Chapter 41 - The Day Mister Came to Live With Us

According to Boy: It was a cool October morning. A Saturday morning. The sort of morning made for sleeping in. And that is exactly what my body was doing. Catatonic, in fact. The cause of my condition could be debated. Was it the result of the wine the night before, or the cool October air? Whatever the reason, it seemed doubtful that my mind was going to reach any agreement with my body to engage itself in some sort of conscious movement.

"Mike, wake up," Evie pleaded. I could hear her only as I incorporated her voice into my dream. I have no idea what I was dreaming, but she had suddenly become part of it.

"We’ve got to pick up our dog."

That three-letter word did not compute. "Dog?" I queried struggling to wake up. "Dog?"

I opened my eyes to the light, but only for a moment. The sun’s light illuminating our almost white curtains was more than I could bear. The pain was centered mostly behind my right eye. That’s where it always hurt the morning after.

"Oh," I moaned. "I’ve got a killer headache."

The word "dog" was starting to make sense. Then I remembered. We had agreed to provide a home to a dog. Charlie, our most-wonderful landlord, had asked us to adopt his friend’s dog. I wasn’t terribly excited about the prospect of being a dad to a dog, but Charlie had been so very helpful to us. When we moved into our Glendale apartment, which was located over where Charlie and his family lived, we did not even have a bed. He called around and found us a really nice one. He and his family were just terrific. He had explained to us that his friend was moving into an apartment, and that his new landlord would not allow pets. How could I refuse?

Besides that, Evie was ecstatic about having a dog. "Must have been her maternal instincts kicking in," I concluded.

Lying there, still half asleep, and severely hung over, I muttered, "What the heck is a Norwegian Elkhound, anyway?" Being that this was the late 60s (BG—before Google), we really had no good way to investigate.

"I really don’t know much about them, but Charlie said that they’re really cool," Evie said in her most excited and convincing tone. "Charlie said that the dog’s name was ‘Mista’. That’s Brooklynese for ‘Mister.’"

"So, I suppose that means that it’s a male. But that does not tell me much about what the dog looks like, or the temperament of the breed. Is it a large dog?"

"No, Charlie said he really would not like us to get a large dog, but that Mista would be okay," Evie explained.

"Wait a minute. Had you asked him if we could have a dog, or did he ask you if we would be willing to take this dog? You know, which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"Well, it’s kind of complicated," Evie replied.

"What do you mean?" I asked, squinting one painfully bloodshot eye open in her direction.

"It was kinda mutual," she responded. "I asked him if he would ever entertain the notion of a renter having a pet, like a cat. And he said he would check with his wife and see what she thought. He really thought that a cat would not be acceptable to his wife, because they had once had a cat themselves, and she got rid of it after it stunk up their house. But she might consider a dog—a small dog."

"Okay, that explains a lot," I said, now fully awake. I had found it difficult to understand why any landlord would ask his tenant to please accept and house a pet, even a ‘small’ dog, in a newly-refurbished apartment directly over his own residence.

Charlie was branch manager of a Brooklyn bank. And the friend whose dog needed a home was his assistant manager. Charlie was a genuinely nice person. So was his family. Charlie had even arranged for Evie to take a job as a teller at his bank. That was a huge help. Charlie was the type of person who truly tried to take care of people, to make all those around him a little more comfortable. Of course, it was helpful to his cause to have his tenants employed. But he liked us, and wanted to make sure Evie had a good, clean and safe job. He was like that. So, when his assistant asked him if he could help him find a good home for "Mista" (spelled "Mister"), Charlie immediately took personal responsibility for giving the task his best effort, even if it meant allowing (encouraging in fact) his tenant to take the animal. I doubt that Charlie had any better idea what a Norwegian Elkhound looked like than did we.

"We promised to be there by ten, and I have no idea how long it will take to get there," Evie said in her most coaxing and pleading voice. "It’s nine now. We should leave in the next fifteen, I think."

"Do we have a map?" I asked.

"No, but Charlie gave me directions. He said we should be able get there in about a half an hour, with Saturday morning traffic. So, if we allow ourselves forty minutes, we can make a few wrong turns, and still be okay," Evie grinned.

"I would still like to know what a Norwegian Elkhound looks like," I said, putting one and then the other foot on the floor, and sitting up— finally. Man, what a headache.

"Charlie told me Mista was a small dog, and that he even went to obedience school," Evie said, trying to encourage me.

I pictured Mista as being a mixture of Collie and Poodle. What did I know? I had never heard of Norwegian Elkhounds. Maybe it was not even a real breed of dog. Maybe Charlie’s friend had just made up the appellation to help get rid of his unwanted dog. What were we getting ourselves into?