I Still Love It Here

I’d been meaning to ask Chuck. I’m glad I thought to do so on today’s walk. He cheered me up.

Chuck is my neighbor. If you’ve not read “I Love It Here,” I highly suggest you do after finishing this paragraph. That Stack will introduce you to the towering 78-year-old man with the high voice, immutable smile, raspy chuckle, and fascinating familial tale. You’ll also meet his massive yet docile Malamute. Sadly, months ago, we lost Annie. In her place on the grass now sits a slender, white wolflike creature. Frankie is less docile. When a mourning Chuck finally adopted another pup, he began lounging with a similar yet different creature. This new wolf dog was sleek and spry. Chuck wanted her to befriend the man in the Satisfy micro shorts that HOKAs by his house, twice daily, in some sort of slashed first wave punk or post-punk tee. “Frankie, go say hi!” Upon Chuck’s command, rising from the Annie-imprinted patch of dead lawn in front of his Spanish bungalow, the gorgeous blue-eyed dog first padded toward me. Her tail wagged. I pet her. She turned, barked, and chased a terrified squirrel up a towering palm. We were cool. With a smile, I waved at Chuck, and shuffled off into the westering, West Hollywood sun.

A few weeks later, Chuck and I were confounded. In my yellow Cramps tee, I stood at the green edge of his grass, exchanging suspect looks with the enemy. The Santa Anas blew through my salted crown of loose curls. A rook sounded a warning from a high wire. With its call, Frankie’s knell began. Her jowl twitched with thirst. She bore her fangs. My squint shifted to Chuck. Neither he nor I knew why his new dog had begun loathing me. Frankie continued to growl. Perhaps she was taking my shirt’s Bad Music for Bad People message to heart. Perhaps I did, in fact, look like a fucking squirrel to her. Perhaps she only wanted to hear the “old shit,” as she was no longer a fan. Chuck rejected her undeniable loathing.