Page 15 of A Boy Called Lovesong

It wasn’t out of mind, but at least it was out of sight.

I wondered how long it would be before I looked at it again.

CHAPTER 3

“Oh yeah,everyone will remember this face. I will endure till the end of time. Until then I should probably stop talking to a phone and go find that mailbox… Oh wait, I see one just up ahead. I’ll be home soon. Love you.”

The phone beeped to herald the end of the message.

I didn’t replay it, I’d lost count of how many times I had.

I’d lost track of a lot of things.

Hell, I barely knew if I was awake or asleep anymore. I knew I was lying there on the sofa in a tangle of sheets once again. I had a vague notion it was light outside, I could see a shimmer of sunshine from behind the closed curtains, but whether it was morning or afternoon, I had no idea. For all I knew I was dreaming again.

That is, till I decided to sit up and place my feet on the floor.

Well, it wasn’t quite the floor that I set my right foot down on.

It was another poop from Chet.

Yep, I was awake all right. My toes felt very awake now as they tried to wiggle the crap off.

I hobbled to the downstairs bathroom and washed my foot off in the shower recess.

By the time I returned to the living room, Chet was sitting beside his crap, giving me a guilty stare.

I sighed. “Shit, buddy, I’m sorry.”

I realized if I was going to lose track of time, Chet’s toilet training was headed out the window if I didn’t find a solution. I’d already solved his need to eat by leaving no less than half a dozen bowls of dog chow in the kitchen.

But giving him a place to shit? Well, that was going to require a more creative fix.

I stood at the supermarket checkout with a large plastic tray and two jumbo-sized bags of kitty litter in my hands, one promising to be the most environmentally responsible litter on the market with its unique blend of recycled materials, the other claiming that its state-of-the-art clumping technology would extend the life of each tray of litter.

I looked at the disinterested kid serving me, his hair as jet black as his polished nails. “Which of these would be best for a dog? Recycled material or clumping technology?”

The kid’s expression was as emotionless as I was feeling at that moment, but his voice carried just enough attitude to let me know he thought I was a fucking idiot. “Those are cat litters. For cats.”

“I know that, but I’m hoping my dog will use it. Which one do you think my dog will use?”

The kid looked at me for longer than was comfortable. “I’m not sure I’m informed enough to give you the right answer, although here’s a spoiler alert for you.” He pointed to the label on each bag. “That word there says ‘Kitty.’ It’s kitty litter. For cats.”

“I know, but I have a dog.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why would you ask that?”

The kid gave a disinterested shrug. “You never know. We have men who come in here and buy porn magazines ‘for the articles.’ It’s called denial.”

“I’m not buying porn, I’m buying kitty litter. And I’m not in denial. What the hell would I be in denial about?”

The kid shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t like your cat, so you tell people you have a dog instead. Maybe you’re ashamed of it or it threatens your sense of masculinity in some way. Maybe you want people to think you’re a dog person because most people think that dogs are friendlier than cats, despite the fact that I’ve never heard of someone being mauled to death by a tabby. Maybe you always wanted a dog but your wife wanted a cat, so life dealt you a cat instead and you find that emasculating in some stupid way. Am I ringing any bells?”

“What the fuck? No! I’m not feeling emasculated, and I don’t have a wife, I have a…” I was about to say husband, but we never got that far. “I have a dog. He’smydog now and I need to fucking look after him.”

“You shouldn’t curse at me. There are store policies in place. I could call the manager and report you for using abusive language.”

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