Blondie

Henry was eight years old when he figured out he could time travel.

It wasn’t something he could explain very well, although he’d tried to his Mum a few times. At least Henry didn’t think he could explain it very well, because his Mum kept calling the police and saying he was kidnapped, which he clearly wasn’t. The best explanation he’d come up with, Henry thought, was that it was kind of like when you were in your bedroom and you closed your eyes and walked around while you remembered where everything was so you didn’t trip over. Except instead of thinking about where he was in his room he thought about where he was in time, and then he just sort of went where he wanted. That was how it felt to Henry.

It didn’t make a lot of sense but he’d been told puberty was like that.

So far he’d been on five time trips, six if you counted accidentally going back to the start of PE one Thursday and having to play dodgeball again. He’d gone to watch them sign the Declaration of Independence, but hadn’t been allowed in by stuffy men in waistcoats. He’d gone back to when Disneyland first opened and got in by climbing over a fence, but the lines had been quite long and the bubblers hadn’t worked. He’d been to ancient Rome, but that had smelled bad and Henry was pretty sure someone had tried to sell him into slavery. Then he’d tried Egypt, back when they were building the pyramids, but he’d gotten made a slave again and had had to explain to his Mum why he’d come home in shackles.

He’d told his History teacher Mr Johnston all about it the next morning. At first Mr Johnston had seemed interested, but afterwards Henry had to go see the school psychologer. Henry didn’t understand psychologers. They all wanted to watch him draw things and ask questions about his Dad. He didn’t know why. His Dad was completely normal.

Henry’s Dad didn’t live with his Mum, but instead lived in an apartment that Henry got to visit for three hours every fortnight. It wasn’t as big as his Mum’s house and Henry didn’t have his own room, but he liked it anyway because his Dad was there and so were all the dogs. Henry’s Dad bred dogs in the basement, though Henry had to keep this secret because his Dad’s landlord apparently didn’t like dogs being inside. Henry sort of understood this, since the dogs were smelly and pooed a lot, but Henry’s Dad said it was because his landlord was mean and a “joo”. Henry had never seen a joo, but his Dad talked a lot about them. He said they were everywhere and weaselly-looking, which made Henry wonder how he’d never seen one.

Henry’s Mum didn’t like his Dad, though he thought his Dad still liked his Mum. Henry had once heard his Mum call his Dad a “white soup-premy-cyst” on the phone, which probably wasn’t a nice thing to call someone because Henry knew a cyst was a sore you sometimes get on your bottom. Henry’s Dad, meanwhile, called Henry’s Mum a “traitor” and talk about how she was going to come back. Henry would just stay quiet and nod when he said this, because that was the polite thing to do when a grown‑up was talking.

Talking was one of Henry’s Dad’s favourite hobbies. He loved talking about Henry’s Mum, and about joos, and about white heritage and white power, which Henry was pretty sure were brands of laundry detergent. He often told Henry to “stand up straight” and “be proud”, which Henry tried to do and which must have been good advice because he was almost nine now and one of the tallest people in class. Most of all though, Henry’s Dad loved to talk about someone named Hitler, whose poster and flag Henry’s Dad had on his wall. Hitler had been a “great man”, according to Henry’s Dad, and had had “the right idea”, though Henry wasn’t sure exactly what about. Regardless, his Dad thought Hitler was pretty fantastic.

“Hitler bred dogs,” his Dad told him one day when they were in the basement with some pups, “German Shepherds. Beautiful, noble, pureblood creatures – loyal to the end. Not like cats. Lazy, selfish scum. Sleep around all day, waiting to be fed.” Henry agreed – Snooker, his Mum’s cat, spent lots of time laying down.

“Hitler had a beautiful dog,” his Dad continued, lifting one of the pups, “It was his best friend. Blondie.” He stared wistfully at the basement’s concrete walls. “Magnificent animal. What I wouldn’t give to have that dog. Can you imagine?” He held out his hand as if announcing. “‘The Furher’s Shepherds’. Pure Aryan companions for the pure Aryan race. They’d be worth a fortune.” He lowered his hand, shaking his head.

“What happened to it?” Henry asked. His Dad wiped poo off one of the dogs with a tea-towel.

“Poisoned,” his father answered, “By enemy agents. Just to break Hitler’s will. Then the joos told everyone that Hitler did it himself so they’d think he was evil.”

“That’s horrible,” sniffed Henry.

“Yeah it is,” said his Dad. He shook his head. “That’s what joos do to people.”

*

All that night, Henry couldn’t stop thinking about poor Blondie. He’d had food poisoning once from a 7-11 ham and cheese sandwich and he’d spent the whole day throwing up. It’d been awful. Henry couldn’t imagine how horrible it must have been to throw up so much that you died. He just couldn’t stop imagining it. Maybe it was because he was blond and the dog was Blondie.

After about an hour of not being able to sleep, there was nothing else for it.

Henry snuck downstairs, quietly as he could. A bottle of wine sat on the living room table and there was snoring coming from in front of the TV, so Henry knew he could safely open the fridge and his Mum wouldn’t notice. He pulled a bag of sausages down from the highest shelf and stowed them in his schoolbag, along with some band-aids, his Scouts compass, a muesli bar, some rope for a lead, and a plastic bag in case he had to pick up any dog business.

Then he sat in his bedroom, closed his eyes and thought very hard of Blondie.

When he opened his eyes, Henry found himself looking at a concrete wall like the one in his Dad’s basement. He was sitting on a brown rug between a dining table and chairs, a small bedside table with a lamp, and a square-end single bed with a white comforter and mattress.

On top of this lay a dog.

The German Shepherd pricked up its ears at his arrival, turning its long face to look at him with a perplexed expression.

“Blondie,” Henry whispered. The dog tilted its head. Henry quickly glanced around the small concrete room to make sure they were alone, then slowly reached into his backpack.

“Sausage,” he whispered, then remembered Blondie only spoke German, “Sausage‑schnitzel.” He carefully held up the start of the sausage chain in front of the dog’s nose, and Blondie leaned in for a sniff. It licked its lips and let out a small moan.

“Sausage-schnitzel,” Henry repeated and moved the tip closer. Blondie leant forward and Henry let the sausages go as the dog snarfled down the first one, then continued hucking down the rest like an incredibly long piece of spaghetti. “Good girl.” He stroked her ears. “Good dog.”

“Was ist das?” a voice shouted, and Henry jumped. He spun to see a man with black hair and very itchy‑looking white pyjamas gawking at him from the doorway. It took Henry a moment to recognise him.

“Mister Hitler?”

The man with the funny moustache’s eyes bulged.

“Spion!” he roared, and Henry saw a bit of spit go flying, “Feind! Eindringling!”

Henry felt worried. This was definitely the man from Dad’s poster, but he didn’t seem nice at all – in fact he seemed really angry. Henry didn’t understand what he was saying, which was a common problem when he went time travelling, but it didn’t sound very friendly.

“Wachen! Erfasse das kind!”

Henry moved quickly.

“Hold on Blondie!” he cried and hugged the dog (who was still focused on the sausages) tight around the chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in Blondie’s fur, thinking really, really hard – and suddenly the shouting stopped.

Henry opened his eyes and looked around. He was no longer inside and it wasn’t night‑time. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief and stroked the German Shepherd’s fur. “Good girl Blondie,” he mumbled, “Good dog.”

He looked around at the grass and trees, recognising the oval across the road from his Dad’s house. Well that made sense. He’d wanted to show Dad Blondie. He thought he’d be impressed.

Henry scratched Blondie behind her ears a bit, then looped the rope around her collar while she was still focused on the sausages. He didn’t know the German word for “walk” but when he got to his feet Blondie rose obediently, obviously well trained. He crossed the street carefully, looking twice both ways for cars, and rang the bell for his Dad’s apartment.

“Henry?” His Dad answered the door looking like he’d just woken up. “What’re you doing here?” He looked down at the German Shepherd. “Whose dog is that?”

“It’s Hitler’s dog,” Henry said, excited, “It’s Blondie.”

His Dad eyed the dog sceptically. “Sure.”

“I thought she could stay with you,” suggested Henry.

“Don’t think I’ve got space,” his Dad grumbled. Then he frowned. “Now that you mention it though, she does look awfully familiar.” He held open the door, and Henry led Blondie in. “Where’d you find her?”

“Um…” Henry hesitated. He hadn’t told his Dad about his time travelling yet, and he didn’t want to get in trouble for stealing. Especially from Mr Hitler. “Um. Just walking around.”

“She’s a beautiful dog,” Henry’s Dad mused, moving to shut the door.

*

Henry didn’t think his Dad had believed him when he said the dog was Blondie but he’d agreed to look after her anyway. Henry’s Mum came by to pick him up and he told her all about it on the car ride home, and then on Monday he had to see another psychologer. But it turned out Henry’s Dad had been curious, and after conferring with some of his friends who also liked Hitler they’d all decided the resemblance was uncanny. Then one of them had known a guy who’d known a guy who’d got an old lock of Blondie’s hair off the Internet, and then just for fun they’d sent the two for testing.

“And it’s a match,” Henry’s Dad gushed over the phone, “Actual 100%. It’s the real goddamn Blondie. It’s Hitler’s-” he swore and Henry was careful not to listen, “-dog.”

Henry sat in the kitchen with the phone to his ear, listening to his Dad explain how amazing it was, how he couldn’t believe it, and how Blondie must have been cry-oh-ben-icky frozen. Henry didn’t know what cry-oh-ben-icky meant, but he was excited because his Dad was excited.

His Dad was going to be on TV apparently. He and a bunch of his friends were taking Blondie on a talkshow, and apparently this could be really life-changing for them and really big for the movement.

“Will I still get to see you this weekend?” asked Henry. There was a small silence. Then his Dad explained that that wouldn’t be possible – not for a little while. This stuff with Blondie was very, very important. Important not just to him, but to the future of the Aryan race.

Henry got off the phone feeling a bit sad, but eventually he was okay. His Dad sounded busy. Henry didn’t need to see him this weekend. He’d been going to show him how he could time travel, but that was fine - he’d just keep going by himself.

What his Dad was doing must be more special.

Previous
Previous

Assisted Living

Next
Next

Dogged