Lucifer

Down the street from where I grew up lived what my family called the Barky Dog, a long-haired German Shepherd who seemed to always be outside, prowling the neighbor’s fenced yard on a long chain. He was the classic watch dog, living the sad life of waiting for someone to walk by so he could strain at his chain and bark furiously. That’s how he got his name in my family, my Papi shaking his head whenever we walked by as Barky Dog did his usual thing. “Poor guy,” he’d say. “That’s no life for a dog. One of these days I’m going in there and setting him free. Find him a family that’ll love him right.”

In my family, Barky Dog was a thing to be pitied, though honestly, I was a little scared of him, too. Who wouldn’t be?

There was a kid in the neighborhood everyone called Spider because he let everyone know Spiderman was the dude, swinging among skyscrapers. There were rumors that his real name was Francis, but no one was sure. His parents called him Spider, too, which we thought was weird. He was the kind of kid who talked tough but we all knew not to take him seriously. I think we all felt some pity for him mixed with a pinch of fear because he’d watched his twin brother get run over by a UPS truck when he was five.

Spider hated Barky Dog, who he called Lucifer.

Sometimes on hot afternoons when we were bored, Spider and I would creep up to Lucifer’s fence and spy on him, splayed out on the grass in the heat, his ears twitching from the flies. Ready? Spider would whisper, and with a stick, he’d start running the length of fence, the stick clattering against the chain-link. In one smooth motion, Lucifer would be alive, growling and charging towards the noise, Spider gleeful in his terror, unable to look away from Lucifer as he bore down on him like a ruthless wrecking ball.

And then, with the suddenness and finality of hitting cement, Lucifer’s chain snapped tight, and he was yanked into the air and backwards with the fury of his own hate. We ran away, screaming and triumphant, and hid behind Old Mr. Cray’s overgrown garage on a discarded couch on which, a year later, Spider would cry for the first time as he told me he couldn’t remember his brother’s face.

That August, the week before fifth grade started, we parked two cars at opposite sides of the street to block off traffic and had a street party. Everyone was there, so many Weber grills dragged to the street with burgers and dogs cooking for anyone who wanted. Spider and I were sharing a bag of chips he’d stolen from somewhere, eating them beside his mother so anyone seeing us would think we’d come by the bag honestly. His mother was going on and on about something when Shanti Brown suddenly appeared, dragged forward by Poppy. Poppy was a soft, scraggly mess of fur, a poodlish-looking mutt who had all the rowdiness and desire to lick of a puppy with no playmate. I adored her. Shanti also had another dog, Tuck, an ancient wiry guy who walked with difficulty, often bumping into things because he was mostly blind. Tuck didn’t have much time left, which is probably why they’d gotten Poppy.

Now, with a dog’s innate sense of who would react most, Poppy went straight for Spider’s mom, her two front paws slapping against the woman’s chest as Poppy went in to lick anything she could reach.

Spider’s mom gave a choked howl, she took one step backward in terror, a hand sweeping to her face, and then she fainted, thumping on the ground like a bag of sand. When I thought to look for him, Spider was gone.

At dinner that night, when I told my parents what had happened, my Papi winced. “Makes sense,” he said. Then he went on to explain. He and Spider’s mom were a year apart and had gone to the same school one town over. When she was six, she had been attacked by a dog and almost lost sight in one eye. Her family had insisted the dog be put down, but the dog’s owner refused and the town never did anything.

That night I realized what I needed to do, and the next day I arranged it with Shanti.

I told Spider that Shanti had a new Lego set she needed help with. This was a reliable lure, and that afternoon we knocked on her door. I’d only twice been to her house—though both times we’d been outside for her birthday party—and now as we entered, we were hit with a sweet, musty smell that made me think of a smoky sunset. I’d promised Spider that Poppy wouldn’t be there, and she wasn’t. Shanti led us to her room where Legos were spilled over the floor. A few feet away, Tuck was sleeping on a folded blanket. Spider froze in the doorway. He knew Tuck. He’d seen the dog slowly meandering about, one of Shanti’s moms nearby to guide him back to their duplex.

“It’s okay,” Shanti told him. “He’s so deaf and blind, he doesn’t even know you’re here.”

We got to work on the Legos and forgot about Tuck until Shanti produced a Slim Jim beef stick for each of us. Tuck may have been blind and deaf, but his nose still worked, and he staggered up, then fell heavily between me and Spider who looked at me nervously.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just old Tuck.” And to prove it, I gave Tuck my Slim Jim, which he took in his mouth and chewed as if the effort pained him a little.

“Give me your hand,” I said to Spider.

He looked at me suspiciously, as if he knew what was going on.

“It’s okay,” Shanti told him.

“Come on,” I said.

He pushed his hand into the space between us, and I guided it down to the gently breathing back of Tuck.

“Just pet him,” I said.

“It’s like petting a hair brush,” he said, but not as if he minded too much.

We sat and I watched Spider, this kid who’d dodged death in the form of a speeding truck. I nodded at the collapsed dog who had given up on the beef stick.

I said, “It’s not so bad, is it?”