soon as I was beside him, Rochester stopped barking.
    â€œIt’s OK,” I said, putting the car in drive and then stroking Rochester’s head as we pulled out. “You’re a good watchdog.”
    He gave one last bark toward the man, then settled back on the seat, and my adrenaline level began to drop.
    For a small town, Leighville had more than its share of homeless men and women. Some of the students were easy marks, and there were lots of college dumpsters around. I thought I might have seen that guy hanging around the campus sometimes, but I wasn’t sure.
    It was scary the way my prison training had popped up at the first sign of conflict. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. I’d spent the last year trying to put everything behind me—Mary’s miscarriages, the divorce, my unfortunate incarceration. But thinking I could forget about it all was a foolish idea.
    Back up at campus, I parked once again behind Fields Hall and took Rochester to my office. Then I began ferrying the printer’s boxes to the ballroom.
    Though the old building had been renovated a few times, the ballroom was kept as it had been in the 1850s, with high ceilings and elaborate chandeliers, swagged curtains and a polished parquet floor. It was still used for faculty meetings, concerts and other events. In two days it would be the main venue for our campaign launch party. But for now it was a scene of organized chaos, with long folding tables laden with printed materials lining the walls. I joined the line and spent the next hour assembling packets. By the time I was done it was time to pick up Rochester and go home.
    â€œThings are only going to get crazier over the next couple of days, Rochester,” I said, turning onto the River Road toward Stewart’s Crossing. “I still have a million things to finish before the launch party.”
    He didn’t say anything. But it didn’t matter; I just liked having him as a sounding board.
    If I had to pinpoint the one thing I missed most from my married life, I’d say it was the chance to talk to somebody else about my day. Mary and I had eaten dinner together most nights, sharing complaints and inspirations. Toward the end of our marriage, when she was deep into depression over her miscarriages, I felt like I had lost more than just those two babies; I’d lost the person I was most connected to in the world.
    Rochester had become my substitute. In exchange for a warm place to sleep, food, treats and care, he gave me unconditional love. He was always there when I worried about job prospects, meetings with my parole officer, or the general loneliness of single life. He sat curled on the seat next to me, listening, as we drove through the dark night back to our welcoming little townhouse.
    He had a quick pee, and then we went inside. “I’m not complaining, you understand,” I said, as he sat on his haunches watching me prepare his dinner. “Despite everything, I’m grateful for my life. I met a lot of guys in prison who didn’t have the opportunities I had—a pair of loving parents, a stable home environment, a reasonably high IQ and the ability to use it.”
    I put down his bowl of chow, topped with a dollop of canned pumpkin to keep him regular, and started fixing my own dinner.
    Rochester was a big part of my