Grand Theft Auto Dawg & Nomads

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Susan Israel

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Grand Theft Auto Dawg

Mom says, “Where is Smokey?” and you suddenly realize he’s not lying at the foot of your
bed warming your feet and you look around for that heap of golden retriever fluff and jam your feet into well-chewed bunny slippers and slide across the hardwood floor, thinking he might have not been able to hold it; six hours is long for an old dog’s bladder. The pee pad in the hall is dry. So is the bathroom floor. The TV blares, “We interrupt our regularly scheduled
programming for this bulletin. A city police cruiser was carjacked less than an hour ago and was seen driving over the Q Bridge. Witnesses claim that it was being driven by a dog. Some kind of retriever. This can’t be right. There are conflicting reports.” The broadcaster clears his throat. “A retriever was seen in the driver’s seat of a local police cruiser. Folks, this is not a drill. This is not April 1. This is preposterous.”

You move in right in front of the plasma TV screen and stare at the video. Is that Smoky?
What is he doing, driving away? He can’t leave you, he needs you, you need him, you’re a pair.
The TV announcer is interviewing witnesses. Looked like he knew what he wanted to do, jumped right in, popped that ignition button. Smart dog. “I think I need a drink,” the announcer says. The scene immediately cuts to a commercial.

“Smokey? Smoke?”

He’s left you, you realize, turning over in bed, he’s gone to another realm. So has mom.
They’re together and left you behind. They’ve been gone for years. You rub your eyes awake.
The TV is off.

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Nomads

The rain comes down harder as Michelle’s eyes dart from tent to tent to see where there’s
room for her and her friend today in the crowded encampment. Another day of searching and
she’s come up empty again. A torturous succession of no’s and a quick stop at her former
roommate’s place to shower and change her clothes. So she looks presentable at work. So
nobody she knows knows.

“You know you can stay here until you find another place.”

“But Charlie can’t, right?”

Her friend shrugs. “It’s in the lease. I can’t afford to get kicked out. I don’t know why you
didn’t try to stay. People deal with this all the time.”

Michelle looks around the apartment, so minimally decorated, so Architectural Digest, void
of anything to be emotionally attached to. Except maybe plants. Maybe she talks to her plants.

“So where are you staying anyway? You didn’t say. Maybe you can stay there?”

Has she ever woken up tasting dirt?

“I don’t think so,” Michelle says, wondering if that will be her fate. She’s going to have to
at least find another place to temporarily store her things. So there will be no more questions.

How long is temporary?

She stuffs an extra change of clothes in her backpack, wedged between a bottle of water,
some food for Charlie and a couple of bowls. And now she squeezes between bodies and
sleeping bags under the tent. Charlie nudges her. “Want to eat, girl? Come on.” She empties the small bag of kibble into one of the bowls and slides it under the terrier’s nose, then fills the other bowl with water. She uses the eviction notice as a placemat.

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Susan Israel‘s dashing dog, Fluffy.

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Susan Israel’s work has recently been published in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Blink-Ink, 50 Word Stories, Backwards Trajectory, Flash Boulevard, Does It Have Pockets, Bright Flash Literary Review, and several others. She lives in Connecticut with her dog.

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