For my summer hobby this year, I sprawl across my couch, listening to my upstairs neighbours bicker, while their literal demon dog sets fire to their furniture. From the couple’s fights, I gather an intimate portrait of a life with a poorly trained hellhound.
1. Fire extinguishers, while cheaper in bulk, constitute most of its related expenses.
2. It’s a he, not an it.
3. He can’t be brought to the dog park because animals flee at the sight of that monster thing.
4. The girlfriend needs to stop calling him a monster thing. His name is Chili Pepper.
5. Chili Pepper can only go for walks after midnight. (The reasons for this restriction remain unclear—maybe it’s a function of demon biology, or maybe they don’t want nosy neighbours like myself realizing they have a pet hellhound.)
6. 1 a.m. walks are refreshing, and with Chili Pepper providing a soft flame at all times, you don’t even need a flashlight.
7. Since it’s so pleasant, the boyfriend is now in charge of all further dog walking.
A door slams. Though it’s still pre-demon-walking hours, I watch the window, hoping to spot the dog monster in the flesh or on fire. The girlfriend walks out the front gate alone, one hand pulling at a fistful of her hair. Above me, a loud crash precedes some exhausted cursing and the hiss of a fire extinguisher.
•••
I don’t know my neighbours, which I mildly regret because I’d like to invite them for coffee and ask how they ended up with a fiery dog from Hell. I briefly debate options like borrowing a cup of flour or getting really into board games that just happen to require two extra players. Instead, I embrace a lifestyle of eavesdropping and develop a stronger emotional investment in these people’s lives than I maintain for most of my friends.
8. Its tongue is forked. Its tongue is maybe forked? There’s definitely a small slit and slight bifurcation.
9. Chili Pepper is still not an it, and the forked tongue is entirely the girlfriend’s imagination.
10. The boyfriend shouldn’t judge others’ observational skills, considering he picked up a “dog” from a shelter and got all the way home without realizing he had a demon in his back seat.
11. Chili Pepper is basically a dog. You can’t tell the difference unless he’s on fire.
12. Or when you look at his tongue, which is definitely forked.
At this point, I hear little smouldering feet bounding over the floorboards. The conversation devolves into the girlfriend yelping at Chili Pepper to stop licking her with his snake tongue, all while the boyfriend croons on about who’s the goodest boy ever.
•••
“Think they’ll get rid of it?” Chelsea asks me while we sip rosé in her backyard. It’s a rare treasure to have a friend that not only believes you when you say your neighbours are harbouring a hellhound, but also demands you spill every last detail.
“No way. The boyfriend is much too attached. He thinks the thing just needs more chew toys.” I’m not usually on the ditch-your-troublesome-pet side, but situations like demon dogs are why I believe in flexible morals. “Besides, how do you get rid of a demon?”
“Send it back to the shelter? Worst case, she moves out. Doesn’t sound like the girlfriend wanted any part of this.”
That depends on the distinction between hellhounds and dogs.
13. The girlfriend said she wanted a dog.
14. Chili Pepper is not a dog, and only an idiot would think otherwise. Whether the boyfriend is an idiot remains unaddressed.
15. Chili Pepper can play fetch, enjoys belly rubs, and knows two-and-a-half commands.
16. The partially known command is “no demon fire!” and calling it half-learned is beyond generous.
17. The girlfriend uses the wrong tone when talking to Chili Pepper, which is why he doesn’t listen.
18. The boyfriend uses the wrong tone when talking to the girlfriend, which is why he and his demon are going to be real single, real fast.
“God, I hope so,” says Chelsea. “Girl needs to run.”
“That argument was two weeks ago. Girl’s not running.”
Chelsea stares into her drink. “Do you think we should do something about it?”
I know nothing about pet laws or demon laws for that matter. Aside from the occasional unearthly growling, the dog doesn’t bother me, so who am I to interfere? “I don’t think he’s hurting anyone,” I say, which is my best justification for not getting involved.
•••
I stay up, watching the sidewalk out my window for a glimpse of the beast. Around 1 a.m., I observe an eerie orange glow bounding around the street, but any more distinctive features are indistinguishable in the night.
But the next argument confirms Chili Pepper has teeth.
19. When a demon puppy thinks your arm is a chew toy and breaks through the skin, the injury doesn’t scar so much as char and blister.
20. The boyfriend did say Chili Pepper needed more chew toys.
21. The monster dog is not up to date on vaccinations.
22. Hellhounds can’t get rabies.
23. The boyfriend is neither an expert on demons nor rabies. Hellhounds might be able to get rabies.
24. The girlfriend is overreacting.
25. The boyfriend is taking Chili Pepper to the vet. End of discussion.
“He’s never going to take him,” Chelsea says after I fill her in on the latest updates. “Chili-boy obviously looks nothing like a dog, and a vet will know something’s up the minute they walk in.”
“Yeah, but the girlfriend’s not going to drop it.” I’m pretty sure the real reason for taking a demon to the vet is out of hope someone else will deal with it.
“You could call animal control,” Chelsea suggests, as if local services are equipped to handle escaped creatures from Hell.
“And tell them what? My neighbours have a hellhound? He’s not abused, and he’s not even really a nuisance. I don’t have an actual complaint to file.”
“He bit her.”
“Nothing’s stopping her from calling. I’m not going to make it my problem.”
•••
Chelsea wants me to believe it is my problem because I choose to listen to my neighbour’s arguments. With anyone else, I’d call that attitude invasive, but that’s not how Chelsea works.
We met when the bottom of my grocery bag split open in the parking lot, sending potatoes and cracked eggs tumbling across the asphalt. It wasn’t the kind of mishap that demanded bystander intervention, and yet each person who swerved around rolling apples as they hurried to their cars only piled onto the embarrassment of chasing after Dr. Pepper cans.
Chelsea stopped. I wasn’t even in her way, but she pulled over her bicycle and shifted her own groceries around to free up a new bag for me. She knelt with me, packing up runaway jars of tomato sauce.
Chelsea doesn’t differentiate between other people’s problems and her own. It’s what I love about her. But I do. I didn’t ask for paper-thin floorboards. And yes, I could watch TV instead of eavesdropping on my neighbours’ drama, but it’s not like they keep their shouting matches private.
26. Chili Pepper is now over forty pounds and still growing.
27. The boyfriend insists it’ll be fine.
28. It’s untenable. The girlfriend had to tell the grocery store clerk she burned herself cooking spaghetti.
29. It’ll be fine. Chili Pepper is learning. He hasn’t set fire to the couch in over a week.
30. It’s not fine.
31. It will be fine.
32. The girlfriend wants Chili Pepper gone.
33. That is not an option.
34. The girlfriend wants both of them gone.
The argument goes quiet, and I find myself standing on my couch to bring my ears closer to the ceiling. This has minimal effect, so after a few more minutes, I admit defeat and go to bed.
•••
When the shouting matches return, my neighbours no longer constrain their topics to Chili Pepper’s antics. Without the excuse of a creature from Hell, updating Chelsea on their drama starts feeling intrusive. I do it anyway.
35. The girlfriend quit her job to move to this middle-of-nowhere town with the boyfriend.
36. The boyfriend doesn’t see the issue. He can take care of her until she finds a new place to work.
37. She can’t find a job because she’s busy watching a pet she didn’t ask for.
38. Chili Pepper just needs a little more training. Then he can go unsupervised without any accidents. For context, accidents refer to small house fires.
39. The girlfriend’s social life has been reduced to holding conversations with a hellhound.
40. The girlfriend is free to leave.
41. The girlfriend has nowhere else to go.
“You need to invite her over. Offer some coffee,” says Chelsea. “She needs a friend, and I have a whole book of questions for you to ask about that dog. Stop making excuses.”
•••
I buy fancy coffee beans and a second mug. These sit on my counter, unused. Chili Pepper prowls above, announcing himself with a deepened growl that makes my bones itch.
There’s always been a part of me that doesn’t believe our neighbour’s dog is actually a beast from Hell. Because what do you do with that information besides snoop on the couple’s arguments? If the demons are at our doorsteps, or already in our homes, I can’t stop them. I’m not even sure I can muster the courage to invite a stranger in for coffee.
So the logical half of me says this is all a misunderstanding or else an elaborate joke. But I still hear those growls, which sure don’t sound like any dog I know.
42. It was one sneeze. The girlfriend overreacted.
43. If the boyfriend hadn’t disabled the fire alarms, they would have noticed before it got out of hand.
44. The boyfriend could have handled it without calling the fire department.
45. The girlfriend wasn’t about to test that.
46. If the boyfriend hadn’t had the sense to hide Chili Pepper, the fire department might have confiscated him.
47. The girlfriend would consider that a good outcome.
48. The girlfriend needs to promise not to invite anyone else into their home without warning the boyfriend.
49. The girlfriend is not going to wait for permission to call emergency services.
50. The girlfriend better not just walk out that door.
I stand partially in the hallway, trying to look like I’m about to go somewhere and not like I’m awkwardly waiting to spring on my unsuspecting neighbour. When the girlfriend walks by, I wave her down, my mind attempting to script a casual conversation that does not mention hellhounds.
“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I ran out of flour trying to make bread. Could I borrow a cup? Also, I got this board game, and I need someone to play it with. You collect cards with birds. Normal birds that eat worms and berries and don’t set things on fire.”
She stares at me.
I try again. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love that,” she says, and I invite her inside.
Above us, Chili Pepper yowls a long, piercing cry. With my neighbour sitting across from me, those slim floorboards do not feel like the impassable barrier I’d pretended they were. She is real. Maybe hellhounds are too. And all I can do about it is pour a mug of coffee and listen. But I manage without spilling a drop.
