Theodore's Pills
Part One: Thunder Bay, Ontario
Ruth's therapist said try "somatic positioning" so now Bradley was in her apartment taking pictures while she stood there holding a wet dog.
"Think architecture," Bradley said. Twenty-six, MFA from York, kept saying "liminal" like it meant something.
"I look like a bus shelter."
Theodore—her sister Helen's dog—smelled like something died in his fur. He'd rolled in whatever was rotting behind the Tim Hortons dumpster. Probably that raccoon from last week but Ruth wasn't investigating.
Bradley shot film because digital was "too immediate." Ruth in her Queen's sweatshirt from 1978 that said ENGINEERS DO IT WITH PRECISION, which had been funny once. Holding an eleven-year-old Havanese with cataracts and digestive issues.
"Don't smile," Bradley said.
"Wasn't."
Helen died September 14th. Left the dog, her ashes in a Cool Whip container (pre-divided into smaller portions in sandwich bags like she was dealing drugs), and a Post-it: "Theodore needs pills twice daily. Hide in cheese. The cheap stuff. He's not fancy. Don't let this get weird. Too late probably."
The ashes lived by the coffee maker. Every morning: Keurig, Theodore's heart medication in a piece of No Name marble cheese, telling Helen that the woman in 4B was definitely sleeping with the superintendent.
Marcus from across the hall knocked after Bradley left. Seventy-one, widowed two years, kept bringing food like grief was scurvy and casseroles were vitamin C.
"Shepherd's pie but with yams," he said.
"Why yams?"
"Potatoes felt depressing."
They ate from the dish. Theodore between them, drooling orange.
"That kid thinks I'm art," Ruth said.
"That kid photographed my recycling for three hours last month. Called it 'late stage something.'"
"What?"
"Stopped listening."
Theodore farted. The smell made them both move to opposite ends of the couch.
"Jesus," Marcus said.
"That's the cheese."
Part Two: Oaxaca
Gallery in Oaxaca wanted the photos. Email said "North American grief practices."
Ruth flew down. Theodore in a carrier ($380 plus $150 "pet comfort fee" which was bullshit), Helen in her carry-on because you can't check human remains without paperwork Ruth didn't have.
Lucia the curator was twenty-eight and had cheekbones that could cut glass. Spoke English like it hurt her mouth.
"The tenderness. No apology. Very political."
"It's my dead sister's dog."
"Yes. Exactly. The personal as resistance."
Ruth let it go. People needed meaning like Theodore needed his 5 PM walk—desperately, inevitably.
Opening: mezcal in plastic cups that split if you held them wrong. Someone on accordion playing "Bésame Mucho" over and over.
A man stared at the bathtub photo for so long Ruth wondered if he'd had a stroke.
"The disappeared," he finally said.
"Fleas," Ruth said.
"Metaphor."
"Actual fleas."
He bought three prints for his foundation that did something with something. Ruth forgot immediately.
Mexico City woman wanted the series for her gallery. "Intimacy as decolonial practice."
"It's a dog," Ruth said.
"Never just a dog," the woman said, which sounded profound until you thought about it.
Hotel: gave Theodore his pills in local cheese that cost nothing and worked fine. He threw up immediately. Switched back to Kraft singles from the Walmart.
FaceTimed Marcus at midnight his time.
"They think I'm political," she said.
"You voted Conservative in '88."
"Once. For the GST thing."
"Still."
Theodore snoring, sounded like a drain backing up.
Morning: bought tamales from a woman who'd been there since 6 AM. Gave one to Theodore though corn would destroy him later. Everything destroyed something eventually.
Local photographer asked for a photo.
"Why?"
"Para recordar." Thought about it. "For evidence we were here."
Let him. Theodore had green sauce on his whole face. Helen in Ruth's purse between Tums and expired coupons for Swiss Chalet.
"You hold him like he'll disappear," photographer said.
"Yeah."
"But not today."
"Not today."
Though honestly he was eleven and had that smell old dogs get. Today, tomorrow, soon.
Thunder Bay again
Bradley wanted weekly photos. "Longitudinal study."
"Of what?"
"Yes."
Let him come Thursdays. Theodore learned where to stand. The sweatshirt grew holes she didn't fix.
Marcus brought food. Weirder each week. Mac and cheese pie. Cabbage roll lasagna. Once just a bucket of KFC but arranged fancy on a plate.
One Thursday Bradley photographed them with Helen on the table.
"This is insane," Marcus said.
"Yeah."
Photo ended up in The Walrus, caption about "radical care in late capitalism." Ruth didn't read it. Fifty dollars for the photo rights. Bought Theodore the good dog food that he wouldn't eat.
Theodore died March 3rd, 2:47 AM. Ruth knew the exact time because she'd been awake since midnight listening to him breathe wrong. Stroke probably. Found him in his box of Helen's old towels. Looked like he was sleeping except for the stillness that meant he wasn't.
Cremated. Divided ashes. Gave half to Marcus in a Ziploc.
"Getting weird now," Marcus said.
"Helen said not to."
"Failed."
Laughed because what else.
Bradley wanted to photograph the ashes. Ruth said fuck off but nicer.
Kept one photo: tub, her and Theodore, water everywhere.
Whatever.
