by. No children play with balls in my garden where Mrs. Sybil Sharpe could pounce on them. No one can even see it. I look up. Well, it is within sight of her vast deck. Something else is even more interesting. Anyone pussyfooting through my garden with the intent of doing a bit of damage is completely hidden. She could destroy my garden and the back of my home and no one would be the wiser.
I feel my aorta lurching. Not even the scent of viburnum is enough to calm me.
The enforcement officer doesn’t really think my home comes under the heading of derelict properties, even if the hinge on the gate is a bit on the loose side. He trusts me to fix the window. He does not believe my herbs qualify as noxious weeds. Still, this visit has upset me. Score: one all.
Of course, I should have been more vigilant. I take my own share of the blame.
How did she set Silent Sam free? Perhaps she used sirloin to lure him away, and he was too blind and befuddled to find his way back to his new home? And unable to make his voice heard. I am filled with black thoughts. Seventy-eight years without a dog, and now I can scarcely cope for a few hours. Perhaps it isn’t worth it to stay in this house.
I am looking for Silent Sam many blocks from home when it happens. The sidewalk has seen better days in this neighbourhood, which is still on the before side of gentrification. The sun has set when I become aware of someone following me. Someone large and fast. This would never happen if Silent Sam were there. Mrs. Sybil Sharpe will get her way if some mugger kills me.
He is even with me now, walking fast, his head down. Will he push me into a bush? Dump me into the alley ahead?
I have nothing to lose by standing my ground.
“You’ll find I put up a pretty good fight,” I say. “For that I thank the weight training.”
“What?” It’s just a boy, this mugger, still rangy, hands and feet waiting for his body to grow to meet them. He has so many rings in his face. But he doesn’t seem any happier to see me than I am to see him. Maybe it’s my Antichrist look.
“What?” he says again.
“I’m searching for my dog,” I say. “He’s playfully hiding behind some of those bushes and I need to get him to the vet quickly because I believe he has rabies.”
This seems to startle the boy, and he drops a can. It rattles and rolls along the sidewalk, running out of energy near my foot. I am flexible enough to bend and pick up.
“Just leave it,” he says.
By this time, he is shuffling from foot to foot. He is exhaling guilt. I remember the look well from my years in the classroom. He’s done something. I look behind him. Sure enough.
The swirl of a black design.
“What dog are you looking for? The same one you had in the paint store?”
The paint store? Of course, that’s where I’ve seen him before. Picking out the tools of his trade. “Yes. The same one.”
“I saw him two streets over. He looked lost.”
I find Sam where the graffiti boy suggests he might be. If I don’t die of joy at the moment, perhaps I’ll live forever.
Sam noses me awake even before the fire engines arrive. My little house is full of smoke. I am choking and hacking as we hurtle through the front door into the street. The neighbours begin to spill from their townhouses for the festival of sound and light.
I am having quite a bit of trouble breathing. The paramedics have oxygen for me. They wish to take me to the emergency ward. I have had more than enough trips in speeding ambulances. I am not willing to leave my dog. “That will kill me,” I say. “My estate will sue you, seriously.”
They are polite but firm. Like all the control officers, they are just doing their jobs.
Yes, ambulance. No, dog.
I spot Mrs. Sybil Sharpe, her shining housecoat wrapped around her expansive middle. She is watching the whole procedure from her front doorstep. Behind the mask of the concerned neighbour, I suspect a smirk is lurking. I wonder how she started the fire.
Perhaps I am just imagining the hiss and slither.
We are at an impasse, the paramedics and I, until one of the firemen whispers he will take Sam until I am home again. It’s against the rules, so it has to be our little secret. There’s something familiar about him. He looks a lot like one of the boys I taught. A Kevin perhaps? Another troublemaker. The right spirit for fighting fires. But I taught so many boys. Who is to say?
A pot left on the stove, the young fireman tells me, when he returns my dog. Lucky the harm was confined to smoke damage. Another couple of minutes and who’s to say.
“Interesting,” I said. “I never touch the stove. Do you think it was a self-cooking pot?”
He gives my hand a pat. “Maybe you need a bit of help around here.” He said. I read the unspoken message. Forgetful. A danger to herself and others.
I smile compliantly. “I am fine on my own. I have just purchased an excellent new alarm system. If I even get hot under the collar, it will sound the alert.” I don’t trouble him with talk of Mrs. Sybil Sharpe, the snake woman, or the side door that never quite locked. I have fixed it now, anyway.
I know what I really need.
“What doesn’t kill us, makes us strong,” I explain to Silent Sam as he gets a nice bit of ground round for a reward. He looks at me as if to say, so what will it be?
It is my best effort ever. Reminiscent of my glory days when I could really toss paint on a canvas. And what a canvas it is. A vast, welcoming field of cream. I use every graffiti symbol I can remember. Probably overdo it a bit with the clouds. The resulting work is full of fury, threats and imagery. It takes me nearly all night, but it is worth it. Who would have realized how all that gardening helped me? The strength of the arms holding the cans of paint, the quick scampering up and down the ladder to scoop up new cans of colour, the ability to arch my body and take advantage of the grand sweep of the wall.
“I call it Joseph’s coat,” I say to Silent Sam. He thumps in approval.
Despite my exhaustion, I feel so much better when I’m finished. I can understand why those boys do it. Euphoria is addictive.
In the morning, I rise late. All I have to do is admire my handiwork. I make myself a wonderful pot of Red Zinger and settle comfortably in the old Muskoka chair to enjoy the sunshine and wait for the fireworks.
Perhaps it is Silent Sam’s thumping tail that draws Mrs. Sybil Sharpe through the patio door. Perhaps she just wants to stare down at my little house and garden and plot her next strategy.
“Good morning,” I call up. “I believe you are right about the violation of the neighbourhood.”
“What are you talking about?” she says.
“Look behind you. I believe there must be a new gang in town.”
She grabs her throat as the full enormity of Joseph’s coat sinks in.
“I see what you mean by
