Dog's Duty

2024-12-01

My husband wants our dog to have a baby. He’s been fixated on it for weeks now, turning the idea over in his mind like he does the remote control. He’s always been that way, obsessing over something until it’s all he can talk about, all he can think about, all he can make me think about.

The dog is a Great Dane, enormous and sleek, with a coat like polished granite. His name is Duke, a name my husband insisted on, because he said it sounded noble. I didn’t argue. You learn not to argue about names after you’ve been married as long as I have. Duke is my husband’s pride and joy, his constant companion. It’s as if they share some secret bond, one that’s stronger than the one between my husband and me.

My husband’s name is Claude. Claude was a banker, once. Now, he’s mostly just here, taking up space, lounging on the sofa with Duke or hovering over the espresso machine like he’s performing a sacred ritual. He says he’s retired, but I suspect he was just eased out of the firm when they realized he wasn’t cut out for the 21st century. Claude never took to the new technology, the smart systems, the algorithms. He preferred paper, the tangible weight of a balance sheet in his hands. Now, he’s always home, filling the house with his presence like an oversized piece of furniture.

He’s fixated on the idea of Duke having a litter, going on about it as if it were the next logical step in the dog’s life. “It’s natural,” he says. “Duke deserves to pass on his genes. He’s a perfect specimen.” Claude speaks as if Duke is more than just a dog, as if he’s something extraordinary, a piece of art that needs to be reproduced. I nod along, thinking of the mess, the complications, the expense. But I’ve learned not to object. Not directly.

Claude has this way of wearing you down. It’s not so much that he’s persuasive, more that he’s persistent. Like a river carving through rock, given enough time, he’ll get what he wants. So when he started talking about finding a mate for Duke, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d be on the phone with breeders, arranging meetings, pretending to care about pedigrees and bloodlines.

Duke, of course, is oblivious to all of this. He lounges around the house, draping himself across the furniture as if he owns the place. He follows Claude everywhere, his eyes always on him, waiting for the next command, the next bit of attention. I used to think it was endearing, the way they were so close. Now, I just find it tiresome. Duke is like a shadow I can’t escape, always there, always demanding something from me—food, water, a walk, a pat on the head.

Claude’s obsession with Duke’s offspring has started to bleed into our conversations, our daily routines. He talks about the future litter as if they’re already here, as if we’ve already added six or seven more mouths to feed, more fur to vacuum up, more chaos to manage. “We’ll need to get a bigger yard,” he says, sipping his espresso. “Maybe even move to the countryside. Somewhere they can run, really stretch their legs.”

I look at him over the rim of my coffee cup, wondering where he thinks we’ll find the money for all of this. It’s not like we’re destitute—I’m the breadwinner now, after all—but we’re not exactly flush with cash either. The financial markets aren’t what they used to be, and my job at the bank is more stressful than ever. The Swiss banking industry isn’t as glamorous as people think. It’s all numbers, all pressure, all the time. I work late into the night, my fingers tapping away at the keyboard, my mind a blur of spreadsheets and financial models.

Claude doesn’t understand any of that. He doesn’t see the strain, the exhaustion. He’s too wrapped up in his world, his dog, his fantasies. I think he believes that if Duke has puppies, it’ll somehow make everything better, bring some kind of joy into our lives that we’ve been missing. But I know better. I know that it’ll just be more work, more responsibility, more things for me to manage while Claude drifts through life, half-awake, half-engaged.

He’s always been like that, ever since I met him. Charming, yes, but lazy. Spoiled. The kind of man who expects the world to fall at his feet because he’s been told he’s special his entire life. And I, like a fool, fell for it. I thought I could change him, mold him into something more, something better. But you can’t change a man like Claude. He is who he is, and now I’m stuck with him, and his dog, and his dreams of a litter of Great Danes frolicking in the yard.

One day, he comes home with a grin on his face, Duke trotting along beside him, as if they’ve just come back from a grand adventure. “I found her,” he says, beaming. “I found the perfect mate for Duke. She’s beautiful, just like him. They’ll have the most amazing puppies, you’ll see.”

I force a smile, trying to muster some enthusiasm. But inside, I’m dreading what comes next. The vet visits, the breeding, the sleepless nights when the puppies arrive, the mess, the noise. Claude doesn’t see any of that. He only sees the fantasy, the idyllic scene of Duke and his mate, romping in the grass, their offspring tumbling after them.

It’s only a matter of time before the deal is sealed, before we’re knee-deep in dog food and puppy pads. I try to talk to him about the practicalities, the costs, the time it will take. But he waves me off, as if I’m worrying about nothing. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll see. We’ll make it work.”

I want to scream at him, to shake him, to make him see reality. But I don’t. I can’t. I just nod and smile, like I always do, and hope that this too will pass, like his other obsessions. But deep down, I know it won’t. This one is different. This one has taken root, and it’s growing, spreading, taking over our lives like a vine creeping up the side of the house.

A few weeks later, the female arrives. She’s everything Claude said she would be—elegant, graceful, with a coat like velvet. Her name is Bella, and she’s as spoiled as Duke, if not more so. She prances around the house like she owns it, and Duke follows her everywhere, his tail wagging, his eyes bright with excitement.

Claude is beside himself with joy. He dotes on them, fusses over them, talks to them as if they’re children, not dogs. He’s happier than I’ve seen him in years, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is just another one of his whims, something that will burn out eventually, leaving us with nothing but the ashes of his dreams.

The breeding happens quickly, without much fanfare. I don’t ask for details, and Claude doesn’t offer any. All I know is that one day, Bella starts to show, her belly swelling, her appetite growing. Claude is ecstatic, planning out the nursery, buying supplies, talking about the future as if it’s already here.

And me? I’m just tired. Tired of the noise, the mess, the endless demands. Tired of Claude’s fantasies, of his refusal to see the world as it is. I go to work, I come home, I do what needs to be done. I don’t have the energy to argue, to fight. I let him have his way because it’s easier than the alternative.

When the puppies finally arrive, they’re as adorable as Claude promised. Tiny, wriggling things with soft fur and big eyes. Claude is over the moon, snapping pictures, cooing at them, playing the proud father. Duke and Bella seem content, too, basking in the attention, their little family complete.

But all I can think about is how much more work this means for me. How much more I’ll have to juggle, between my job, the house, and now, the dogs. Claude doesn’t see that, of course. He just sees the puppies, the joy they bring, the fulfillment of his dream.

I watch him with them, and I can’t help but wonder how long this will last. How long before he gets bored, before the reality of it all sets in, before he starts looking for the next thing to obsess over. And when that happens, what will become of the dogs, the puppies, the mess we’ve made?

But I don’t say any of this. I just smile and nod, like I always do, and hope that one day, Claude will wake up, see the world for what it is, and maybe, just maybe, understand that not all dreams are worth pursuing. But until then, I’ll be here, cleaning up after him, after the dogs, after the mess he’s made of our lives.

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Mon mari veut que notre chien ait des petits. Il est obsédé par cette idée depuis des semaines, la retournant dans sa tête comme il le fait avec la télécommande. Il a toujours été comme ça, se fixant sur quelque chose jusqu’à ce que cela devienne sa seule conversation, sa seule pensée, et, finalement, la mienne aussi.

Le chien est un Dogue Allemand, immense et élégant, avec un pelage lisse comme du granit poli. Il s'appelle Duke, un nom que mon mari a absolument voulu, car il trouvait que cela sonnait noble. Je n'ai pas discuté. On apprend à ne plus discuter des noms après tant d'années de mariage. Duke est la fierté et la joie de mon mari, son compagnon de tous les instants. C’est comme s’ils partageaient un lien secret, plus fort que celui qui nous unit, lui et moi.

Mon mari s’appelle Claude. Claude était banquier, autrefois. Maintenant, il est surtout là, occupant l’espace, affalé sur le canapé avec Duke ou penché sur la machine à expresso comme s’il accomplissait un rituel sacré. Il dit qu’il est à la retraite, mais je soupçonne qu’on l’a gentiment poussé dehors quand ils ont compris qu’il n’était pas fait pour le 21ème siècle. Claude n’a jamais adopté les nouvelles technologies, les systèmes intelligents, les algorithmes. Il préférait le papier, le poids tangible d’un bilan entre ses mains. Maintenant, il est toujours à la maison, remplissant l’espace de sa présence comme un meuble encombrant.

Il est obsédé par l’idée que Duke ait une portée, en parlant comme si c’était l’évolution naturelle de la vie du chien. "C’est naturel," dit-il. "Duke mérite de transmettre ses gènes. C’est un spécimen parfait." Claude parle de Duke comme s’il était plus qu’un simple chien, comme s’il était une œuvre d’art à reproduire. Je fais semblant d’acquiescer, pensant à tout le désordre, les complications, les dépenses. Mais j’ai appris à ne pas m’opposer. Pas directement.

Claude a cette manière de vous user à force de persistance. Ce n’est pas qu’il soit particulièrement persuasif, mais il est tenace. Comme une rivière creusant la roche, il finit toujours par obtenir ce qu’il veut. Alors quand il a commencé à parler de trouver une compagne pour Duke, j’ai su que ce n’était qu’une question de temps avant que je ne sois au téléphone avec des éleveurs, organisant des rendez-vous, feignant de m’intéresser aux pedigrees et aux lignées.

Bien sûr, Duke est totalement inconscient de tout cela. Il traîne dans la maison, s’étalant sur les meubles comme s’il était chez lui. Il suit Claude partout, ses yeux toujours fixés sur lui, attendant le prochain ordre, la prochaine attention. Je trouvais cela attendrissant, autrefois, leur proximité. Maintenant, cela m’ennuie. Duke est comme une ombre dont je ne peux pas me débarrasser, toujours là, toujours à réclamer quelque chose de moi—de la nourriture, de l’eau, une promenade, une caresse.

L’obsession de Claude pour la descendance de Duke a commencé à envahir nos conversations, nos routines quotidiennes. Il parle de la future portée comme si elle existait déjà, comme si nous avions déjà six ou sept bouches de plus à nourrir, plus de poils à aspirer, plus de chaos à gérer. "Il nous faudra un plus grand jardin," dit-il, en sirotant son expresso. "Peut-être même déménager à la campagne. Quelque part où ils pourront courir, vraiment s’ébattre."

Je le regarde par-dessus le bord de ma tasse de café, me demandant où il pense que nous trouverons l’argent pour tout cela. Nous ne sommes pas démunis — c’est moi qui rapporte le pain, après tout — mais nous ne roulons pas sur l’or non plus. Les marchés financiers ne sont plus ce qu’ils étaient, et mon travail à la banque est plus stressant que jamais. L’industrie bancaire suisse n’a rien de glamour. Ce ne sont que des chiffres, de la pression, tout le temps. Je travaille tard dans la nuit, mes doigts martelant le clavier, mon esprit embrumé de tableaux et de modèles financiers.

Claude ne comprend rien à cela. Il ne voit pas la fatigue, l’épuisement. Il est trop absorbé par son monde, son chien, ses fantasmes. Je pense qu’il croit que si Duke a des chiots, cela rendra tout meilleur, apportera une sorte de joie dans nos vies qui nous manque. Mais je sais mieux. Je sais que ce ne sera que plus de travail, plus de responsabilités, plus de choses à gérer pendant que Claude flotte dans la vie, à moitié éveillé, à moitié engagé.

Il a toujours été comme ça, depuis que je l'ai rencontré. Charmant, oui, mais paresseux. Gâté. Le genre d’homme qui s’attend à ce que le monde se plie à ses désirs parce qu’on lui a dit toute sa vie qu’il était spécial. Et moi, comme une idiote, j’y ai cru. J’ai pensé que je pourrais le changer, le façonner en quelque chose de mieux. Mais on ne peut pas changer un homme comme Claude. Il est ce qu’il est, et maintenant je suis coincée avec lui, et son chien, et ses rêves d’une portée de dogues allemands gambadant dans la cour.

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