The Care and Feeding of Percival

Of course I called my brother when I realized the live dog he knew I was expecting turned out to be stuffed.

The first words out of my brother’s mouth?

“So, how’s the dog?”

"A funny story…” It turns out explaining was easy. Admitting it happened, not so much.

"Seriously? And no one told you?”

"That lawyer talked about the dog like it was alive.”

Evan laughed. "Only you, Taylor.”

"This has nothing to do with me,” I snapped.

“But you’re getting rid of the thing.” It wasn’t a question, and that pissed me off.

“No!”

“What? You’re going to just keep it in your living room like it’s the latest in Boho-Chic?”

"She willed it to me.”

“At least it came with a bunch of money."

“I envy those who haven’t met you,” I muttered, beyond frustrated.

The silence lasted a full three seconds before he hung up.

I looked at the thing still sitting where I’d put it, then picked up the bulky manila envelope Abigail Freeley’s lawyer handed me. Time to find out why I was now the proud owner of a stuffed, dead dog.

From the envelope I pulled a letter, a handful of papers paper-clipped together, and the smallish black leather journal that started all of this. The letter was a little clearer than what Abigail’s lawyer had to say. Or it was easier to understand without the positively skeletal lawyer sitting in his ice-cold office, behind his Brobdingnagian monstrosity of a desk.

Finding the journal turned out to be a big deal. It was buried in a local field, at the base of a large oak tree. Inside a clear, plastic zip-top bag barely big enough to hold it was a black book. It was a journal, I think.

The journal was barely larger than my hand, with a worn leather cover. Each unlined page was covered with row after row of neatly written words so small they were barely discernible. I pulled the thin blue leather dog collar out from between the pages. I looked at the jingling silver tag. It read Percival in squared lettering.

I searched the journal for or any sign of ownership, even skimming the covered pages for a clue. It happens that I felt no guilt reading the journal.

A phone number, hastily written along one margin, caught my eye. I'm not usually impulsive, but I pulled out my phone and called.

It wasn’t until she answered the door of the big old house that I realized my favorite author and the owner of the journal were one and the same. I recognized her immediately. She looked exactly like her pictures.

Starstruck, I stumbled over my words.

“I found this.” I held the journal out to her.

"Oh, that's perfect!" The book remained awkwardly in my hand.

Ridiculously, I couldn't enjoy the meeting. I mostly read the journal to find its owner, but I did read it. Guilt stirred in my stomach.

“Did you find the information interesting?" Her smile was kind, inviting me to share in her excitement.

It was, of course; Paranormal Fiction was Abigail's forte, after all. It was mostly about pets that stuck around after their death.

I picked up the paper-clipped papers. Percival Augustus Freeley topped the page, with a birth date below it. A picture of the strangely furred, gray dog covered the rest of the page. He was still picture-perfect, which was part of the creep factor, I think. And the eyes. They looked just a little too real.

The next page finally told me what kind of dog had dreadlocks. A Hungarian Pulik. I’d read the rest later.

The journal, sans collar, was deceptively light in my hand

I’m ashamed of how long it took me to realize the unfathomable, unthinkable reality.

Abigail Freeley, recently deceased paranormal author extraordinaire, willed me her dog. Her dead dog. And money; $20,000 to take care of her dog in the manner he was accustomed to, provided I’d care for the dog as if he were my own.

I had questions, no chance for answers, and an easy-to-care-for dog. It unnerved me, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from focusing on the thing. He laid in the corner of the room, beside my chair. He looked more asleep than stuffed until I caught sight of his eyes. A frisson of something ran through me and left me unsettled.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night. My mind shifted from the dog I expected to the tall, skeletal solicitor that handed it off to me, then to Abigail Freeley herself. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unusual about the taxidermied creature in the other room.

It was likely the fault of the unusual creature in the other room that unsettling dreams plagued me all night. So when I woke to the sound of scrabbling paws on my hardwood floors, I thought I was still dreaming. A full minute of listening to the clicking and scratching of claws running across my floors later, and I finally realized I was awake.

What the hell was that? Again! I remained cautious as I crept from room to room through the apartment, alert to any sign of something strange—like a taxidermied dog? Or a large rat? I snorted at the thought.

Each light or lamp I passed was clicked on. I still expected there would be a logical reason behind what I'd heard. From one room to another, everything was as it had been before bed. Was the sound a part of my dreams after all? Maybe the neighbors.

The ignored image persisting as I crept through the living room. Returning to bed, stopping to turn off each light, my eyes were drawn to the corner of the room. Reflected light from green eyes flashed in my mind’s eye as the last light went out. Probably a remnant of unsettling dreams.

A chill ran up my spine. I ignored it in favor of my warm, comforting bed.

I woke to my ringing phone. My brother's voice scraping over my last nerve told me to check who was calling next time. It was too early, and I wasn't caffeinated enough to deal with this—or him. I was groggy and raw from a night of distorted dreams I only vaguely remembered.

"The guys thought you'd gone mental before the dog."

"Rude!"

"Be serious, Taylor."

"I thought keeping Percy would up their opinion of me."

“And that’s another thing! You use his name like he’s your pet.”

“Because saying taxidermied dog is awkward at best.”

“Ben isn’t comfortable hanging out if he has to look at that creepy thing.”

“Ben? Or you?”

“You’re the one with the problem, Taylor. Get rid of the thing before they start thinking you’re creepier than the dog.”

“Let it go.” I was the one who hung up this time.

I looked at the dog, sitting where he always sat.

“You bit him, didn’t you?” Could I take his silence as agreement, or would that make me crazy? I laughed. Is crazy better than creepy?

The trash can was still in its spot by the back steps, but Sunday’s leftovers left too long, were strewn around the room. The skin I’d removed from yesterday’s chicken looked chewed up and spit out under the table, and coffee grounds left a trail into the living room.

Disbelief settled into something else.

With doors and windows still locked, I racked my brain.

I couldn’t think what happened. Possible images matched themselves to an echo of last night’s sounds. The scratching, the digging, paws scrabbling on the wooden floor.

I couldn’t imagine. Well, I could, but it was ridiculous.

In my hand, the phone rang.

“Not a great time, Ev.”

I eyed Percival cautiously.

“No more garbage,” I hissed at him.

I know what it sounds like. I do, but it looked even worse.

Did he look guilty, eyes focused on the floor in front of him?

My brother laughed.

“Tell me you did not just scold that dead dog.”

“I swear, it looks like the dog went through the garbage! The place is trashed.”

“What do you think happened? The thing is dead. Stuffed.”

“The damn thing even looks guilty.”

I sounded crazy. I’m not sure I wasn’t.

“You sure you aren’t being pranked? Cuz it sounds like—”

“I’m sure,” I spat, not really angry at him. The doors were locked. Windows, too.

My brother barked a laugh. “Now I’m feeling pranked.”

“Still not helping.” I growled.

“Seriously, I just wanted to check on you.”

“Gotta go,” I told him before I hung up.

It moved. I’m not crazy! I saw the thing move. Sure, it wasn’t a lot, but…

I kept an eye on the thing whenever I could. It wasn’t just the creep factor. There was definitely something wrong with its eyes. It was a stuffed dog. A dead dog someone had stuffed. But somehow it seemed alive. My brother didn’t believe me. Of course, he thinks I’m imagining things. Making things up for attention. He doesn’t say anything, but I recognize that tone. The skepticism. The doubt.

Movement flashed in my peripheral vision. My eyes sought it out where it sat before, beside the chair-side table. Scanning the room, I located the thing. No longer sitting like a good boy, Percival was curled up under the table, looking to all the world like he was fast asleep.

Phone in hand, I called Evan. Now he would believe. I was convinced he would.

Finger tapping, I waited for him to answer.

“Taylor!” The warm voice, so familiar, reassured me.

“I need a reality check.”

“Let me guess—”

“Yes, it’s him. Right now it’s laying under the table in my living room.”

“And?”

“He’s under the table, and I didn’t put him there.”

I snapped a picture, then hit send. The flash cast Percy in strange light, but it was him curled in a tight ball, eyes closed.

“It’s only black.”

I tried to send it again, but it gave me an error.

“It isn’t sending right now. But I need your help, Ev.”

I watched the dog from my chair.

“You’re sure it moved?”

“Yeah,” I snapped, rubbing my sweating palms down the front of my jeans.

“You do have a picture of it?”

The doubt in his voice killed something inside me. So tired of fighting him.

“I’m supposed to take care of him.”

“Him?” Evan’s brow furrowed.

“Percival,” my voice thick with days of irritation.

“If you’re asking if a ghost whisperer would help more than a vet, then yes.”

“Not the question.”

“Hell, Taylor, search the internet.”

Huh. New plan.

“This is great, Ev, thanks. I have a lot to read. I’ll call you.” I hung up on him.

I skipped the net and turned to Abigail’s journal. I’d finished in a few hours, and I had ideas. Abigail collected story after story of pet owners who believed their pets’ ghosts were visiting them. In a few cases, haunting them. I traded the black notebook for my phone and hit a pet store website.

Picking up dog toys is a lesson in futility, which I only remember when I’m done. I was putting food and water down for the dog when Evan called.

I answered the phone with “Hey, Ev.”

“How are you? I've missed you.”

My brother’s voice settled something in me. He stopped answering my calls last month. He thought I was losing touch with reality. I disagreed, which offended him.

“I’m great. Just busy. I had to move to keep the dog.”

“You moved?”

“Just to the other side of town.”

“And you have a dog?”

“A Puli. Did you forget?”

“What’s its name?”

“I’d thought I’d call him Percy.”

There was about five seconds of silence before he spoke, his voice strained.

“I can’t wait to meet him.”