A Bite Undone

Mick had always thought of the Navigator as a quiet car, what with the active noise control and all. But right now the SUV was roaring. In the absence of Mia’s bubbly chatter and without any input from Sheryl the road noise was intolerable.

The real issue was the weather strip on the passenger door. Mick couldn’t think of when it went bad, but he was certain that it had. Air leaked into the cabin in a relentless high-pitched whine. The whine, along with the hollow growl of the road beneath the Navigator’s tires was too much to bear.

Mick couldn’t take it anymore. The sounds were too reminiscent of the earlier afternoon. They made his stomach drop and his heart race. His arms tingled, making him readjust his grip on the steering wheel, which suddenly felt like it was too far away. Everything was too far away all of the sudden, because of the noise. The growl and the wail. He wanted a mute button—needed to drown the sounds out before they ripped through his already torn soul.

Anything would be better. Even the fight with Sheryl that was brewing in the silence. As terrible as it was going to be, it had to be better than reliving the moment over and over again. The growl and the wail.

“She’s asleep now. That’s a good sign,” he said, breaking the silence that had grown in the space between the driver and passenger seat.

“It’s the pain medication. It made her drowsy. Of course, she’s sleeping,” Sheryl snapped.

Mick risked a side glance, hoping to catch even the faintest hint of capitulation on Sheryl’s face—something to contradict the finality that laced her tone.

  “That means they’re working right? She’s not in pain, she’s comfortable enough to sleep…”

“Mick!” The sharpness of his name sliced through his train of thought, leaving him flapping in the slip stream screaming past the car window. There was no way to restart the words that might have come out of his mouth before the cut.

Sheryl let out an aggressive huff. He imagined her glaring at him, wrinkling her nose. “You can’t fix this, so don’t even try,” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said in little more than a whisper.

“Yes, you were,” Sheryl corrected. “But you can’t. Nothing can fix this!”

“You’re right. I can’t fix this, but Mia is going to be okay. The doctor said she might not even scar,” he said.

“If it heals properly. He said she would have to leave it completely alone. What 18-month old do you know that can leave anything alone?” she asked.

Mick didn’t know a lot of 18-month olds. Just their Mia. Sheryl was an only child and Mick’s brother lived halfway across the country. He watched the kids grow up via poorly-kept weekly facetime chats. He didn’t dare point that out thought. Not now, anyway.

“We can help her,” he suggested.

“How? I have to work! I have meetings. Can you watch her 24-7?” she said.

“We could put Hera’s old cone on her,” he said without thinking. By the time he realized, it was too late. He couldn’t reel the words back into his brain and file them into the never say out loud file where they belonged.

Not wanting to see Sheryl’s reaction he kept his gaze straight, focusing very hard on the dot in the horizon that would grow into their home as the Navigator continued its relentless, shrieking progress. At least the wail wasn’t so loud anymore. Whether it was that they weren’t on the highway anymore or because Sheryl was talking again, he didn’t know. Probably both.

“Are you serious right now?” She asked.

“As a dog bite,” he said, putting him firmly in the insane category. These were bad jokes. Even under normal circumstances they belonged in the off-limits category, but now? Mick had no idea what was wrong with him.

To make matters worse, Mick realized he was smiling. It wasn’t a placating smirk, either. It was a full-on, teeth bared, eyes squinting smile.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sheryl asked. She was using her indignant voice. The one that made Mick feel like he was wounding her. He probably was.

She would make him pay for it.

“Sher, honey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s coming out of my mouth right now. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I… I have no idea what to do right now. I don’t know how to cope,” he said, making certain his lips were straight and his eyes were sober.

The garage door moaned as the chain stretched tight to granted them entrance. Mick pulled the Navigator into the dimly lit garage, exchanging the blood-red sunset for dusty, artificial yellow. He cut the engine. The silence was stifling. A sweet, sleepy sigh wafted up from the back seat as Mia shifted in her car seat, oblivious.

Mick turned to face Sheryl. Her eyes were angry black stones swimming in a sea of salty tears. He could see the pain beneath the rage. He knew the source, he felt it just as acutely. Mia was his daughter too. The images of her messy blond hair drenched in blood, the look of absolute betrayal—the zig-zag of stitches down her cheek—those things would be etched into his nightmares forever. It just wasn’t coming out the same as it was for Sheryl.

“Sher, we’ve got to get through this togeth—"

“Get rid of her,” she snaped.

Mick blinked. A tear tumbled from the corner of Sheryl’s left eye, leaving a damp trail. He wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but he was paralyzed.

“What?” He asked.

He heard her, but he couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t believe it.

“We need to get rid of Hera. You need to get rid of her,” she said. She didn’t yell it or scream at him. Her voice was low and calm. Terrifyingly calm.

“I can’t do that! You don’t just get rid of a dog. They’re family—Hera’s family!” He objected.

“She can’t stay here. It’s not safe,” Sheryl said. The words poured out quickly, as if she were trying to protect herself with them.

“Hera is safe. It was an accident. She was trapped, pinned—”

“What if it happens again?” She wailed, tears now streaming.

Mia stirred with a loud sob.

“Momma!”

Mick fumbled with his buckle. In the amount of time it took him to get himself unclipped, Sheryl was up and around the back of the car, opening the door and rescuing Mia from the carseat.

“It’s okay baby. Mommy’s here. I got you. Let’s go inside and get cozy,” she cooed.

Mick was grateful for the break in the conversation. Sheryl just needed to cool off. They could talk about it rationally later, when she had a chance to see that Mia was fine. After she visited Hera and remembered that she was a good dog…

Sheryl collected Mia in her arms, delicately cradling her tousled curls with a gentle hand. Mick had to glance down when Mia spun around to look at him. The dark stitches marred her soft, porcelain skin and made it look like she was scowling on one side.

“Daddy,” she whimpered.

“Hey sweetness!” Mick forced his gaze up and forced a warm smile.

“Get rid of her. Tonight. Or I will,” Sheryl said before rushing Mia into the house.

The garage light shut off automatically. Mick pulled the keys from the ignition and shoved them into his pocket. He stepped out of the Navigator and shut the door, lost. He was not welcome in Mia’s presence—not with Sheryl keeping guard, and not with the impossible task undone. But if he didn’t do it then she would, and there was something in her tone that let him know that she didn’t meant to rehome the old girl…

He wouldn’t let that happen to Hera. Mick headed in.

She was waiting in the downstairs bathroom. She didn’t even get up to great him when Mick opened the door. Instead, she lay dejected on the seafoam green towel she must have pulled off the towel rack to make a bed. She lay there, floppy ears pulled back, chin on the floor between her front paws, looking up at the person she trusted more than anyone in the world.

“Oh, girl,” Mick said, stepping in and shutting the door.

Her tail thumped hallow against the tile.

Two steps in and she finally rose, but kept her ears back, cautious of the mood, confused and scared. She moved slowly, partially because of the arthritis that crept into her hips when she turned 8, and partially because of what had happened.

Mick held out a shaky hand. She leaned into it like she always did, letting out a low, contented groan. Mick brought up his other hand to grip her ears and gave her head an affectionate shake.

Hera huffed.

They looked at each other, the silence somehow less cruel for a moment. Mick noticed the blood on her yellow muzzle and stiffened. Hera noted his change and sat back, searching with curious black eyes.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, you old goddess,” he said.

He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature and grabbing a washcloth from the cabinet. Hera watched him, ears turned forward and head cocked. Mick soaked the washcloth with lukewarm water, then added a dab of soap. He worked it until there was a light lather, then turned to Hera.

“C’mere.”

She leaned forward without hesitation, holding perfectly still as he worked the washcloth over her snout and through the frosted fur of her chin. She waited patiently as he rinsed the cloth and adjusted the water so that it would be warmer. He ran the cloth over her fur again and again until the red faded back to yellow, his heart aching.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” Mick whispered. “I know you didn’t. I know you girl.”

Hera sneezed. Mick rubbed the top of her head. She sneezed again, then ran her paw across her snout.

“Good as new,” Mick said.

Hera wagged. Her sail slashed across his splintered heart.

Mick tossed the rag into the sink and sunk to the ground. Hera joined him, circling once before plopping down and resting her chin on his knee.

Mick gave her another pat then said, “thing is, girl, you hurt Mia really bad—” His voice cracked.

He didn’t know who he was trying to convince, Hera or himself. But it wasn’t her fault.

He could blame himself for not putting the anchors on the bookshelf, even though Sheryl had reminded him about 4,000 times after Mia started climbing the furniture. He could blame himself for not getting up fast enough when he heard the crash…

Labrador retrievers are supposed to have a soft mouth. He remembered the Pet Smart trainer saying something like that in the basic manners class he’d enrolled Hera in after she ran from him in the rain, then bolted past Sheryl into her apartment to roll on her new carpet. Hyperactivity and destructive tendencies had been on his radar. One month into the dauntless puppy energy and he knew he couldn’t ignore training… but he’d never stop to think about her bite.

She hadn’t been a mouthy puppy. She didn’t even like tug. Hera’s preferred game was fetch, followed by fetch, with a good measure of more fetch. So Mick hadn’t done anything about bite inhibition. In fact, hadn’t even known the term until he googled it while waiting in the emergency room lobby.

Why did my good dog bite my child…

This was his fault, not Hera’s. She shouldn’t have to be ejected from the only life she’s ever known because he screwed up.

But Sheryl was right, he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t even blame her for wanting Hera out of the house. She wasn’t her dog. Sheryl was a dog owner by default, having fallen in love with him when Hera was a relentless bundle of two-and-a-half-year-old ball-fetching energy. He knew she loved Hera, but it wasn’t the same.

Mick wondered when the tears would come. He’d never been a good crier. When he did manage to cry it was always some terribly inconvenient time, like at that company dinner six months after his dad’s funeral… The client was describing a helicopter ride to a remote glacier and he thought about how his dad liked to say “there’s always Alaska…”

 It would be just like him to cry about the dog instead of his baby.

The muffled sounds of someone stirring in the kitchen told Mick that Mia was asleep again and Sheryl was attempting to make dinner. She needed him.

Mick pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contact list, absently scratching the good spot behind Hera’s ears. He settled on a name and brought the phone to his ear. The phone connected after the third ring.

“Hey sis, I need a favor…”

🦮🦮🦮

The phone call went well enough. Daphne was great. Of course she’d take Hera while they figured things out. She knew it wasn’t her fault. Anything for him, and her sweet dog niece. She’s explain to Mia that she wasn’t playing favorites when she was older.

But Mick was hollow. The man that betrayed his dog for his family. He couldn’t make it right for everyone and Hera would be the one to pay. It was the only way—for Sheryl, who would never be able to relax while Hera and Mia traversed the same floors. For Mia, who was likely so traumatized that she’d never be able to feel secure around a dog again. Especially not Hera…

He left the bathroom, letting the door shut behind him as he moved into the kitchen. Sheryl was moving purposefully back and forth between the island and the stove. He recognized the prep—spaghetti and meatballs. It was her comfort food, her Italian-American roots. It didn’t hurt that Mia loved it too.

Mick knew it was a calculated decision. Sheryl didn’t do anything by accident. The spaghetti and meatballs would be soft enough that Mia would be able to chew them without putting too much pressure on her jaw. It wouldn’t be too hard on her bruised and mangled face…

He stood in the archway and watched Sheryl work, crafting meatballs and placing them in the sizzling cast iron. She worked like she was in a trance, likely trying not to think about the day’s nightmare. She moved from the meatballs to grab the dried pasta. When she moved, Mick saw the dressing in the blender. Caesar salad on the side. He moved into the kitchen to help.

“Daph is gonna take Hera in the morning,” he said, grabbing romaine from the crisper.

“She can’t take her tonight?” Sheryl asked. Her back was facing him as she stirred the noodles into the boiling water.

“She’s gonna have to spend the night in the bathroom,” Mick confirmed. He cleared a space on the bamboo cutting board and began chopping.

Sheryl sniffed.

“You okay?” Mick asked. The question made him a fool, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Sheryl turned to him. Her face was splotchy and tear-streaked, her eyes puffy from the day’s storm.

“How could we let this happen? To Mia? To Hera?” She sobbed.

Mick dropped the knife and went to her, pulling her into his arms. He felt the pinpricks behind his eyelids.

“We screwed up. I screwed up,” he said.

“I don’t hate Hera!” Sheryl whimpered. All the fight was gone from her. Mick could feel her go limp in his arms. “It’s just… Mia’s just a baby….”

“I know. I know,” Mick consoled, forcing his voice past the hard lump in his throat.

They held each other for a long time, letting the meatballs go from browned to burnt as the pasta bubbled over. It wasn’t until the sound of cheerful babbling made its way through their sorrow that they broke their embrace.

“Mia’s awake,” Mick said.

Sheryl cocked her head and sniffed. “Who’s she talking to?”

Mick heard it. Question, pause. Statement, pause, giggle. The sort of conversation only a toddler could have.

“Did you close the bathroom door?” Sheryl asked, eyes going wide.

“Of course I did!” Mick said. But he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust anything about himself after today.

Sheryl was already out of the kitchen. Heart throbbing in his ears, Mick bounded after her. The bathroom door hung open, letting the living space light flood in. Sheryl stopped short of the door. Mick rammed into her, making her gasp. Instinctively he wrapped an arm across her chest.

Mia sat on the bathroom floor, Hera curled around her as she roughly and frantically patted the top of her head. Hera scrunched her eyes and lifted her snout to the little girl’s hand as Mia repeated the same phrase over and over.

“Good dog. You. Good dog. Okay. Good dog. I’m okay. Good dog.”

Mick watched, cemented to the ground and frozen around Sheryl.

Mia looked up at them and said, “We’re good. Good dog.”

Mick felt the tears.

Sheryl looked up at him and said, “I found a name when we were waiting for stitches—they work with dogs like Hera. Rehabilitation. We should call them in the morning.”

“Should I tell Daphne?” Mick asked.

“No. Hera can stay. We can do it.” Sheryl said.

A tear hit Mick’s chin. He couldn’t fix it, but Mia could.