Bark Twain

Running my hands through his shallow banks of fur, the smooth glide of my hand is interrupted by the rough patches of corruption. Bark Twain's coat is light grey with Rorschach patterns of white. Now his flesh is bare, cracked, and bleeding on patches of bacteria infested skin. As I gently caress his head, he whimpers a soft whine.

"I'm sorry Twain. Not too much longer buddy. I promise it'll get better." My best friend, a 10 year old pit bull. My ex-husband and I got him when he was a puppy. He was such a wild pup. Only ever taking a break from running to eat, drink, and sleep. Now, I'm holding his head while he's on the veterinarian's table, just trying to keep him calm as the Vet sticks an I.V. into his leg. I smile and scratch Twain behind his left ear. “I promise buddy, you’ll feel better after this. 

With that, the Vet pushes the plunger of the syringe of clear liquid, pushing it through Twain’s veins. Within a few minutes I watch Twain’s big brown eyes start to flutter and close. The Vet looks at me and tells me with a slight nod. “Mr. Ebbs, that you for being in here, but would you now mind going into the waiting room. I’ll grab you as soon as I am done.” I stare into her cold blue eyes as I lose myself in memories of my dear puppy. With a harsh tone she says. “Mr. Ebbs.”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’ll go to the waiting room.” As I turn my back on my truest companion, I have a shiver run down my spine. Trudging through pain and guilt, I push open the door to the hallway just before the waiting room. As I walk down the off-white walls with murals of dogs, cats, birds, mice, and turtles, I can’t shake the impending feeling of dread. I reach the door to the waiting room and fling it open. I stomp to a chair and slump down into the wooden chair. I rest my head in my hand. It smells like Twain. I start to silently sob as a tidal wave of times long past drowns me. 

When we first got him, my now ex-husband and I were just married. Young and dumb. He was the runt of the litter. So small I held him in one hand the first time I met him. Such a tiny thing. The lady who sold him to us told us that he would have more health issues than if we got one of the other dogs. She tried and tried to get us to get one of the other puppies. I’m not too sure when she realized that we were already in love with the little pitty. We took him home that day. With our eight week old dog, my husband and I got in the car and drove the hour drive back home, bouncing names off each other. We spewed out everything that came to mind. Spot, Orion, Neo, Luke, Woofgang Puck. But when I said Bark Twain, he tried a little puppy howl. He chose his name. We respected that.

Now, my little pup is all grown up, all too fast. I remember the hell of house breaking him. How he always peed in the same corner and pooped in front of the bathroom. I stepped in his duty more times than I could count. I could never be mad at him though. I’d find him shivering under the table, scared I’d yell. Such a delicate thing. I’d just put him outside in the yard and clean up. He’d run for hours without stopping unless he tripped himself. Even then, he’d wipe out, get on his paws, and just keep sprinting around the yard. I remember when he would try to eat when he was excited. He’d try to put his whole face into his bowl while his whole body was wagging with his tail, sending food everywhere. Or when we’d go on walks, he’d try to run away from skipping leaves. The only issue was that he was on a leash, so he’d try to take us with him as he ran from the scariest of leaves. 

I let out a small chuckle while tears still hit my hand. I think of all the times we couldn’t go on walks because it was raining too hard. All the times I left him home when I was at work or out with friends. All the times I didn’t let him hop onto my bed to sleep next to me. I start to question if I was a good owner to him. If I was a good friend. My thoughts are broken by the same hoarse voice that dismissed me what felt only moments ago. 

“Mr. Ebbs,” She frees a slight sigh. “Bark Twain was affected by Actinomycosis. It is a bacterial infection. The aforementioned bacteria resides naturally in dogs mouths. However, if the bacteria penetrates their skin or gets into their airway or body cavities, it can lead to an infection. We have some tests running, but most likely I’m just going to suggest a treatment of Penicillin. It’ll only be a little longer while we wait on the rest of the cultures.” 

I explode out of the chair. “That’s amazing news. Thank you. Do you mind if I make a call?”

With her same tone she states. “Only if you go outside.” I nod in agreement as I rush out. I unsheathe my phone from my pocket and call my ex-husband. It rings once...Twice...Thrice…

A soft, sweet voice answers. “Hello?”

“Marv, it’s Jerry.”

“Oh, hey Jer. What’s the occasion?” He asks with a whiff of sarcasm. 

“Bark Twain is sick, I brought him to the vet.”

With a total shift in his voice to dead seriousness he questions. “What?”

“Marv, he should be fine. It’s an infection and they are going to give him antibiotics. We are just waiting on some tests to get finished. After we’re done here I’m going to take him home so he can rest up. It’s been a long day for the little scamp.” I hesitate, I want to ask the question but I don’t want the answer.

“Well, that’s very good. Thanks for telling me Jer. Have a…”

“WAIT!” I exclaim. “Do you want to come to my place and see him? I think he’d like to see you again.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence is unbearable. Why isn’t he talking? Why did I even ask? Damn me and my stupid ideas. Why did I even call him? My train of thought is derailed by a sigh. “You know, I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

“Alright.” A smile grows on my face. “I’ll call you when we are out of here.”