Fender, Caddy, Finn, Fender
Christopher Murphy

WHEN WE bought the dog, he was Fender. The breeder, in apathy, advertised puppies Axle, Dipstick, and Shaft II. My sisters back east sent the money and I went south of Oklahoma City to Maysville. A hand-painted sign in sky blue said ‘QT Terrier Kennels’, the ground tired from the traffic of dogs. 
Inside, the carpets were so marinated in urine they crunched. Concrete rooms of cages fronted by plastic tubs held shaking befuddled rags. Fender was in the presentation area, a putting green with a Lil Tykes table and chairs surrounded by fence. He had the face of a wary old man, like I was trying to steal his meds. 
I drove home with my hand covering his whole shuddering body. I took him out on the freezing grass at 2 in the morning with no leash just to see if he’d come back. His ears hung down at the tips and he slept in the crook of my arm. “Lil’ Fucker,” I said and he bit the webbing of my thumb. 
I lived in a house with laminate, industrial carpet. In six years I’d only housed a kitten that showed up at my nighttime door with a leg torn to muscle. I saved its life and gave it away. You could count the roaches, the caterpillars, the millipedes, the sugar ants, a spider I named Franz that I confided in while flicking sugar ants at his web. “Well if it isn’t Franz,” I’d say over coffee.  I lingered at the supermarket checkout, bewildered by basic etiquette. As I lay with my arms wide, Fender tried to bite the carpet while running and flipped clean over. He was scruffy as a hobo, prematurely balding as a hobo. We had things in common. 
I took a picture of him looking up between two couch cushions with his inscrutable black eyes. He was every ounce the little shit. He bit my face. He jumped on strangers. He pissed on the couch staring me right in the eye. There was a high likelihood he would become a legitimate asshole. 
My sisters swooned from the east. My older sister, gifted in leading with her heart, thought he might save our father. My little sister, a jaguar of professional elegance but impatient with affection, asked for constant updates. I sent pictures of Fender peeing at 2 am and they lost it. I sent pictures of him sleeping with dreaming paws extended in flight.  They lost it.
On Christmas Day, my mother pretended to adore him. It was a new opportunity to prove such things. She’s a wonderful mother, cooks soups and cries at airports. My father couldn’t muster. He had a depression so ferocious his mind rode a tiny track around his failures. He still mourned Mack, his previous terrier, who had swaggered like a seesaw. My father saw Fender and said, “I can’t.” My nephew came up with the name, Caddy, because my dad loved golf. My mother didn’t take to it. I saw, like the Ghost of Christmas Future, the mistake we’d made. In a haymaker attempt at connection, my mother named him Finn. Finn mauled the low-hanging ornaments, all from our childhood.
I wonder sometimes in Oklahoma how I belong to my family.  Growing up, I kicked my dog, Tam, for eating the nunchuks of Panthro the Thundercat. In second grade I organized a mob to beat a kid who had yellow braces and smelled like homemade peanut butter. I forget my nieces’ birthday presents every year, so riddled with guilt that I guarantee missing the next birthday. I understood Finn wasn’t a monster. We just weren’t particularly great. At the airport my mother cried. Finn looked from the backseat window as his only link to home abandoned him.
My parents sent him to training. Now he wears a collar and they shock him by remote. My father got worse. Finn didn’t cure him, of course, he’s awful. My father tripped on him and exposed the bone in his shin. Now my mother had to care for three aliens: my father’s depression, his weeping leg, and Finn. My little sister’s apartment complex is fascist about dogs. My older sister’s heart is weary from leading her children, our parents, her husband, her own dog that Finn tormented over Christmas.
I saw Finn in spring, my parents housebound, overwhelmed by a late nor’easter. Sandy lunar formations covered the winter beach.  For miles it was only the two of us and the surly ocean. I let him run off leash. He wouldn’t go far before turning to wait for me, grinning. Then he’d run again. He ate something long dead but didn’t get sick.
My house is freezing. The laminate is cheap.  The landlord lays down poison for everything. I keep terrible hours. I drink at 2 a.m. until Frank Ocean blares and I’m crying in my kitchen. I smoke on my couch with chocolate on my bare chest. I’ve lived so long alone I don’t know if I’m meant for people. We wouldn’t be good for each other. But if they can’t love him, if he can stand me, if he could handle one more change, I’d say, “Fender, you little shit, let’s go outside.”

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Christopher Murphy received his MFA from The University of Arkansas and currently teaches creative writing at Northeastern State University. He also serves on the editorial board for Nimrod International Journal. His work has been published at Gulf Coast (online), This Land, The Jellyfish Review, Necessary Fiction, decomP, and The Tulsa Voice among others. 

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