The Cocker in Spaniel

Brandy Tornatore

About twenty years ago, an adorable picture of my dog Brandy disappeared from the desktop of my office that was located in a sheltered workshop. Soon after surrendering hope that my dog picture would surface, Desmond J. Brentwood sauntered from the bathroom looking rather ragtag even for him.

After reminding him to pull up his zipper and tuck back in his shirt, I made the mistake of asking Desmond if he had dollar bills to make change for a ten spot. He stopped and removed his wallet on a chain. Behind a row of worn dollar bills, his fingertips grazed across something conspicuous. His eyes flashed mine. He is all thumbs now as the beloved picture of my dog falls out of his upside down wallet. My photo had wound up in the hands of a wayward mildly retarded young man who often admitted to engaging in acts of bestiality through a crooked smile. Our minds both race ahead to the unfolding event. Desomond picks up the picture as if it were his and not rightfully mine.

“Desmond, you stole a picture of my dog?”

“Joe, I know what you're thinking. I should have asked you to bring me in another picture from home. That’s all.”

“No, that is not what I'm thinking and that's not all. Desmond, you weren’t….Oh my God…you weren’t….to my dog?”

Desmond showed about as much remorse as boundaries. “I'm afraid so, Joe. You got a nice looking dog here. I love Cockers.”

I swiped the worn picture from his active clutches. I mouthed incredulously, “Leave Brandy alone.”

“I didn’t touch your dag gone dog.” He head nods back to the bathroom he vacated. “I only use the picture like a normal guy would a girlie magazine.”

“Oh my God!”

"Joe, you look like you're going to barf....Do you need to use the bathroom?"