Bag of Birds
...first to need a dog for that, we get that pretty often around here. If you want one that’ll last, people like you can manage to get a new one. Who is it, if you don’t mind my asking. I can pick out the perfect dog for them, that’s what’s important here, finding the right match.” In Mr. Gleeson’s mind, George sprang a thin mustache over his lip, his hair became pulled back, forced into a helmet. His denim shirt was ripped off, replaced with a patterned suit. “It’s her dog. She needs…” “Companionship dog, of course. If you don’t mind, how much does your mother weigh, Mrs…” “Gleeson. I don’t know, probably a hundred and sixty.” “A bigger girl, huh? Well I needed to ask because, you always have to go a little lower for the, uh, for older people. You don’t want to get her a dog that will knock her over. Still, some of these bigger ones are pretty docile. Take a look here at this guy over here.” “A bassett hound? You can’t be serious, if there were anything that would make Mom give up, that would be it. Honey, we can’t get Mom a Bassett hound.” “You think it would be bad, Gail?” “Not exactly the message we want to send to her. Hurry up with it all or something like that.” George was used to this conversation. He’d always suggest a Bassett hound right off the bat with the dying ones. He always figured it would be a good dog to die with. But everybody wanted a Jack Russell. They came in here with leashes, like they’re picking up a can of peaches or something. “Honey I think we should go with that one, the little one over there. That one would be good for Mom.” “If I may, you don’t want to give her a mutt. She’ll know you came here and picked her up a stray, now if you get a breed dog, you can tell her that a friend moved, couldn’t keep the dog, needed to get rid of it, perfectly good dog, see, but you thought of her, and now you’ve got yourself a real gift on your hands. Now this dog here…” He went on like this, showing them the classic dogs. At some point he left the room to grab a file, they had files on all of them, you know, as he was returning with the vitals on a certain collie mix, he overheard the man. “Is this guy serious, he’s really selling these dogs. For chrissakes, we just need a simple dog, lets just look at the classifieds like I said, honey…” “We kill them, you know.” George had a bastard’s smile on his face. “Can’t keep anything forever.” He’d had enough of these people. They didn’t know dogs. They were getting a young collie for an old woman. That one had called him this guy. “Sooner or later, you gotta cut the line. Just sign here and you’ll be on your way.” That ought to have shown them. Nobody got away with talking about George Kurst. “Right back there we do it. You want your collie now, or do you want to wait a little longer?” They left without the dog. Cambell didn’t talk much. There was some kind of power that sat there, in not having to talk too much. And George could never tell if it was because Cambell knew something he didn’t or if it was just a move to make it seem that way, being quiet like that. But they could sit there for hours, not doing much of anything in the way of work, and George had to start every godda...