The Dog That Whispered Read Online Free PDF Page B

you say?”
    “Yes.”
    “You don’t want the dog?”
    “No. Not really.”
    “Your mother makes you feel guilty.”
    “She is very skilled at it.”
    Dr. Limke pursed his lips.
    “The dog isn’t telling you to do…anything illegal? Or dangerous, is it?”
    “No. Just talking. Normal things. Like, ‘When’s dinner?’”
    “Hmmmm.”
    Wilson waited, then said, “Sort of crazy, right? I’m projecting, right?”
    Dr. Limke nodded.
    “Probably projecting. That’s normal for people with pets. And this is my five-minute, snap diagnosis. You want the real definitive answer, make an appointment at my practice. But your mother, this dog, guilt…that’s a heady concoction for sure. Though lots of people who have dogs swear that the dog talks to them. Or at least the dogs let them know what they want. No big deal. Not crazy. Eccentric, perhaps. Not crazy. Harmless, actually. We have a dog at home that I know hates me and is plotting against me. Leaves toys on the stairs so I’ll fall down and break my neck and then he can claim my side of the bed. But that’s another story.”
    Wilson drew in a large breath.
    “But if the dog tells you to get a gun or something like that,” Dr. Limke cautioned cheerfully, “you come back right away and we’ll talk. Okay? No appointment needed. Okay?”
    Wilson nodded. “Okay. Not crazy. Dogs don’t talk. Projecting. No guns. Got it.”

    That evening, Wilson ate his individually sized take-out pepperoni pizza, while Thurman watched expectantly from a respectful distance. The dog did not whine or whimper, just stared. Wilson gathered up his plate and the empty box and looked down at the dog.
    “Dogs aren’t supposed to eat pizza.”
    Thurman looked back, appearing shocked, and growled.
    “Don’t tell me that they are,” Wilson replied.
    Thurman shook his head and re-growled his response.
    “They are not. You have your food over there,” Wilson said as he pointed to the half-full bowl of kibbles.
    Thurman dutifully regarded the bowl, then turned back and instead of a growl, made a Yuck sound deep in his throat.
    “Regardless, that is what you will eat.”
    Thurman just stared.
    Wilson stared back.
    “And I know you can’t talk. Even Dr. Limke agreed with me. He said it was simply me projecting. Because of my mother. No dogs talk. No dogs understand. I know that, Thurman. And so do you.”
    Thurman lost his smile.
    And then he growled out what sounded exactly like Bunkum.
    Wilson eyed him as he placed his dish by the sink.
    “Maybe. But that’s the truth I am assuming to be true. That’s the truth both of us are going with.”
    And maybe it is because I’ve been alone so long. Maybe it’s because of that…and all the rest of my past. Now it comes out. Now it begins to manifest itself. After all these years. Buried memories will out, someday.
    And then Thurman growled out Bunkum again, stood, walked into the family room, and let himself fall onto his blanket, his back toward Wilson and everything else.
    “I am going to the grocery store, Thurman,” Wilson said. “I need coffee and bread and half-and-half…And I suppose you need some dog food.”
    Thurman stood and smiled and growled.
    Friskies .
    Wilson scowled and pretended that his growl did not sound like an endorsement for a specific brand of dog food that Wilson was not even sure was a current brand, since he never traveled down the pet food aisle at the Giant Eagle supermarket.
    “You have to behave while I am gone. There will be no ‘accidents,’ right?”
    Thurman looked up, offended, and growled, I am not an animal .
    Wilson did not want to engage in what he knew was an activity that was beginning to verge on real psychosis.
    “No. I do not think you are an animal, Thurman. I think you are largely a figment of my overwrought imagination. A manifestation of repressed painful memories. Or at least some of you is. Or are.”
    Thurman smiled, sat down on his blanket, and growled, I am Thurman