"Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)"

Time to Move Out, Greenwich Village, 1988

He ran straight home after that disaster. His blood was boiling, his thoughts racing. Why would she choose now to shove her way into his life? Everything else was falling apart, and then Momma went and did this to him.

Geez, was everyone trying to ruin his worry-free life? They were doing a bang-up job of it. Dodger turned the block and found the crummy building they now called home.

But when Dodger walked down the steps to their basement hideout, he found strange men moving the furniture to a clunky van outside. "What tha?" He watched Fagin help one of them pick up the mattress and haul it up the stairs. "Gang?"

"We're over here, old chum." Francis beckoned to him from the corner. He, Rita, Einstein, and Tito were squashed up together, staying out of the moving men's way. "Imagine our surprise when Fagin announced we were relocating."

"He's moving us again?" Dodger gaped at their old man. In the little time he saw Fagin, he noticed he had a black eye, bandages hands, and stitches on his face. "What happened to him? Will someone explain what's going on?"

"I'd tell you if I knew." Rita grimaced. "We're just following Fagin."

There wasn't much furniture to move, and while the men were boxing up the canned food and bags of kibble, Fagin sat down with them. "I'm sorry to do this again. I wouldn't if I had another choice," Fagin scratched his head and gulped, "but we can't stay here no more. One of you must've been seen outside."

Dodger's ear drooped. He and Rita exchanged a guilty look. Now, Dodger hadn't been super fond of the basement, but he didn't want to just up and move again. From the looks of it, the rest of the Company felt the same. Still, in half an hour, they were loaded up into Fagin's motor-cart and zooming out of Greenwich Village for good.

In fact, they zoomed out of Manhattan altogether. They drove across streets and up avenues, following the moving van, till they crossed a bridge into the Bronx. Dodger could scarcely believe it. The ugly brick buildings, the trash-littered streets, the cracked pavement—it was all just like he remembered it. And he didn't want to remember it.

"He can't be serious." Dodger looked at his gang in horror. "There must be a better place to live than tha Bronx." None of them responded. Fagin drove on, turning through shortcuts and wide alleys Dodger knew all too well.

He parked the motor-cart outside of a tiny tenant building Dodger couldn't believe wasn't condemned. It was three stories tall, but the top floor looked in danger of falling off. Of course, that was the floor Fagin took them to. Once the movers had brought in the mattress, couch, and boxes, Fagin rushed them inside. "Hurry up, guys. We can't be seen again." Fagin kept looking over his shoulder. He threw nervous smiles at the other tenants, who kept to themselves. They weren't the prettiest neighbors, but at least they didn't look dangerous.

Fagin paid the movers a handful of bills Dodger didn't know he'd had. He threw in a few extra to "not say anything to anyone." When they were gone, Fagin bolted the door behind him and slid to the floor. "Home sweet home, fellas."

The Company took a look around them. It was a cramped one-room apartment, not much nicer than the basement. Rita pawed around the couch, Francis sniffed at a moldy smell in the bathroom, and Tito squeezed into a cupboard. Einstein flopped on the mattress.

Dodger stared at them, slack-jawed. Home sweet home, indeed.

Tensions That Evening, Southwest Bronx, 1988

She watched them all settle in, all except one. Francis and Tito had settled on the couch, Einy was still asleep on the couch, and Fagin had gone out hours ago. He'd pulled down his beanie and zipped up his jacket, looking as unremarkable as he could.

And then there was Dodger. He'd sat by the open window just after they'd arrived, and he hadn't moved since. Rita wondered what he was staring at, or thinking about.

"Dodge?" She prodded his shoulder. "You're pretty quiet."

"Just got a lot on my mind." He didn't budge.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"If I wanted to talk, then I'd talk."

So he was in one of his moods. Wonderful. Rita huffed and walked away, which in the tiny apartment, wasn't very far. She glanced at Francis and Tito, who shrugged their shoulders. At this point, none of them really knew what to do or say.

All she knew was Dodger was absolutely not helping her migraine.

The evening sun was streaming through the open window, illuminating their ugly little apartment. Dodger was still staring at the city. She saw him take a deep breath, then turn around. Rita could've sworn his eyes were wet. "You have something to say now?"

"Yeah, I got something to say." Dodger dug a pair of sunglasses from one of the moving boxes and flipped them onto his muzzle. "I can't live like this anymore. Going from one place to tha next, hauled up like prisoners. We can't go outside, we can't steal nothing, an' why not? Fagin won't tell us. He's never here, anyways." Dodger began pacing in circles, growling. "An' now he wants us to live in tha Bronx? I hate tha Bronx."

"What are you saying?" Rita frowned. "You're done with Fagin?"

"But Fagin took you in." All the commotion had woken Einstein. "He loves us."

"Sure, but I got other folks who love me." Dodger returned to the window. "Until Fagin settles down somewhere else, I'm gonna be at Oliver's place."

Rita snorted. "Who could've guessed that?"

"Got a problem with Oliver now? Geez, you're on a roll."

"Of course not. I love that cat, and I wish him the best, but honestly. He's all you care about nowadays. It's like you can't accept that he chose Jenny over—"

"Quiet, Rita! Don't say another word about Oliver!"

The two dogs started growling at each other. Part of Rita was telling her she was being ridiculous—this was Dodger, after all. He was her best friend, the one who found her on the streets. But the rest of her was thinking how much he'd changed in so little time.

And hey, she was on a roll now. Finally gotten to the crux of the issue.

"Oliver chose Jenny over you, and now you're choosing Oliver over us."

"Are ya kidding? I'd choose tha kid over ya any day." Dodger glared at the Company like they were savage dogs chasing a helpless pup. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

"What, so you're abandoning us?" Tito scowled at him.

"Ya abandoned me, not tha other way around. Everyone abandons me." Dodger's eyes were darting about wildly, his mouth fixed in a snarl. "Sure, I see how it is. Get away from Dodger fast as ya can. Leave him. Ditch him."

"Dodger…" Rita quietly said, "…that's not what we're—"

"Well, I'm done with it, hear me? I'm done." She watched him intently. His eyes were panicked and frightened, but his stance was resolute. And then Dodger spat at her paws. "I quit. I'm out. Check me off tha team roster."

With his black sunglasses on, Dodger marched to the open window and leapt out. He landed on a rusty fire escape. Rita looked out after him and saw Dodger jump down into a dumpster, then onto the sidewalk. He dashed around the block.

He was out of view, out of the gang, maybe out of their lives. She'd half a mind to chase after him, but she knew he wouldn't listen to her. Rita was surprised at herself. A few salty tears had welled up in her eyes. She quickly wiped them away.

"How long till he's back, ya think?" Tito rolled his eyes, plopping back on the couch. "I give him a week, tops. He's all talk." He snickered.

"Dodger has been angry before," Francis muttered, "but never like that."

Rita reached up and pushed the window shut. She heard the lock click in place. "You're wrong, Tito." Before, she thought she knew Dodger inside and out. Now, she couldn't say. "I don't think he's coming back this time."

Late Night Piano Session, East Side Bronx, 1988

He couldn't believe he'd just quit, but he was thrilled he did. It was all over. The Company had been fun before, but everything was so different now. They weren't the dogs they used to be. But he wasn't the same Dodger either.

"Who needs them, anyways?" Dodger splashed his paws in a muddy puddle, wetting his fur. Dodger remembered the day he'd first joined the gang. He'd been starving on the streets when he found Fagin, the man who took him in and gave him a place to sleep and kibble to eat. But that was a long time ago. "I'm better off alone. Always have been, always will be."

And whenever Dodger was feeling lonely, there was a certain place he went. Two long years ago, Dodger had discovered something strange on a Bronx rooftop. Tonight, he splashed through puddles and ran over asphalt, scratching his paws, panting, till he arrived at that familiar brick building. He climbed the rusty fire escape, catching his breath only once, and came out on the rooftop. It was right where he'd left it.

Don't ask him why there was a black grand piano on that rooftop. Dodger had no idea who put it there, but he wasn't complaining. He hopped on the bench, stretched, and pressed his paws to the keys. "Ah, now that's catchy." He grinned.

It'd been ages since he'd played, but tonight, everything came back to him. Guess he was just naturally talented. Music was one of the few things that'd kept him going as he grew up in the cruel world of the Bronx.

Dodger climbed atop the piano, sat with his back to the keys, and played with his tail. It was his preferred method, after all. As he played, he threw back his head and howled to the bright New York skyline, forever lit by a hundred skyscrapers.

"Who needs tha Company?" Dodger chuckled. "I've got New York City Heart."

He played a song or two, but Dodger was growing tired. He'd spend the night here and see Oliver first thing tomorrow. Dodger yawned, stretched again, and curled up on the piano. There he slept, worry-free for the first time in a long time.

End of a Hot July, Upper West Side, 1988

He led her down dark streets and greasy alleyways. The evening was hot, and the sky was filled with dark clouds. It'd be raining in the city before long. Annie followed Duke through a hole in a brick wall, stepping over rubble, and came out in the stockroom of a run-down bar. Broken bottles littered the floor. "Duke?"

"Right here, babe." He was dragging towels and aprons into the corner, making a bed for them. "This is one of my favorite spots in tha city. It's awful cozy." Duke drank from a pool collecting under a barrel. He burped and laid back on the aprons.

"It is nice," she admitted. Annie licked at the pool. She started to feel light-headed after a few drinks. "I don't know why I ever left. Jersey's got nothing on New York."

"Ya went to Jersey? Well, that explains why ya were so upset." Duke gave a wheezy laugh. He made room for her to curl up beside him. "Hey, babe?"

"Yeah?" She nuzzled up against him.

"Ya ever think back to when we were younger?"

Annie chuckled. "All the time. I wasn't so tired back then, and my joints didn't ach." She licked the underside of his muzzle. He had some scars there from his fighting days. "What's got you all nostalgic, Duke?"

"A pal of mine was telling me this story about these two Dalmatians who had," Duke laughed here, "you'll never believe it—a hundred an' one pups. Know what I said to him? I said, Razor, that's insane! Who could handle that many kids?"

Annie said nothing. Her heart was beating faster and faster.

"Just got me thinking, was all… sure would've been nice if we had some."

"We did." Annie was pretty sure she needed another drink. "They're all gone."

"I know, but… I wish one of 'em had lived. Just one." Duke whimpered, his ears drooping. He looked so pitiful that Annie had to embrace him. He gave a weak smile. "There was one, wasn't there? Lasted longer than tha others. He was white an' gray with spots, same as yours." Duke pressed his muzzle to three brown spots on her back.

"He… He ran away one night. I never saw him again." Annie looked away from him. "I'm sure he's dead, too." He couldn't know. He could never know.

"Poor little fella." Duke raised his head, staring at the alley through the hole in the wall. It'd started raining outside. "If I had a son like that, I'd raise him right. Teach him how to fight like a real dog." Duke flashed his fangs and chuckled. "Boy, that's be great."

He could never know. Annie had decided that years ago.

"But hey…" He nibbled at her muzzle, breathing down her neck. "…ya never know what tha future holds." Duke licked her cheek. He whispered in her ear. It was the same words, over and over. "I love ya, babe. I love ya."

Annie was just so tired. "I love you, too." She stared at the rain outside and crawled close enough to feel water droplets on her muzzle. The weather made her feel nostalgic, too.

She thought of the day she and her mother had traveled to Manhattan from the little town of Hicksville, far away on Long Island. She remembered being separated from her mother in the city. She met Duke not long after, and years later, here they were.

Most of all, she thought of her son. She hoped he was happy, wherever he was. Like her, he'd had a tough time growing up. Just like her, he'd been separated from his mother.

Eventually, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Last Snow of Winter, East Side Bronx, 1986

The nameless pup was growing into a nameless dog. He thanked his thievery for the food he ate and his cleverness for the cons he pulled. Why steal a steak yourself when you could trick a naïve puppy into doing it? Sure, the puppy had burst into tears when he ate the whole thing himself, but you didn't survive by being nice.

Tonight, he found himself in a nicer part of town, a place where children played hopscotch on the sidewalk. "No graffiti? No smog? What a joke."

He saw a young couple walking their dog, a little black and white Boston Terrier. They sat down at an outdoor cafe, smiling and holding hands. When their food came, the man began slipping the dog his French fries. The terrier happily ate them.

"No way I'm gonna be a pet like that," he mumbled, glaring at the family. "Don't need no humans. No leash on my neck."

The French fries did make him hungry, so he ran to the nearest alley and began digging through the garbage. The mutt smelled food behind a dumpster. When he looked back there, he found two other mutts guarding a stash of cheeseburgers. They could've been brothers, they looked so similar. They barked until he left alone.

"Burgers are fattening anyways!" he yelled as he stormed off. His stomach grumbled. "Don't need no brother. He'd cramp my style."

He went looking for more food—better food—and came across an abandoned basketball court. Weeds grew out of the cracked concrete. The ground was littered with paper and plastic and, according to his nose, something edible. But before he stepped on the court, a whole gang of dogs appeared, snarling in unison.

"What a bunch of cowards, hiding behind each other's tails." He left the court with his head held high. "Don't need no gang. No company for me."

The mutt spotted a garbage can between two buildings. He crawled in, but he lost his balance and the can tipped over, rolling him down the sidewalk. The garbage can hit metal with a clang, and the mutt yelped. He poked his head out.

He'd struck a fire escape. Well, if there was no food on the ground, maybe he'd find some on a rooftop. He climbed the rusty rungs of the fire escape, coming out on the roof of the building. "Well, well. What do we have here?"

There was something funny on that Bronx roof. It was a large black instrument, almost like a table, only curvy-shaped and with a row of black and white keys.

He'd seen these things before in store windows. It was a piano.

Slowly, carefully, he hopped on the bench and pressed his paw to a key. Plink!

Heh. That sounded cool. He played another Plink! This one was higher, sharper, and when he hit a key at the opposite end, it was louder, deeper. This piano made sounds, but these weren't just any old sounds, not like a car horn or a construction site.

No, no, these sounds were special. This was music.

The young mutt played that piano for nights on end. He wasn't very good at it, but whenever he snuck up on that rooftop to play, he got a little better, night by night and song by song. He'd never had so much fun in his life.

Frigid temperatures gave way to blooming park flowers. Winter was over, and it was springtime in the city. And soon enough, he was so good that he could play sitting with his back to the keyboard and hitting the keys with his tail. It sure impressed the ladies.

Sometimes the girls asked for his name, but he couldn't give them one. He'd never heard one he liked well enough to use. It wasn't his fault. Momma never gave him a name.

He came to the piano whenever he felt alone, which, as it turned out, was a lot of the time. Probably why he got so good at it. Every time he came, he played the night away and fell asleep on his piano, hungry and tired and nameless, but a little less lonely.

No sir, he didn't need an owner, a brother, or a gang. He didn't even need a mother. As long as he had his rooftop piano and a stale sandwich, he was a happy puppy. And after a while, he wasn't a puppy any longer.