MAURICE

Maurice entered my life on my eighth birthday. My furry gift hadn’t really been wrapped but was rather temporarily shut in a box. That morning, I pretended not to hear the whimpers from the other room, but I knew. Maurice’s arrival had been planned; I had even already named him.

     What I loved most, when he was still a puppy, was burying my face deep in his blond fur. I’ve always been a bit allergic to animals, which almost dissuaded my parents from adopting a dog. Before we adopted him, I was determined to have Maurice move in with us, so I bought a big cushion with my pocket money and spread it in the center of the yard (for now, unoccupied, but where he could stretch out) to show them how much he was wanted. My face in his fur was also my way of proving to them that no harmful effects resulted from his presence in our home. I would endure the ordeal for a few minutes, just long enough for my parents to notice me, comment in unison with a “aww,” then I’d lift my head, smiling with my eyes closed. As soon as their backs were turned, though, I’d sneak off to the bathroom in search of a shameful Reactine.

☽

     Four years flew by while Maurice grew bigger before our eyes. His mixed Golden and Labrador blood quickly contributed to his imposing size. On the first day, my little arms could circle him like a big, heavy stuffed animal, but now he crushed me with his weight whenever I dared play with him on the lawn.

      Everyone loved Maurice, who, despite his young age, was always docile and well-behaved. Even my parents, initially reluctant to care for such an enormous creature (once grown), easily adopted and accepted him. For his first birthday, we bought him a golden tag with his name engraved and our phone number on the back. I chose the tomato-red choker strip, my favorite color. I didn’t want to fill my mind with catastrophic thoughts, with horrible scenarios that might put my beloved dog in danger, but the tag had another purpose besides ensuring his return if something bad happened. Marking our territory, for one. “He’s our dog, let everyone know!” I’d shout proudly, running with him in front of our house.

      The only one who never liked him was our neighbor, Albert. But to be fair, that man didn’t like anything at all. His wrinkles accentuated his eyebrows, making him look even more menacing. Even from a distance, you could tell he was angry. Whenever Maurice barked, even for a split second, Albert would grit his teeth as he glared at him. I could sense this from afar. His jaw would tighten; his hateful eyes would widen. He seemed to despise Maurice without reason, so I disliked him in turn.

     The first nickname I gave him was Albert-the-pervert. I once told my parents, but they disapproved. They told me “pervert” wasn’t exactly the right word for him. It had to rhyme for more impact. So, I corrected it: Albert-the-stonehearted.

    The day Maurice disappeared, after crying almost to the point of dehydration, I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t need to make a list of possibilities—I knew. It was Albert who had taken him, I was sure of it. And I was going to prove it. I even called the police, convinced I had already solved the mystery. The officer, though, apart from noting a possible theft (I’d call it a kidnapping, but whatever), didn’t take me seriously. He reminded me I had no evidence, so my statement wasn’t tangible or credible but just a guess, a hasty and unfair accusation. But the real injustice was what I had to live with. Alone.

      One sunny afternoon, while my parents were working in the backyard garden, I watched Albert out of the corner of my eye. I saw his shabby, dirty beige car, which was previously parked in his equally grimy driveway, leave the corner of the street. I counted aloud to ensure he wouldn’t double back after a few minutes.

        One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

     With a trembling hand, I dug through the second kitchen drawer, the one filled with various, often useful knick-knacks, and tightly grabbed the small flashlight.

     Two meters from the evil man’s house, I paused to think. If I went to spy out front, the other neighbors would see me, especially Mrs. Jeannine, who always had her nose glued to her window so she wouldn’t miss any of the boring spectacle our street put on. But if I went around back, my parents might see me. Then they’d scold me in front of everyone, the neighbors would come out to watch the child get scolded in public that day and…

     My train of thought was suddenly interrupted. I remembered the fence, that tall, brown fence Albert had built himself to avoid seeing us while he grilled steak (probably without seasoning, since he’s bad at everything) on his cherished barbecue. This neighbour kept his barbecue going until October, doing it alone. It always smelled like overcooked, sad meat with no spices.

     In the back of his backyard, the barbecue still seemed a bit smoky. I could hardly smell our own home anymore; his barbecue was on so often (day and night), sending thick grey smoke into our garden. Albert-the-stonehearted probably killed my parents’ plants with the high heat so close to the greenery, so I don’t think they liked him that much either. They probably just didn’t want to admit it because they’re too peace-loving.

     Anyway, when I reached the patio door of the bad neighbour, I froze. The curtains were drawn. “Who closes the curtains in broad daylight?” I wondered. Surely someone who has something to hide. A bad guy.

     Determined to find something, I tried to open the sliding door. No luck. My second attempt was to shine my flashlight beam into the tiny crack in the curtain. Nothing. I couldn’t make out anything at all.

     “What are you doing there, kid?”

    His voice was less hoarse than in my scenarios, but no less cold. The shiver that ran down my spine at that moment froze my blood.

      “I…”

     He stepped toward me, one foot on the first step of his porch. There was no way he could have returned already, I hadn’t heard a thing, I thought, confused and terrified.

     “I… I heard barking. I thought maybe my dog was here. My dog… blond fur. Maurice. He has a gold tag with a tomato-red rim, my favorite color. The bark, well, it sounded just like Maurice, really. Have you seen him?”

     His lips curled into a yellowish, fetid sneer.

     “There’s no dog here, kid. I hate dogs.”

     The coldness of Albert-the-stonehearted felt like concrete poured over my feet. Terrified, I suddenly couldn’t move.

      “Get out of here, I don’t want brats on my property!”

      His harsh words made me run straight home, where I collapsed in tears in my room. My father heard me and immediately came to find out what was wrong. He became a little upset when I told him about my traumatic experience.

      “You really need to stop all this! The neighbor may not be the friendliest, but he’s not a murderer. Stop your paranoid conspiracies, this doesn’t make any sense!”

     No one believed me, and I was forbidden from returning to the mean neighbor’s property to investigate. That summer, my parents tried to cheer me up with a two-week holiday at Old Orchard. But even there, everything reminded me of Maurice. The other dogs, the grass, the happy kids. Everything brought back my sadness.

      When we got back, Albert-the-stonehearted’s house was up for sale, and not long after, the mean man was gone, no one knew where. Finally.

      When his perpetually smoking, dirty barbecue was finally loaded onto the big U-Haul truck, I celebrated this happy news by drinking two ice-cold Cokes bought at the convenience store down the street.

       Throughout his entire move, I kept trying to spy on everything. My sharp eyes watched for a telltale clue because I was sure that monster was behind Maurice’s disappearance. I just felt it, and that was enough for me to believe.

      After he was finally gone, my parents got another dog, thinking it might help all of us accept Maurice’s sudden departure. But the new dog didn’t have a name. I couldn’t come up with one, and for me, not naming him made him less real. I felt guilty loving another dog, even though the gray greyhound was sweet and lovable. For as long as it would take to prove Maurice’s abduction, I decided the greyhound would just be called The Dog.

      Over time, I started to obsess less. I caught myself a few times playing with The Dog without thinking about Maurice. I felt somewhat healed, even though I knew I’d never truly forget Maurice. That would be impossible.

     One afternoon, The Dog was nowhere to be seen in the backyard. His leash lay on the ground, unused, which immediately sent a wave of panic through me.

     “The Dog?!” I yelled outside, just before spotting him in the neighbor’s yard.

      The new neighbors smiled at me and invited me over. Clearly, they weren’t anything like the monster before. Phew! I thought.

         “Come get your dog! Don’t be afraid.”

     And truly, I didn’t need to be afraid. Albert-the-stonehearted was gone. The couple who replaced him wasn’t threatening at all. In fact, the opposite. But as after a storm comes calm, sometimes violent winds can return when you least expect them. As soon as I stepped into the neighbour’s yard, a wave of unimaginable dread washed over me. I immediately recognised the red and gold tag that The Dog had just dug up.