Mrs. Withers wants to repeat our conversation. Mrs. Withers corners me in the hall. In body language, Mrs. Withers is illiterate. I edge away from Mrs. Withers. “Mrs. Withers” might not be Mrs. Withers’ name, so I’m careful not to call Mrs. Withers “Mrs. Withers.” My father, Mrs. Withers seems to think, and I share some sort of hive mind; therefore, I am privy to all his knowledge of veterinary medicine. He’s a vet. Was a vet. Has been retired for several years. She knows this. Mrs. Withers always asks me questions about her dog, an Irish Setter. I know this because she mentions his Irish Setter-hood every time we speak. Repeatedly. Due to her appearance–hard, thin, and coiled like barbed wire, she’s wrinkled around her lips and eyes–I think of her as Mrs. Withers. In fact, her name might be Mrs. White. Starts with a “W.” That seems right, having given it some thought. I can’t be sure. I’m not good with names. That my father should remember her and her Irish Setter seems certain to Mrs.Withers, and she implores me to ask Dad if he does (he doesn’t; he had several hundred clients), and I say I will ask but never do. After the bell rings to signal that class should begin, Mrs. Withers asks me questions about her Irish Setter, which presumably has a name, which I’ve also forgotten. I tell her I must go to class, and she ignores this. Mrs. Withers and I substitute teach at the high school. Mrs. Withers is, at a glance, twice my age, or somewhere thereabouts. Some people might feel bad for Mrs. Withers. Mrs. Withers, I gather, lives alone with her Irish Setter. There may be more than one Irish Setter, come to think of it. They may be legion. In the halls, between classes, I’ve begun to avoid Mrs. Withers. Proud of this, I am not. I joke with my wife about Mrs. Withers and feel guilty. My father, the retired vet, lives alone without an Irish Setter. Last night, I thought I should get him an Irish Setter–or possibly another breed–because a dog would keep him company. However, a dog might shit on his floor. Dogs do not make good gifts. I would need to housebreak the dog. If Irish Setters are easy to housebreak, I do not know. I believe they’re a reddish color. It’s rude to give a gift that shits on floors regardless of its color. It’s often late into the morning, or sometimes the afternoon, that my father sleeps. So this imaginary dog whom I’ve bought for my father, I envision begging to go outside, and once denied this trip to the yard or walk or whatever, would have no choice but to shit on the floor, which is hardwood and expensive (and also reddish). Once, when we were newly married, my wife informed me that I talk a lot. No one’s ever told me this. It hurt my feelings. I suggest my Irish Setter plan to my wife on Wednesday afternoon–buying one for Dad, that is. She condemns it for those same reasons I’d discounted it. However, it’s become stuck in my mind. Although I fight the temptation, I propose it again on Thursday. And once again on Friday evening. Saturday morning, I lie awake thinking about it and consider asking my wife, one last time, if Dad might like a dog?
Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. In 2008, he was diagnosed with adult onset epilepsy, which pivoted his artistic focus toward community theater and eventually led to writing. His work appears in Bridge Eight, Drunk Monkeys, Roi Faineant, Streetlight Magazine, and other publications. You can learn more about him and his work at travisflattblog.com
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Heavy Feather Review 