Gnawing Away by David Erlewine

     "But," Dad says, "we can all agree, there's nothing wrong with us."
     "The proof's in the pudding," Mom says. I no longer laugh when she mimics Dad to his face.
     "Carol, what's your point?"
     Mom laughs. "We're in the car, in the garage, so the fucking dog can't hear us."
     "His name is Simke," I say.
     Mom leans over the seat and looks at me. "Take your pills this morning?"
     I nod. The medicine is for outbursts, general depression, and to make my mind clearer.
     "Yep, my mind sure feels clearer."
     Mom turns back around. "I'm freezing!"
     "Where's your hat?" Dad says.
     "It's inside, where I should be!"
     "I say we get a second opinion."
     Mom laughs. "Doctor Varma has been our vet 10 years."
     "He killed Party, Jumanji, Éclair and Risottoface," I say.
     She can't dispute that roly-poly Doctor Varma was the last one to see our guinea pig, cat, bunny and turtle alive.
     "Risottoface," Dad says and looks out the window.
     "That turtle was a battler, but no match for Varma."
     "Look," Mom says, "Simke is gnawing a hole into its paw, has gained five pounds and the Vet says it's probably depressed."
     "When you talk about me to friends," I say, "you use 'he', not 'it', right? Same should go for Simke."
     "Varma said dogs gain weight or play with their paws for many reasons," Dad says. "They get bored, want attention or do it for fun."
     "Or react to household tension," Mom says. "And he's not playing with it. He's gnawing it off like it's in a trap."
     "Even stipulating Simke is depressed and gnawing on his paw," Dad says, "There's nothing wrong with us."
     Mom clicks her teeth. "Didn't you agree to save words like stipulating for the court room?"
     "Carol. So here's the drill, we--"
     "We're not your clients."
     Dad pats her elbow. "Not for all--"
     "the money in Switzerland would you represent us. Good one."
     Dad glances at me. "If you're watching TV, invite him on the couch. When you see him, slap your legs and motion him toward you. Be his friend."
     "I'm going in." Mom slams the door behind her.
     After awhile, Dad says, "You doing OK?"
     "Yep, the medicine is really working."
     He smiles. "Save the rehearsed lines for your mom and that doctor. You like high school?"
     He looks terrible. There are purple bags under his eyes. He missed a spot shaving.
     "It's good. You OK?"
     He laughs. "Come on, let's go see Simke."
     Simke is lying down on the living room floor. Labradors can't get much bigger. He's black except for his eyes and a purplish gash on his front right paw. He closes his eyes.
     The next few days, I give him bones, toss him soft Frisbees, drag him onto the couch with me and rub under his neck. He acts polite, unless I interrupt his gnawing.
     On Friday Dad comes home from work early and takes Simke out for a walk. Mom makes me a turkey Pot Pie. She sips two glasses of wine while I eat.
     I go to bed early and wake up to use the bathroom. I hear crying downstairs.
     In the living room, Simke is lying on the couch, and Dad is rubbing his belly.
     "You knew," Dad says.
     "Knew what?"
     "The vet I saw today agreed with Varma." Dad digs his hands into fur.
     Simke glances up at me.
     "You knew." He's talking to Simke.
     "Dad?"
     "Mom's leaving."
     For a second, I think he's talking to Simke. Then I look at Dad's cloudy, red eyes.
     "Mom's what?"
     He stands up and rubs Simke's head. "Simke's been chewing his paw about a month or so, right?"
     I nod.
     "Apparently that's how long Mom's been considering it."
     The medication I take makes it hard to cry. I blink a few times and nothing wet comes out.
     "Start cheering him up." Dad heads upstairs.
     I sit on the couch awhile.
     "Did you know?"
     Simke gnaws his paw. If I were a dog, it'd probably be sexy watching him dig in and slurp away.
     After a few minutes, I start gnawing on my right forearm. It's hairier and saltier than I expect. In the center of it is a bright red birthmark, which my doctor said is shaped like Bermuda.
     After awhile, I don't feel weird. I'm not thinking of my doctor, how at 16 I'm already on meds, how Mom's leaving, how Dad looks like shit, or how I'm about to get a D in Geometry. I'm just going to town on the sweet spot.
     I glance at Simke for pointers or maybe just to share the moment. Simke has stopped to watch. There's a faint glint in his eye; he's trying to get a hold on the situation.
     I glance at my forearm. The hairs around my birthmark are spread out in all directions. They're wet and sticky. I can't smooth them back into place. My birthmark looks even redder; the skin surrounding it is tight and pink.
     Simke still has that glint. He watches without making a sound.
     I turn off the light and lie down on the living room floor. I wait until Simke has forgotten about my gnawing. Soon he has and is again busy.
     I try to focus on Simke's sounds to fall asleep. After awhile I'm thinking about whether I'll take the fall for her leaving. I quietly slide my forearm back into my mouth. Soon, Simke and I have a rhythm going.
     Right before falling asleep I realize that upon waking it'll probably take a few minutes to remember that something is wrong.

About the author:
I've received first, second and third prizes for my short stories also appearing or forthcoming in The Blue Review, C/Oasis, The Circle Magazine (web), EWGPresents, Fiction Funhouse, The Fiction Warehouse, Identity Theory, In Posse Review, Ohio Wesleyan Literary Magazine, Outsider Ink, Parting Gifts, Paumanok Review, PBW, Perfectland, Pindeldyboz (web), SNReview, Surgery of Modern Warfare, taint magazine, The 13th Warrior Review, Thought Magazine, Twenty Four Hours and The Unknown Writer.
I am an attorney living in Baltimore, Maryland. I recently completed a literary novel titled, "Furiously Ordinary." Many of my stories can be read at http://www.daviderlewine.com/