November Sky
My heart is in my mouth. He is going to throw himself from his bedroom window, to fall five stories to the tarmac below. This is not a fall he can survive, especially as there are railings down there along the back of the building, and I am pretty sure he would plunge straight down onto them. I wince at the thought of the mess that will make.
However, there seems to be a maniac dog down there, which having caught sight of Randle, above, seems to think something threatening or very exciting is in the offering. Randle, too, is distracted by this unexpected disturbance. He, like me, is squatting down to try and see the dog, among the shadows.
It cannot be a very big dog, because I, and clearly Randle, too, cannot at first see it. It is making enough of a row though, from somewhere directly below.
The noise is causing Randle some distress, because he is hissing “Shush, shush!” down at the dog, wherever it is, and making motions with his arm to encourage it to go away.
This activity on Randle’s part has the opposite of the intended effect. The dog, as gauged by its barking, is becoming more agitated, or excited. It is difficult to tell which. Randle leans further out and despite myself I want to grab him, to stop him falling. But, at least for the moment, this does not seem to be his intention. Instead, he is focused on the dog.
There it is! A small whitish terrier-like thing, I think. It is racing about, directly below the window, in tight little circles, occasionally rearing up on its hind legs as if to get a better look at Randle, where he is leaning out of the window. Randle sees the dog at the same moment and starts croaking hoarsely at it “Go away! Go away!”
November Sky
He purses his lips and sighs. Solving the problem of the dog will have to happen before he can do anything else. His glance strays to the bedroom, and an idea strikes him. Standing up, he carries the dog to the mussed-up bed. The dog, doubtless as malodorous as the bed, nonetheless resists Randle's attempts to lay it on the grubby sheets.
Randle has had enough of the dog’s histrionics. He takes the creature in his bony hands and places it gently but firmly on the bed, stroking its head to reassure her he is still by her side. When he thinks he can, he pulls the bedsheet up so that it covers the dog’s undernourished body, resting his hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall as she breathes.
The trembling is only sporadic now, and the dog seems to have fallen asleep. Also emotionally and physically exhausted, Randle lies down beside the dog in his clothes and closes his eyes. I watch him until I am sure he’s asleep. When he is, I go into the living room and, somewhat against my better judgment, lay down on the sofa.
I wake up to the sound of Randle’s voice coming from the bedroom. It is still night. I haul myself off the sofa to the bedroom door. I find Randle by the open bedroom window. My heart constricts. However, he is only talking to the little dog, which has its front paws on the window sill and is looking out of the still-open window.
“Come on, away from there,” he says, and I can see he is afraid for the dog and its interest in whatever is out there, given it might bound out of the window and take the plunge Randle was so intent on taking a few hours ago. Carefully, Randle leans out and pulls the window closed, latching it so the dog cannot push it open with its front paws.
The dog remains at the window, staring intently out into the darkness. Randle sits on the edge of the bed, watching the dog, then shakes his head in bewilderment before he lays back on the unmade sheets and closes his eyes, still fully dressed. He looks dog tired — appropriately, I suppose. I can’t help smiling wanly at my pun.