The dog belonged to a friend of hers. I didn't know this person, but she said he was a good guy.

She had called me from work where she was an administrative assistant at an insurance company. John Taylor was the agent, and he insured us.

Honey, don't you remember Michael Williams? she asked me.

Your ex?

Yeah, she said.

Well, we never met. I could hear her boss John in the background explaining some payout policy to a client.

He just needs someone to watch the dog while he goes out of town on business, she said. Or else he's going to have to take him to the pound.

Amy.

John, she said, emphasizing, he's going to have to go to the pound.

Okay, I sighed. Bring him home.

Well, she replied. He's not here yet.

Who's not there yet?

George.

Who's George?

The dog, she said.

You mean, you haven't even seen him? I asked.

Well, she said. Not yet.

So you're telling me that we're taking a dog we’ve never seen.

She started to get pissed. He's going to the pound if we don't.

Okay, okay, I interrupted her.

Can you pick him up?

What?

I don't think I can get out of here in time.

I drove over to an address she gave me on Barley Road.

It was a shitty stucco apartment building. probably built in the '80s with bad windows and a gray paint job. Garbage in grocery store bags was piled up in the entry way. I'm surprised there weren't people sleeping on the stairs. I went to the front door, looking for apartment 3A, and pressed the button. Nothing. I got off work early to do this and this fucking guy wasn't even home. I pressed the button again. No answer. Finally, while I was looking up at the windows trying to figure out which one was 3A, a voice blared out over the intercom telling me to come in.

I went into the apartment building, past some cheap-looking metal mailboxes. Underneath them were old, graying newspapers stacked on top of each other. I climbed the stairs, which were covered with dingy brown carpet that might have been shag but most of the shag had worn off.

At 3A I knocked. The door opened about an inch and a guy, probably in his late 30s with long black hair and wire-rim glasses, stuck his face in the narrow opening and said, Hey. I said, Hey, back and he asked me what I drove. I told him it was a pick-up truck and he said, Great. Then he asked me what I did for a living. I told him and asked him the same question. He said he worked for the government downtown. I had no idea what that meant and I didn't even care because all I wanted was to get this dog and get home. I asked him about the dog and he said, Maybe it'd be better if I brought him down.

Why?

You know, he said. Might be even better if I dropped off the dog. He gave me this politician smile: wide and vacant as if he was trying to sell me something.

Oh, I replied, knowing that I was sounding doubtful.

It's just temporary, he quickly said. I'm going out of town for a couple weeks. Amy said you would watch him for me.

I didn't know whether to believe him or not but I asked, Okay, do you have our address?

Actually, he said, I'll bring him out in a minute.

All right. I’m driving the blue pick-up out front.

The door closed and I heard something fall and break.

He brought it out or, actually, it brought him out, straining against the leash, a leather collar tight around its neck. The dog was large and muscular. Big, oblong head with a terrifying snout and fierce jaws. Reminded me of a miniature bear.

He brought it over to the passenger side door and waited. I got out.

Hey, he said, here he is.

The dog sniffed my shoes and then ignored me. The dog didn't seem so bad. Kind of dumb but affable.

I went around to the back of the truck and let down the opening to the bed. He put the dog in the back of the truck.

Is he going to be okay? the guy asked.

He'll be fine, I said, getting back in the truck.

When we got back home and I opened the gate of my truck, the dog leaped out of the bed and took off running through the yard, disappearing around the big white barn at the rear of our property.

Hey, I yelled but he was gone.

I wasn't even sure what its name was. I figured that's the last I'd see of him.

A few minutes later Amy called on the cellphone and asked me how it went. I told her what happened.

Go look for him, she said.

Why?

We're responsible, she replied, her voice sounding tired. I knew she was ready to come home and didn't want to deal with this dog. It was going to end up my responsibility like everything else.

I think he's to the next county by now.

Okay, fine, she said annoyed and hung up.

That night during dinner we heard a tremendous squawking from the barn. We ran out through the back door and down the porch, past our dying tomato garden, and toward the back barn where the sound was coming from.

What is that? she asked. Her eyes were wide open, scared.

I didn't say anything.

I ran up to the open door of the barn and the dog shot out in a halo of white chicken feathers and blood covering its thick snout.

Oh no, Amy said.

I leaned my head into the barn and looked toward the chicken coop. The door had been torn open and, from what I could tell, no chicken was left alive. Carnage. Feathers and pieces scattered about. Blood everywhere.

I turned and looked for the dog. He was heading between the two oak trees toward the goat field.

John, she said. You can't hurt that dog.

I shook my head in disbelief. Will you look inside?

He’s not our dog.

I don’t care if he's not our dog, I responded. He just killed 30 chickens.

We're watching him, she said, putting her hand on my arm.

She was still carrying the ear of corn in her other hand from dinner.

You're not watching him, I replied. If you were watching him, I wouldn't have chicken parts all over the ground that I have to clean up.

She gave me that look and made a noise in her throat. She turned and walked back to the house.

I want that dog out of here, I yelled after her. I don't care who your friend is. That dog's trouble.

Later that night after I got into bed, she said, I'm sorry. I hugged her and told her it was all right. She'd been crying. It wasn't just about the dog. There were more problems than that. We were having trouble working things out, even simple things. The other day we had a 30-minute argument over who left the fat-free milk out on the counter. She screamed, I yelled, she walked out, I threw a book across the room, the milk got knocked over and spilled on the counter, down the cabinets and onto the floor. I don't even know if I had been the one who had left it out. It didn't matter. What mattered was, in the moment, I didn't want to cave; I didn't want to give in to her even if I was wrong and had left the milk out.

I looked for the dog, she said.

Yeah?

I couldn't find him. She rolled to her side, resting her head on her hand.

I'm sure he's around somewhere.

I'm sorry, she said again.

I slid my arm around her. It's okay, I said. You were just trying to do a nice thing.

She nodded and I wiped her eyes with the sheet.

The next morning I got up and trudged downstairs to make us coffee.

The living room had been shredded. The stuffing was torn out of the antique couch, passed down from my great grandparents, and was still floating through the air. Both end chairs had also been shredded and the end table gnawed on.

Amy! I yelled.

I don't know why I hadn't heard him doing this.

Then I noticed that he shit all over the rug. On one side. On the other side, he chewed a perfect circle, about eight inches in diameter.

I looked out the front door but I didn’t see him. I did notice, however, that he chewed a hole through the screen in the window and part of the window frame, which is how he must've gotten in.

I went into the kitchen. It was even worse. Somehow he'd gotten into the refrigerator and dragged food out of it. Broken eggs and milk from a broken jug formed a puddle across the floor along with a couple half eaten raw steaks still in the package, and what was left of a whole chicken we'd had the other night.

Amy! I yelled again.

In the kitchen, she sat across the table from me.

I can't do it, she said, drinking her coffee.

Take him back.

I can't.

Why not? I asked.

Because he asked me for help. He said it was important.

He lied to you, I said. This friend of yours has probably skipped town. He has stuck us with this insane dog.

George, she said.

What?

His name is George.

Who gives a shit? I replied. You're getting too close to him.

She looked down at her the table, smoothing the table cloth with one hand. He's our responsibility.

What? Are you kidding?

I told my friend—

Forget your friend, I said. We're living with what is clearly a deranged dog.

I have to go to work. She walked over to the sink and put her coffee cup on the counter. She then bent down and picked up a piece of bread that was hidden under the overhang of the kitchen cabinet next to the sink.

We had cleaned up as well as we could although there were still some food stains on the floor that we were having trouble getting out.

She walked out of the kitchen.

Don't you want to talk about this?! I yelled.

Not really, she said.

Why not? I said from the chair.

We talk and talk, she said. But nothing ever comes of it. Nothing really changes.

She let the door slam behind her.

I sat there, wondering if I should go after her.

Near my foot was a broken egg shell that was underneath the table. I left it there.

In the yard she was bent over, petting his huge, oblong head. His tail was wagging, thumping against the ground as if he’d done nothing wrong, pretending to be a good dog while we all knew he was not.

She walked over to her car and got in. He watched her leave.

I love dogs. Grew up with them. But I never had a dog like this.

It was a cross between a Saint Bernard and something I couldn't recognize. Or maybe it was a Doberman. Or had some Shepherd in it. It was hard to tell what its breed was; you could look at the dog three different ways and come up with three different answers.

I went into the bathroom to take a shower so I could go to work.

I’d been at work for a couple hours when I got the call. There was trouble at the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Carter.

Mr. Carter called for me? I asked Bobby my supervisor.

Bobby handed me the pink message slip. Said it was an emergency.

I looked at the slip. "Emergency" was written on it.

They want you to come over now, he said. They sounded, I don’t know, anxious.

I looked at the note again. The Carters have never called me at work before.

Can I go? I asked.

Bobby looked at the clock and nodded. It’s almost lunch. Take the day.

I called over to the Carters but there was no answer. I wasn't really sure why I was going over there if they weren't answering their phone but that's how it was sometimes in the country. They could be out in the fields, working on the corn or the hay or milking a cow or something and not be able to make it to the phone. Most of the farmers, and I think the Carters weren't any different, had an exterior ring for the phone so they could hear it. I didn't even know if they had cellphones. We were neighbors but not that close.

I pulled into the driveway and saw Mr. Carter's red Ford pick-up sitting there.

Their front screen door was wide-open. The front door as well.

Hello? I said, leaning in.

I didn't hear anything.

Hello? I said again, unsure of just entering. Most farmers kept a loaded shotgun somewhere in the house and they didn't like people traipsing around.

I thought I heard something from upstairs.

I walked through the living room and into the family room where they had two antique couches, the camelback kind, covered in red and green velvet.

Hey! Mr. Carter's voice yelled from upstairs.

Hello? I said up the stairs.

John?

Yeah.

Will you get up here?!

I climbed the stairs and in the doorway of the back bedroom, probably the Carters' bedroom, was the hind end of a dog.

Oh no, I said.

It was George. He turned, looked at me and, believe it or not, wagged his tail. Before I had left home, I had tied him up.

I looked inside the bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Carter, both in their late 60s, were on their bed, shrunk back against the farthest wall away from George.

Is this your fucking dog? Mrs. Carter, still in her pink robe, asked. She was a churchgoer.

Uh, kind of, I replied. We're watching him for someone.

So help me if I can get my shotgun, announced Mr. Carter, who moved across the bed. George lifted his head, a long string of drool extending from his paw to his chin, uttering a low-sounding growl. Mr. Carter froze. He was wearing blue boxer shorts and a white t-shirt strung across his wide belly.

I wrapped my hand around George's leather collar. What happened?

Mr. Carter shook his head. What happened? He walked into our house like he owns it. I'm up here getting dressed and Emily's making the bed when this thing walks in and plops himself down right in the doorway, folds his left foot over the right one and stares at us. At first we didn't know what to do, so I moved towards the door and he—

George, I said.

I don't care what his name is! Mr. Carter yelled. That damn dog growled at me. So we sat down, trying not to move 'cause every single time we moved, he lifted his head and growled.

And he's slobbering so we didn't know if he had something, Mrs. Carter injected.

No, he's just hot, I replied.

I called Sheriff Dempsey, Mr. Carter said, but he's at some accident, a combine tipped over and trapped a guy, I don't know who it is, underneath, so I didn't know when he could get here to shoot your dog.

Mrs. Carter slowly moved a pillow underneath her back. I ran into your wife at the IGA. She'd said you’d gotten a new dog and since you're our neighbors we assumed.

I'm really sorry, I replied.

You should be! Mr. Carter yelled, his face flushed.

He's harmless, I lied.

You get him out of here before I shoot both of you.

On the way back he rode with his head out the window. He seemed like an okay dog sometimes, at least to some people. Harmless while he was being watched but malicious behind closed doors. Not like the usual dogs I've had: good companions, loyal, faithful. George seemed self-interested, an uncontrollable force. There was a saying about dogs I'd heard growing up and I found it to be true with the only dog that we had to put down: once they get the taste of blood, there’s no going back.

I brought him home and tied him again to the pole in the back barn. He barked, then slurped some water and sat down in the shade. It must've been in the 80s in the sun and, given these Ohio summers, with about 100% humidity, so breathing was like trying to suck air through a towel.

There was a call from Amy on my cellphone but it was just her number, no message. I was starting to wonder why she liked this dog so much. She seemed a bit maternal towards it. I knew that she had been hinting about having a kid. Hell, hinting was mild, the last time we fooled around she was screaming, Fill me up, honey, and top off the tank, and we both laughed at the time but she'd been bringing it up more and more. And the way she'd been out in the yard, baby talking to this animal, I was starting to wonder. Amy and me got married a few months after meeting. We had met in a bar, neither of us sober, and fucked the first night and then met again the next night in the same bar and fucked again. At that time, we were both pretty wild, drinking every night, staying out till four or five, and even after we moved in together, we were still drinking almost every night. We’d come home from different bars, meet in bed and compare our evenings. But after a couple years we didn't go out as much. I basically stopped drinking after the burning sensations in my stomach started happening pretty much every day. We bought this old farm house over on Blue Church Road with a couple of out buildings and loaded it up with chickens, goats, occasionally a cow or two, and a pig. After that, we seemed to have less to talk about and nothing to agree on. We would often pick the opposite sides of issues just to have something to disagree about. Sometimes we'd talk if one of the goats looked pregnant or if the pig seemed to be under the weather or if there was something interesting on TV, but it wasn't as much as it used to be when we were shitfaced and stumbling. It started to get pretty quiet between us—the thin times as I used to think of it. That's when the baby talk started happening. I hadn't committed yet to the issue because, coming from a shitty family I didn't know if I had it in me or if there was a chance I could put someone else through that. But I'd been thinking lately that maybe it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe we might be good parents. Maybe I'd take her up on the baby option. Better than this dog who was going back to its owner as soon as possible.

I was working in the pole barn trying to get the engine on the old riding mower to turn over when I heard a crash in the back barn. I ran over to the barn to discover that George had chewed his rope in half and he was standing in the field with his mouth around the throat of our favorite goat, Doofus. I hopped the barbed wire and ran over to them.

Drop it!

George growled and tried to drag Doofus across the ground but was having trouble moving the body.

I realized that I had a wrench in my hand from working on the engine. One good pop would take this dog out.

You son of a bitch, I said, raising the wrench.

Hey!

I turned. She was home.

What happened?

It killed Doofus, I said.

Oh my god, she said. Her briefcase dropped to the ground and onto its side.

George, maybe upon hearing her voice, retreated a few feet away. Poor Doofus's eyes were glassy and the bugs were already buzzing around him.

She was staring at Doofus. Maybe he was already dead.

Don't be defending him, I replied. Maybe but I doubt it.

She twisted sideways, looking around, and scratched her arm.

We gotta do something, I replied.

She looked away.

This time I chained him to the pole in the back barn.

Try to chew through that, you bastard, I said.

He snapped at me and I quickly back away as he bared his teeth.

Unfucking believable, I said.

We'll just board him, I said.

Then we have to pay for it, she replied.

We were sitting in the living room on the couch that had lost most of its stuffing. The sun was starting to come down and the light sparkled in the room. She was holding my hand and I was staring at her wedding ring.

We should have him put to sleep, I said.

We can't do that.

Okay, I said, taking a deep breath. Johnson boards dogs. I can take it there and just warn Johnson how crazy the dog is so he doesn't put him in with any others. We'll just eat the cost.

She shrugged.

Is that okay?

I don't know, she said. She was looking out the window, trying to see him. He had barked for about 30 minutes straight.

When's the owner coming back? I asked her.

She pursed her lips. I don't know, she said. We agreed to take him.

I called over to Johnson’s and we talked for awhile. He used to work at the same company as I did and we had some good times until his wife left him and he decided he wanted to work on his own, be his own boss kind of thing. He spoke with an accent. His last name's not really Johnson. He changed his real name to Johnson but he won’t tell anyone what it really was.

I don't know about that dog, he said.

It's crazy. It killed a goat and my chickens.

Don't know if I could take the chance, he said.

I told him that Amy really wanted me to do this. That this dog was becoming a real point of contention.

'Course, he said, it doesn't have to make it over here, if you know what I mean. In the background I could hear his TV, the national news.

Yeah, I understand you, I finally said.

Good, Johnson replied and hung up.

I went into the kitchen to tell Amy about taking him in. She was setting the table for dinner, white dinner plates on dark placemats.

Outside we heard a noise from the field. I looked out the window.

The dog was heading for the house. I don't know how he got out of that chain.

That chain should have held him.

She came up behind me. We can learn to live with him, she said.

He leaped on the porch, looking in the window, growling, showing his teeth, as if asking to be let in.

I grabbed a collar and an old leash and went to the front door. He was on the other side, his nose against the crack, breathing me in, trying to push his snout under the door, his nails frantically digging at the floor.

Don't do this, she said. Firmly. As if. As if I did there would be repercussions. I didn't want to do this but I didn't have any other choice.

She knew what was going on.

He's our responsibility, I said, opening the door and stepping out onto the porch.

George backed off a few feet and sat down, his tongue hanging sideways out his mouth. He slid to his side and coyly leaned over, submissive. Through the kitchen window, I could see Amy watching us. I closed the door behind me as he rose to his feet, rushing towards me, a quick brown blur in the fading summer sun.