Norman's Neighborhood

Four

Wilford Smythe-Bonynge grabbed the collar of his still groveling dog while he had opportunity. He snapped the leash onto the miscreant's collar and pulled sharply on it.
"Come on! We're going home!"  Firmly gripping the loop of the leash, he stomped across the lawn. Realizing that his hat still lay on the grass, he swooped down and seized his now stained headgear. As he set it back in place, tugging it straight, he glanced up and noticed that he was being quietly observed from the deck.

The dark-haired woman, surrounded by a group of wide-eyed children, stood by the open door. Her brow was slightly furrowed as she watched the man and his dog. At that moment, a large orange cat jumped up onto the hood of the sage green SUV parked in the driveway. Hansel immediately growled and charged forward, nearly ripping the leash from his owner's grip. The cat arched its back, hissing and puffing up its tail. Wilford yanked back on the leash, lifting the animal's short forelegs slightly off the ground. Hansel let out one high-pitched "Y-yerp!", turning his head to snap at the offending leash.

Kathy broke her silence. "Sir, you don't seem to be able to control your dog very well. It would be awful if he ran out into the street! Jasper doesn't like dogs."
"What about that big mutt that was just here? Maybe Jasper doesn't recognize him as a dog. Hansel is a pedigreed dachshund," the man informed her pompously, "and he's naturally high-strung."
"Norman isn't our dog, but we know him, and he's a very nice fellow. He happens to be a giant schnauzer, not a mutt!"
"Let's go!" the arrogant little man ordered his disorderly dachshund, and they headed off - the man attempting to give a wide berth to the driveway, where the inflated orange cat still watched contemptuously from his vantage point on the vehicle's hood.

Jasper, ordinarily a mellow feline who spent as much of the time sleeping as he could, had been disturbed by the animus of Hansel toward Norman. As the reluctant dog and his irritable owner skirted around the SUV, the cat arched his back even higher and directed an angry "Khhhtt!" at them.
"You tell 'em, Jazz!" exclaimed Daisy, giggling.
"Sshh!" whispered her mother, giving her a half-stern, half-amused look. In a louder voice, she suggested, "All right, let's go in and have a snack!" Putting a hand on the shoulder of each of her own offspring, she motioned toward the door with a flick of her head. The four other children followed them inside.
**********
"Well, that was nice!" Dena remarked enthusiastically, as the family walked down their driveway to the side gate. Her husband, Mike, was carrying a box and their son Logan followed with a thermal carafe - so Dena unlatched the gate and let them through.
"Too bad David isn't home. He'd be drooling on Lily!" grinned Logan. Lily was the daughter of former neighbors who were visiting their old neighborhood; the Scott family had been invited to join them at a breakfast potluck hosted by the Comstocks, down the street.

Dena slipped around them and darted up the steps to open the screen door, then turned and raised her eyebrows at her tall blond son. "Logan...? Were you the last one out?"
"Oops - sorry!" he apologized sheepishly, realizing that he'd neglected to even shut the back door - let alone lock it.
"At least we were right here in the neighborhood, and Norman's here to protect the place," Mike commented. Then he continued, "Not that he'd be much good! He hasn't even noticed we're back."
"That's strange..." Dena's brow furrowed as she pressed her lips together. "Hand me the carafe and go check upstairs. He was asleep in David's room."
**********
Norman was on his way down the sidewalk, going in the opposite direction of that ridiculous sausage dog. A right turn at the corner, another right at the end of the next block, down half a block, and he'd be near the front of his house. He expected to find his family somewhere close.

It was mid-morning by this time, getting warm, and he was feeling thirsty again. He slowed his pace a little, panting. Three houses away from the corner, a gray squirrel darted in front of him and ran up a sycamore tree. He stopped and cocked his head, staring curiously at it. The cheeky creature clung to a branch and scolded, "Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!"
Norman continued on. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have turned down the opportunity to chase the tiny fluffy-tailed acrobat - but he had a greater mission at the moment.

In front of the two-story house on the corner, a teenage boy was washing an old blue pickup truck. He had soaped it down, and was spraying water on it with a hose. The water was trickling along in the gutter, topped with slightly grayish-tan bubbles of soap residue. Norman moved off the sidewalk to the street side of the gutter, and approached the foamy water cautiously. He took a tentative lick at it and shook his head. It tickled his nose, and didn't taste very good. He thought longingly of his red bowl; the water in it might be sprinkled with dust and contain a few drowned gnats, but it tasted better than this water!

Just as he was about to continue his journey, Norman stepped on something sharp. He winced and let out a little yelp, limping a few steps before sitting down on the sidewalk to lick at his paw. The licking became rhythmic, mesmerizing... Norman's head drooped, his body sagging down slowly. He collapsed in a fuzzy pepper-and-salt heap, and was asleep...
**********
Logan headed upstairs, while Mike and Dena went into the kitchen to deposit their burdens.
"Smells like bacon and stale coffee in here," Mike said, putting the box on the drainboard to the left of the sink.
"Mm-hmm," Dena acknowledged, unscrewing the lid of the carafe. She turned the faucet to "hot" and squirted a little dish soap into the carafe, filled it with water, replaced the lid, and shook the container vigorously. Turning off the faucet, she requested, "Hand me the tray, please."
Mike had opened the box and lifted out a brown glass baking tray, which he handed to his wife.

Just then Logan came quickly down the stairs, announcing, "Norman's not up there! I checked everywhere."
"I'll check around down here," offered Mike, heading to the family room.
"Did you look under the beds?" asked Dena, turning to face her son.
"Yep, all of them," Logan affirmed, leaning against the doorway.
"You know - he does sometimes seem to sleep very deeply. I've wondered if he might have narcolepsy," mused Dena, as she poured the contents of the carafe into the bacon grease-coated tray.
"But - " Logan interjected, " if he's asleep, he still has to be somewhere!"
"True." 

Mike came back into the kitchen, looking perplexed.
"Can't find him anywhere. Did I hear you say something about narcolepsy?"
"Yes. Every once in awhile, he sleeps like the dead - and that could be the cause."
Dena, a vet tech, was well-educated about various canine and feline disorders. This was the first time she'd mentioned her suspicion to her family; she didn't think Norman's possible condition was of great concern. Unless it was a severe case, there wasn't much to be done about it.

"Well, right now we just need to find him. Poor fellow hasn't even had his breakfast! With the door wide open," Mike said, looking pointedly at Logan, "he probably pushed the screen door and went out in the yard."
Logan and Dena agreed, and they all headed outside to search for their big gray dog.
"His water's nearly gone," Logan noticed. "He must be out here. I filled it yesterday."
"Go check the back," his father directed, pointing toward the fence. "I'll check this area." He indicated the small garden area between their house and the hedge that separated their property from Bill and Marguerite's.
Dena headed for the far end of the hedge.