What Dead Women Want

Call vet. Carly read the next item on the list and glanced over at the tan and brown Airedale who now slept peacefully amongst the mess he created last night.

“Sorry, big fella,” she said, recalling his terror during the storm. As a puppy, Rags barked at the rain and lightening as if his high pitched yapping could scare it away. But now, with old-age dementia worsening by the day, the mere sound of a spring rain against the windowpane could send him scurrying in fear. Last night produced Rags’s worst episode yet. In his frightened state, he knocked all the white, wooden pantry shelves off their holders, and sent pots, open cereal boxes and bags of flour careening to the floor. Carly knew from experience she was helpless to aid Rags in this manic state. She could only watch helplessly as he spun himself dizzy, and finally collapse into the mess. After a while, she went over to him, cleared some of the debris, sat next to her dear companion and spent the remainder of the evening with her head against his side.

Carly crossed out Call vet from the list. She knew someday she must let Rags escape his arthritis and tortured mind, but today, just like every other day for the past year, she could not do it. After all, a little mess never hurt anyone.

The last item on her list would be a bit more difficult to negotiate. Request some time off of work and get more sleep or admit you’re as insane as your dog.

Carly pondered these two choices. It was clearly time to take stock in her sanity. After all, she had lived in her new home for three weeks and that should be ample enough time to figure out what the strange noises coming from the third floor, attic rooms were. She believed some animal must be boarding there, but on inspection, she found no traces of any critter or bird in residence. In fact, those rooms were deadly quiet, and offered no evidence of the voices she heard late at night. On four different evenings, she awoke between the hours of two and four a.m. to what sounded like female voices in the attic. Carly ignored them, brushing them off as neighbors talking outside or late night boaters drifting across the lake. Perhaps a window had been left open or there was a crack in the attic wall allowing in noise? Another inspection, however, disproved Carly’s theory. The attic windows appeared painted shut at the base. Where were those voices coming from?  Regardless, they had to cease. Either that or she’d have to admit she’d gone crazy from loneliness without Greg Warner in her life.

She shook her head back and forth. No, she wasn’t one of those women who went insane because of a man. Yes, thanks to Greg and his philandering ways, she returned home from Chicago and changed her employment to a new hospital. But weren’t those the choices of a sane woman wanting a fresh approach to life and love? 

“Sanity. Check!” Carly spoke aloud as she underscored get more sleep.

Rags chose that moment to look up from his nap. He cocked his head to the side and stared questioningly at her.

“You know I’m sane, don’t you boy?” She blew the dog a kiss.

Rags whimpered and rested his head back upon his paws. Not exactly the response she hoped for. Carly picked up the pen and jotted: Have Dad inspect attic again for animals.

A loud rapping on her back porch door startled her. She glanced at the oven clock. Nine forty-five. Larry Jr., if nothing else, was punctual.

Carly stood. “Coming!” She opened the kitchen door to the carpeted back porch, kicked a pair of sandals out of the way and peered through the screened porch door. She retreated a step or town with surprise. If time really stood still, Larry was its poster child. He appeared not one iota different than when Carly last saw him on graduation day. He stood a head shorter than her five foot five frame and loomed twice as large sporting a belly that boasted its share of burgers and fries. His greasy, brown hair fell into his eyes, and his fashion sense still leaned toward torn jeans and -Carly tried not to gasp - was that the same black AC/DC t-shirt he wore on their date?