One who raises dogs

“From my experience,” the tall, sturdy man picked up a glass, began wiping away invisible smudges with a meticulousness that seemed out of place with his rough hands, “if they can still bark, it usually means they haven’t been beaten hard enough.”

“Do you do this to all your dogs?”

“No, only the ones that don’t listen.”

The man continued to clean the glass, which to me showed not a speck of stain, without lifting his head. The glass felt improbably small in his hands.

“Where did you learn all this?” I couldn’t help asking, though I immediately found it inappropriate as I hurried to add, “I mean, all of it.”

I waved my hand in the air, hoping this gesture—vague as could be—might capture something I couldn’t quite name.

He glanced at me, set the cup back on the corner of the tray, picked up another, and repeated the same motion: “From my mother. She was a master with dogs. Maybe my father too—I don’t remember. Their dogs were always the most obedient.”

His eyes held a taste of examination, like a farmer sizing up livestock. Assessing, selecting, taking away. Perhaps to pens, perhaps to slaughter, all depending on the master’s needs—or , mood.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to stay here any longer.

“My mother is coming over today,” he said. “ You want to stay and meet her? She knows more than I do. She likes tea.”

“...Not right now. I have things to do later. Thank you for the invitation. Please give my regards to your mother.” My parched throat demanded moisture, and I suppressed the urge to swallow.

“Alright.” He nodded, saying nothing more.

I thanked him again, moving toward the door with quiet steps, careful not to walk too quickly. Dogs love chasing things, especially wild ones.

Every few steps, I’d glance back over my shoulder with a quiet turn of my head. Why, I couldn’t say.

He never looked up, focused solely on his task—wiping one glass after another. The glasses spun in his hands, eventually lined up submissively on the tray, gleaming like new.