You Lucky Dog

It had been one-thousand, four-hundred, forty-four hours since Dog had left his apartment. That is around sixty days, or a little over two months. Enough time had passed since he shut himself inside that it was now the peak of summer. At twenty-two, any normal guy his age would have been outside, enjoying the warmth of the day: perhaps tanning on a beach somewhere, or having a picnic with a pretty girl in the park. In any case, making the most of the rapidly dwindling moments of their youth, preserved within the sweltering heat. Instead, Dog was inside. As he always was.

Dog’s room was left in arrangements reminiscent of a tornado’s aftermath. Empty styrofoam bowls littered the floor. Bags from an assortment of fast food restaurants were strewn everywhere. The clock read four-fifty-three in the evening, but that was unimportant – what was left of the day filtered in through the blinds of the room, leaving thin horizontal stripes of light painted on the floor. The only noise was the hum of the refrigerator; the only light from Dog’s dimmed laptop, spilling over his unshaven face. His tabs included various internet forums, an array of porn websites, and his anime streaming service.

At this very moment, Dog was laying on his back, downing his fifth can of beer. He tilted his neck just enough off the floor to have the contents trickle down his throat. He savored the feeling of the icy liquid flowing into his stomach, where he could feel its glow and the pleasant buzz coursing through his veins. While he didn’t necessarily enjoy summer, he liked that it let him experience quiet luxuries like this, for the other adjacent rooms were empty, their occupants outside, appreciating the weather.

That was how Dog came to hear the footsteps padding up the stairwell outside his room. They were delicate, those of a woman, no doubt. The noise stopped right in front of his door. Dog held his breath. There was no reason he should have a visitor. Perhaps he had forgotten something, but what? He paid his utility bills on time. He corresponded with his landlord by text. There were two locked gates to enter the building, so it couldn’t be a solicitor, or someone preaching a religion. He feared that his two months of peace, which he had been carefully safeguarding, were finally coming to an end.

There was a knock on the door. Three, to be exact, in quick succession with consistent rhythm. They resounded upon the thin veneer of slate-colored wood, sending an electric current down his spine. Dog set his beer down gently onto the floor, careful to not make any noise. He had no appointments with anyone, nor had he kept in contact with any friends. He had not received a single message in weeks. Even his parents only texted him for holidays. There also was a doorbell, which was clearly in sight if you were standing in front of his apartment. Who knocks on doors anymore? He had seen somewhere that nearly fifty percent of his generation made their romantic advances through the internet – surely they’re not the type of crowd who would announce their presence by knocking.

They knocked again. The only course of action, certainly, was to remain silent. Maybe they would leave him alone. Dog discreetly raised himself off the floor into a half-kneeling position, one of his arms pressed against the carpet to maintain his balance. Hello? Said a woman’s voice. Anyone home? Dog didn’t recognize it. He had been alone for so long that despite being feet away from the entrance, the voice felt like it came from a distant land, a universe entirely separate from his own. He glanced around his apartment. It was a mess. He suppressed the faint sense of revulsion which bubbled in his chest.

If no one is home, I’m going to open this door, okay? This is a mandatory inspection. Dog paused. Inspection? His heart began to pulse faster between his ribs. There was no notice of an inspection. What kind of society do we live in now, where strangers barge through doors, welcoming themselves into your own home? He would have been notified if there was an inspection. Someone would have told him, surely, if he was to have a visitor. Yet he got no text message, no letter, nothing.

A suspicion began to swell inside of him. He had once read an article that burglars would announce their own presence as a scouting tactic, posing as contractors in order to determine if someone was home, or out on vacation. Then, after confirming the occupant’s absence, they would return and rob the place blind. Yes, that had to be it. That was what was happening. They were scouting his apartment, to see if it was ripe for the taking. Dog was not about to be robbed of his possessions. He laughed softly to himself. They’re not fooling me. That was something that happens to other people, not Dog.

If no one is home, I’m coming in! The voice said. Dog heard the latch turn. Time slowed to a crawl. The door creaked open with an ancient groan. Light began leaking into the entryway, illuminating the squalor of his room. Gripped by a newfound sense of urgency, Dog rose to his feet, striding towards the door. Wait! It’s occupied. I’m busy right now. He hadn’t heard his own voice in a long time. His vocal chords were raspy, straining against their days of unuse. It sounded like someone else was speaking. He reached for the handle and began to turn it, gently pushing the opening shut, but a weight resisted his motion. A period of silence followed. The door stood ajar, caught awkwardly between the two bodies like some sort of mute witness. Dog was startled by the resistance. His breath was heavy.

(Please note: the life of a recluse is curated to perfection. While it may seem like nonsensical chaos, in actuality the space of someone who never leaves their place of living is like a self-sustaining garden, one where there are systems set in place to provide the occupant the means to subsist without stepping foot outside. The occupant likely has some form of passive income, or an allowance. Their source of food can be someone nearby who cooks for them, or a recurring delivery service. Additionally, they must possess a form of entertainment. This may include video games, pornography, or any variety of online activities. If you were to ask someone who spends their life in such an existential condition why they live in this way, you may receive an answer like the following: In the end you’ll be absolutely alone; therefore, being alone is natural. If you can accept that, nothing bad can happen.)

Dog gripped the handle of the doorway with desperate strength, with the determination of someone about to be unjustly stripped of their entire way of life. He could not go outside. Under no circumstances could his world collide with another. Yes, he was determined to ensure that no such thing would occur, and he would employ whatever means necessary to preserve this sanctuary.

While Dog was absorbed in this absent rationale, the other side of the door tugged even harder, causing him to lose his grip. Dog stumbled a single step out of the entryway, and soon he was staring directly into the face of his assailant. He squinted at the overwhelming light of the hallway. Through the brilliance he could make out the figure of a girl residing in the glow, a halo outlining her silhouette. She was in her twenties, wearing a polo shirt with light blue jeans. Her arms clutched a clipboard against her chest. I’m sorry to startle you, she said. If there’s another time that would work better, do you mind filling it out here? She handed him a pen and pointed to a section on the clipboard.

Dog stood puzzled, gripping the pen. This was the first person he had interacted with since he shut himself in. He could hardly believe it. The page stretched out like an endless blank wasteland. The writing implement in his hand was a foreign object he lacked the license to operate.

Dog suddenly became aware of what he must have looked like. Stubble crowded the corners of his face, lined by overgrown, matted hair, in dire need of a haircut. The shirt he wore was covered in stains. His breath was stale. He felt sorry for subjecting this girl to his appearance. She could probably see how disgusting his apartment looked from where she stood.

Hey, are you okay? I just need a date and time. Dog held the clipboard. His hands were sweating. Right, sorry. He quickly jotted down some random date, unsure if what he wrote was close to being correct. Truthfully, he didn’t even know what month it was, but the girl seemed satisfied with whatever he put down. She thanked him, flashing a warm smile before moving on, padding down the stairwell to the first floor. Dog stood in the doorway. He stared blankly into the empty hallway before heading back inside, shutting the door behind him, the darkness filling the corners of his vision.

Dog found his half-finished beer can and sat down. His mind swirled with the stimulus of the last five minutes, the most he had experienced since he reduced his life to the square footage of his room. What was he doing before she interrupted him? He couldn’t remember. The girl’s voice came muffled from the stairwell. Alright, let’s hit a different spot. This kid’s got nothing good. Dog took another sip from his beer. Maybe he would order Thai food for dinner.