The Weary Days

There is a lot of noise the day the young one goes away. The older one is stiffer than usual, and leaks sadness like sweat, but all the others cheer and yell, and many cry without smelling of pain.

The days that follow, also, are unsettling. There is a big congregation on one of them. Everyone stands in the big room where the big metal men used to be. There come men who wear bright stars on their shoulders, and they stand in front of everybody else and speak. The old man had stars like that once; they sit still in the box at the foot of his bed but he does not wear them. There is no shouting or clapping this day; all the humans are tense, and some of them are angry, and they do not relax until the men with shining stars leave. Afterwards, the old man and a few of the others gather in the old man's office. They clink their glasses and drink and are solemn together.

Many people leave afterwards, like the young one did, and do not come back. The older one (who smells hurt and grinds his teeth and spends many hours a day sitting down and looking at the thin, square sheets of paper the others bring him until his knees creak and his back cracks funny) keeps Max with him often and feeds him more than ever, thick meats and sometimes half the soft things from his own plate, until Max feels full and lazy and naps at the old man's feet.

Many new men and women come and take the place of those who leave. Their scents are loud and strange, and they do not know Max and do not pet or feed him. They bring new metal with them and take away some of the most rusted parts away. The big room - where they used to keep the big metal beasts that both of Max's masters climbed into - fills up as the men and women swarm about and build new beasts with tools that whirr and torches that spit fire.

Many humans visit the old man, who bleeds impatience and drinks cups and cups of the hot brown stuff the young one always smelled like. He snaps at the other humans often, and sometimes when he's alone he starts talking like he used to to the young one, then stops when he looks up and smells even sadder.

Several of the humans from before do not leave, and they visit the older man often. There is the girl, of course, who smells a little different too; she always pets Max as she used to: clatters to the floor with her back legs all bent and tangled and lets Max sprawl over them, where she rubs the fur behind his ears for ages. The tall one with the light hair comes with her often. Sometimes he comes by himself, to talk with the old man or bring him things. He stands stiff and straight when he comes alone, and Max hears him stop outside the door and let out a deep breath before he hits the door to let the old man know he's there.

Others come too: the ones who talk very fast and wave their front legs wildly when they do, the one who works with the square, glowing boxes and puts round bread on the floor for Max when he thinks no one is looking.

They all reek of kindness, but the old man doesn't smell any better when they leave.

More days pass. Max eats and sleeps and misses the young one. The older one is different now: he doesn't eat or sleep like Max does, and as he's angrier with the other humans he's kinder to Max and pets him often.

One day Max passes by the room where the young one sleeps, and the heavy metal door stands ajar. Max noses his way inside and squeezes in. It still smells of the young one; several of the cloth things the young one used to wear are draped over the back of the chair, and the laces that tore when he pulled his leather flaps on his feet the day he left lie in pieces on the floor.

Max jumps onto the bed and nestles in among the rumpled humps of cloth and snuffles in the young man's scent. He used to sleep here sometimes, nosing into the young man's side and relishing its warmth, and the young man used to tickle his ribs when he woke.

Max wakes some time later to the familiar noise of the older man walking down the hall, but this time the man's walking slow and heavy, and he's not coming to wake his pup. He stops by the door, and Max waits with pricked-up ears and tail ready to wag, but the old man breathes deep, in and out, and quavers, and walks on.

It becomes clear soon that many of the man's friends are nervous about the old man's health. As days and nights and more days pass, the old man's ribs start to jut out against the skin over his stomach, and his face when Max licks it is often hot and feels wrong. If the young man comes back now, he will be tense and angry too, at seeing the old man ill.

The other humans come by more often, but the old man spends less time with them. They come at odd times: the girl bringing food, the tall one with nothing but eagerness, the one with a bow round his neck with cups of drink, and the one who limps with the one with painted skin (who also bring nothing, but yip and yap at each other like puppies biting each others' tails).

Max wakes often in bed (for he sleeps at the foot of the old man's, now the young one is gone) to cold, empty heaps of cloth and a lingering scent. The man, when he does sleep, wakes Max with nightmares, tossing and turning and leaking water out his eyes so his face when Max licks it is salty and wet. He grabs hold of the cloth he lies on, with his claws that are not really claws, and breathes, harsh and deep and guttural, for minutes. He smells of danger, but he always holds Max gently and makes sure Max is all right when he kicks in his sleep.

One time, while the man sits in his awkward, uncomfortable way at his table when most everyone else is asleep, the tall man with the light hair knocks on the door and slips inside without waiting for the old man's assent. They have words. The tall man (whose joints still sound young and healthy but who sighs like he's walked for years and years) speaks with his mouth and his paws for quite some time; there's worry in his voice, and jagged little edges of fear. He gestures towards the desk and the bed and the glossy, pinned-up sheets of paper on the wall that show the old man and the young man smiling. The old man cuts him off and sends him out, but after he's gone the old man comes to bed. He lies still and holds Max and doesn't sleep for a long, long time.

Some days afterwards, Max is in the young man's bed again - as he often is in the afternoon - sniffling and snuggling and wondering when the young man will come back. It's why the old man's so sad and angry all the time; he just misses his pup.

Max is dozing off when several young humans in look-alike cloths in clomping boots come in and start picking up the clothes draped over the chair and the lace still torn on the floor and all the other little things the young man used to play with. One of the humans notices Max and gestures at him nervously, and the leader - the one with more shiny things on his shoulder - moves towards Max and hisses and makes a shooing motion with his front paws.

Max barely ever moved when the young man told him to, and he loved him. This human? Max bares his teeth and growls.

The humans grow agitated, and one of them tries to pick Max up when - suddenly, the old man's standing in the doorway, barking angrily, and the humans hang their heads and stare at the floor and slink out when the old man stops.

It's like the first time the very big man who smelled cold (who's gone now too) gave the young man that water that burned and made the young man dance and laugh and then be sick. Max remembers; the old man snapped and growled then too, but he helped the young man clean the sick from off himself and settled him into bed, and he sat down with Max and petted him and watched his pup sleep through the night.

Max waits now, ears alert and tail wagging, and the old man comes to him again. He's different now; his bones are older and he walks slower, but he sits down on the bed and holds Max nonetheless. This time there's no pup to watch, to turn onto his side; this time the old man grips a lump of cloth and holds it up to his face - breathes in the smell of the boy, who put strange things on his head and rubbed his underarms with funny sticks and smelled of safety and care and scraps under the table.

Some time after, when the old man's paws stop shaking and his breath stops hitching and he's done wetting his face with his eyes, Max hears the clip-clop clip-clop of boots outside the door and smells the tall young man and the girl who always pets him. They stop and listen and don't come in, and they leave as quietly as they came and let the old man sleep.

The old man eats better after that, and takes Max running around the big rooms in the morning, and he sleeps more and talks sometimes with the other humans, who would wag their tails in happiness if they had them. He smells better too, less of anger and worry and more of rest.

Max is happy and relieved, and he relishes the renewed attention (if not all of the exercise). It's a good thing the old man is well again, for when the young man comes back, he won't be angry, and all will be well.