SPRINGER

by Kathryn Rantala

          He has forgotten where he is, but is certain he will see something he'll recognize. The monks are melodious in the background, his dog attentive, unworried. Fear leaves him like a mail train; that is, he is aware some part of him has been taken away, snatched, stowed in another place. That part of him moves smoothly down the line.
            His name is Springer. Springer Morris. He is not quick. Barely as quick as his dog, whom he has named after its breed, "Springer." More quick, however, than his father, Springer Sr., or his sisters; one dead, one well on the way.
          "Where are we, boy?" he asks softly, casually. The dog offers a silent opinion. He is frequently asked, never refuted. "We're OK, boy, we're OK." He ruffles the hairy head. The sun is in the late sky, the heat hovers at its height and the room is still but for dog and boy.
          The monks have stopped, replaced by Dvorak. Springer and his dog are in the sitting room where a radio has been tuned to a classical station. The phone rings. Springer goes to it and answers without speaking. If there is a response, it too is silent. "It's OK, boy, they'll call back." The dog noses an edge of the carpet and goes to retrieve the paper. Neither considers what to do after that.
          "Springer," Mrs. Morris calls, as the dog returns, holding the paper high. "Dinner! Come on now." Boy and dog regard each other and walk away from the radio. One rubs his foot clean, one leaves the paper on the floor, one remembers he has forgotten to pee and one anticipates a simple happiness nearby.