AMOS: A LOVE STORY
by Mary Combrink
Marilyn washed eight apples, then began peeling and coring them. When she had finished with the first one, she automatically bent down to put the core on the kitchen floor.
"Silly," she said, catching herself. "He's not here to eat it."
Even after two months, Marilyn didn't always remember that Amos, their eleven-year-old basset hound, had passed away. She still heard his tags jingling as he waddled downstairs in the morning. When she was running errands she found herself thinking that she needed to hurry home to let him out. And, sometimes, she felt him brush by her legs when she opened the refrigerator. The times she missed him most, however, were when she was cooking. Amos had loved apple cores and potato skins. Marilyn often caught herself putting the parings aside for him.
Marilyn had confided to her husband that she still thought of Amos as alive.
Kent had smiled. "I do, too. I hear him in the evenings, after you go to bed. He comes to the door of the den, looks in at me, and then I hear the thumping on the stairs as he follows you up. "He was your great protector. Would have done anything to keep you safe."
Then, her husband had turned practical. "Of course, Amos is not really here. It's just that our hearing is programmed to expect certain sounds at specific times. I'll bet our memories will have faded completely by Christmas."
Marilyn shook her head as she began peeling the second apple. Good old Kent. Always had a logical explanation for everything.
Marilyn had just picked up the last apple when she heard a knock at the door.
"Lucky they didn't ring the doorbell," she thought. "Amos would be going crazy."
As the thought registered, she sighed. "He's gone. Get over it."
The knocking started again. "I'm coming," Marilyn called. It wasn't even noon. Too early for UPS or the mail carrier. Must be a neighbor.
Marilyn opened the door without looking through the peephole first. A pleasant-looking middle-aged man in a nondescript uniform was standing on the porch.
"Sorry to bother you," he said. "I was dropping a package off for your neighbors and now my truck won't start. May I use your phone?"
Marilyn began to let him in, then hesitated. You had to be careful these days.
"Let me call for you. Do you have a number I can try?"
The man reached for the door handle. "I'd rather make the call myself."
An uncomfortable tingle ran up Marilyn's spine. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'd be happy to call for you, but you'll understand that I can't let you in."
The man's smile faded. "No, Marilyn," he said, emphasizing her name. "I don't understand why you won't let me in." He started to pull open the door.
"No!" Marilyn shoved the screen door toward him, then quickly pulled it shut. The man lost his grip and his hand swung out, hitting the doorbell.
As the chiming began, Marilyn heard a tremendous growl and felt a rush of air as something lunged by her.
"Amos!" she cried without thinking. "Don't bite!"
The man's face went white. "You still have that dog?" he asked. He took a step backward and stumbled off the porch.
Marilyn slammed the inner door shut and slide the bolts in place. Her lungs were on fire and legs legs threatened to buckle beneath her. She stumbled through the house, checking the locks on the other outside doors. When she looked out the front window, the man was getting into his truck and pulling away. Marilyn noted the license number.
She picked up the telephone. Her shaking hand missed the numbers on the first three tries. Finally, she reached the police. "We'll send an officer right out," the dispatcher said. "Keep your doors locked until we get there."
"Of course," Marilyn said.
"What made the guy leave? Do you have a dog?"
"He thought I did," Marilyn answered.
She hung up the phone and sat on the sofa to wait.
"Do you have a dog?" the dispatcher had asked.
Did she? Marilyn didn't know.
She knew that Amos had hated the sound of the doorbell. Every time it had rung, he had raced to the door, making terrible, threatening growls. If the person standing there was in uniform,
Was it, as Kent had suggested, just her memories of Amos that had made her hear his growling? Or, was some form of Amos still here? Had the intruder heard a dog, too, or was he simply responding to Marilyn's reaction?
Marilyn stood up and slowly walked into the kitchen. Maybe Amos had been there, maybe he hadn't. Whatever the answer, she was grateful that he had managed to protect her one last time. She reached for the eighth apple and laid it on the floor, where his dog dish used to be.
"Good boy, Amos," she whispered. "Good boy."
It was autumn. The fall air was crisp and the time was right to make the first apple pie of the season.
Amos had always grown even more agitated. Most of the time, they had needed to physically restrain him, so he wouldn't bite.
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