You Ain’t No Fuckin’ Warren

There is a dog shackled in the yard next door. He is an outdoor dog, always chained, and he’s there day and night, heat and cold, dry and wet. For months, whenever I am outside, he stares, trying to make me feel guilty. The damn dog doesn’t focus on anyone else and I don’t know what I’ve done to rate the attention, but he’s beginning to piss me off. I rarely see the owner and then only late at night when he brings out a bowl of scraps and fills a water bucket from a hose. The dog never growls or barks, even when I approach the chain link fence to take a closer look. But he stares. He’s always looking when I am outside. Even inside, when I peek from a window, he’s got eyes on me.

Butchie says the dog reminds him of his father, who never said more than ten words to him in his life. He calls the dog Warren, after his dad, and I begin to think of him as Warren too, even though I never met the original. Butchie says his father was muscular too, just like the dog, and also sat around all day, doing nothing, staring at anyone who came near. “Don’t let him get in your head,” he says. “Then you’ll never get rid of him.”

I believe Warren may be possessed and he’s making me anxious. The look he gives is not benign. I think he has it out for me. I close the shades on the east side of the house, but it does nothing to change Warren’s behavior. Now he stands near the fence all day, staring at the house. He’s as close as his chain will allow. I suspect Warren is as smart as I am and definitely more calculating. He holds himself in high regard, which he telegraphs with his taut back, his stillness, and of course the eyes. He is winning.

 When Butchie and his brother Jack come over to smoke dope and play cards I start complaining about Warren. Jack says, “Dog’s got the same name as our dad,” and Butchie and I chuckle. When I don’t let the subject drop Butchie tells me to shut up. “There’s a remedy for your problem. You know that, right?” he says. I say I’m not going to poison a dog, which was the first thing that popped into my head. “You’re damn right you aren’t,” shouts Jack. “Only a fucking sadist would poison a dog. What’s wrong with you?” I don’t trust Jack’s temper so I drop it.

Neither Butchie or Jack are in any shape to drive so they crash in the living room. They are still there in the morning, but when I look out the window, Warren is gone. I head out the back door to get a closer look. I see the chain lying in the big circle of mud and a hole dug under the fence, but don’t feel any sense of relief. Instead I am unsettled by a vague sense of loss. I wonder if Butchie or Jack had anything to do with this but decide not to ask. In the following days I keep an eye out for Warren, but I never see him again.

A month later, a new dog shows up in the yard, this one a skinny brindle mix. He’s a barker. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t get on my nerves like the staring did and I am relieved to see the new dog barks at everyone equally. It doesn’t seem to have a brain in its head and it dawns on me that at least I respected Warren. This dog has no self-esteem. I start calling him You Ain’t No Fuckin’ Warren, but the dog doesn’t catch the disrespect in my voice. Every day I give him a look of distain and tell him to his face that he doesn’t measure up to his predecessor.

You Ain’t No Fuckin’ Warren lasts eight months before he too escapes, so good for him, but now every day I find myself peeking into the yard, hoping that Warren will return so we can continue our feud. He’s not better than me and I want a rematch. So Warren did get into my head after all and now that’s where stares at me. I even stare back at him from time to time. Give him a respectful nod.