Mans Best Friend

        A scream startles us from our housework. We bolt out the back door and see our daughter’s face covered by her hands, blood oozing from the gaps between her fingers. Her screams pierce our eardrums. My wife carries her, cradling her face against the nape of her neck, while whispering soothing words in her ears. Our daughter doesn’t hear as she feels the flesh tear from her cheek. I see the marks of teeth, then glare at our aging German Shepard Cross who cowers beneath the outdoor settee.  Its forepaws frame a subdued face with ears drawn back and eyes so wide that its pupils are fully encircled by white. The dog shakes as I approach, whimpering as it attempts to back away, but its prone position denies movement. I scoff and turn away, herding my family to the car.

               No flesh was torn, but the gashes were deep. Nurses rushed us into triage as soon as we arrive where they spoke in light tones and took our daughters’ pain away while we both held her hands. The doctor came quickly and spent forever stitching her face, at least forty in all, both inside her cheek and on her skin.  At one point, Catherine attempts to slip outside, her face pale and her gait unsteady, but Alisa screamed the ward down and she ran back to her side. She promised not to leave her as she swallowed her bile and made sure she kept in her daughters’ line of sight. A nurse gave her a glass of water.

               No one spoke on the drive home. Alisa fell asleep in the child restraint and Catherine carried her to bed. I went around the back and roughly scooped dried food into a bowl and dropped it in front of the doghouse. Shiny wide eyes gleamed from the inside. His whimpering reached my ears. The whole scene smelt of urine.

               We turned the lights out and went to bed.

               “We have to put him down.”

               “Yeah.” I turned away. The drawn blinds could not dispel all the light.

               I got a puppy as a reward for graduating high school… well, more like the payment for a bribe. My parents were concerned that my introversion stemmed beyond my study, and that a pet would bring me out of my shell. At least, that’s what they told me. It was not that I was happy on my own, so much that I had no interest in interaction. It just seemed like too much hard work.

               Yet the little bitch charmed me. I named her Chelsea, after a crush I never acted on. As such, I made the effort to approach her. Part of redemption, I suppose, but the bounding life and unbridled acceptance dissolved the tensions in my gut. I squatted down to pat her in no time, and moments later found myself talking to her, knowing she couldn’t possibly understand a single word. Yet, her ears spike forward, and she heard each word intently. She’d yap and dance around and I’d laugh at her antics. The more I saw her, the quicker my mood would lift.

               I taught her to wait until her food was served and showed her where us humans liked her to toilet. She’d stand patiently as I washed her and got excited with each walk. Every now and then, I’d let her off the leach and we’d wrestle, or I’d ride my bike and she’d run alongside. As she grew, we strayed further and stayed out longer, discovering the stores and parks I’d never knew existed. She also did those doggy things that other human’s thought were cute, which in turn would force me into conversations, something which got easier as time went by.

               That’s how I met Catherine.

               Every now and then, Chelsea would be glued to a post, her nose enchanted to the scent of its base and no amount of coaxing would break the spell. I heard someone laugh, and when I turned, she’d asked if I needed some help. I would have said no, but she smiled, and I got that giddy feeling inside, and by then, she was walking towards me.

               So, we chatted and exchanged phone numbers. Every day or two, one of us would ring the other and the conversations got longer. I missed those conversations when I went away for a week, (something to do with work). When I returned, I noticed that Chelsea’s belly grew, and the vet confirmed the pregnancy.  It was the first thing I told Catherine when we resumed our conversations, and she said we had to celebrate – she’d even pick me up. So we ate and drank at a café, and we spoke until we stopped. I don’t know why she ceased, but with me it was the return of the giddy feeling. It made me felt a fool as I stared at her full lips and lightly tanned face and those glittery-

               “I think we need a bit of air.”

               I hastily agreed, so we crossed the street and took off our shoes and walked with our feet in the surf with the salt in our nostrils and our arms around each other’s waists and when I turned, our lips would touch and they wouldn’t let go for the longest time. We laughed at the tickle of the waves on our ankles and I promised I’d do that more often. She said that I’d better.

               Chelsea gave birth and she stayed home more often to suckle her litter. As the weeks rolled past, friends of my parents dropped in for a visit and left with a puppy. I asked my parents, and they’d say that we couldn’t afford to bring them all up. We’d save you one, they’d say. We promise.

               Catherine came by a few days later. There was a film that she wanted me to see.  As she reversed down the driveway, she ran over a hump that yelped and left behind a crunching sound. Chelsea had rested behind the rear wheels for what we supposed was a nap. We didn’t feel like a film anymore.

               We drank coffee and shed tears under a blanket and held each other close. I said it wasn’t her fault. I tried to sound light.

               ‘I’m sure she wanted to die,’ I’d say.

               ‘I wouldn’t be too happy if my children had been taken away from me’

               We finished our brews and held each other to the sound of our sniffles.

               The last of the litter was a male that bounded to me on sight and licked me without reservation. Exactly the same as his mother. I claimed him for my own. Catherine said it must be fate. We both returned his kisses. We named him ‘Pup’.

               The day after the hospital stay, I was mowing my lawn when my neighbour called me from over the fence. A middle-aged man enjoying early retirement with a body still fit from canoeing and sailing (some people have all the luck). He was sorry about yesterday and saw what had happened. He mentioned that the dog was eating when Alisa called him repeatedly. Is he called Grump? (I said he answers to that too). Anyway, he says, she jumped on his back and pulled his fur, and when he laid on the ground, she started hitting him. Your dog sprung to his feet and growled in her face. She backed off for a bit, so Grump went back to his food until she kicked his bowl away. That’s when your dog lost it, I’m afraid. I thanked him before turning away and standing still for god knows how long.

               But there’s chores to be done and the next is to rid the strengthening smell that Pup wore. I grab some soap in a bucket and a hose, put on some gloves and ordered the mut out of his house. He cowers against the doorway, shying away from any attempt to reach him.

               I swore. Ripping off a glove, I place a hand in front of his nose. He watches me wearily for a few moments before sniffing it fitfully. I scratch him gently behind the ears until I feel him start to nuzzle against the touch. His breathing slowly loses its quiver, and he starts to shuffle towards me. I speak gently, coaxing him out, showing him the hose and running the water in a fine mist. 

               I wash him with slow deliberate movements. The cleaner he got, the straighter he stood and the more that pleading stare morphed into a weary gaze. I spoke softly to him again, and after a while, his tremoring stopped. When he was clean, he shook the water off his coat just as he always did.

               Catherine watched from the back room and wore a steely gaze as I entered.

               “What you do that for?” Her words snapped the air between us.

               “He stank out the yard.”

               “We’re killing him anyway.”

               “It’s easier for me to take him if he still trusts me.”

               She nods in understanding. I told her what our neighbour said and saw her steely gaze return. A few moments later I broke the silence with: “‘I’m sure you’d bite the face off anyone who punches you or pulls your hair’

               ‘Not if they’re three years old’

               Catherine turned and stormed out of the room. I asked where she was going and without the slightest pause reminded me that we still had a daughter to consider.

               I left a message on my parents’ voicemail earlier this morning, so it was no surprise that they came knocking on our door before lunch. Catherine and I wore our best smiles as we let them in. They brought some food but put it down on the kitchen counter so they could spend some time upstairs with Alisa. We all sat watching her wince as the anaesthetic wore off and frustrating her attempts to touch her cheek. Catherine changed her bandages. They all played with the soft toys on her bed. They talked about television shows and asked Alisa how much she liked day care. Alisa said that she doesn’t like dogs.

               They sat in the back room and ate their breadsticks with cheese and pastrami. Initially, the parents drilled us about the incident, y’know, ‘how did it happen’, ‘what did you do’, that sort of thing. The ladies were particularly animated. Meanwhile dad poured the wine and opened the beer and we all began to joke and laugh. After a while, the ladies went upstairs to check on Alisa again, bringing some food on a plate. Dad nodded towards the backyard and we took our drinks to the outdoor settee with the umbrella up and a slight breeze cooling the bite of the sun. 

“I know how you feel about pup.”

“It’s got to be done. You’ve seen Alisa’s face.”

“There’s another way.”

“Didn’t you hear Catherine? She’d flay you alive for suggesting it.”

“She doesn’t need to know. And nor would Alisa.”

               The breeze felt too warm and my mouth went real dry as my father spoke about a mate he had in the country. He wanted a dog and had plenty of land for an aging mut to get lost in. At his point, I stopped him, reminding him of Pup’s age, but my protests were dismissed with a snort. He says that each time there’s people, Pup’s usually out, checking the scene and searching for pats. He never wants to miss out…

               Except for today. Apart from ourselves, the backyard was empty. We both turned towards the doghouse. Nothing moves.  Only a silhouette lying on his haunches behind the doorway is visible to our squinting eyes.

               My father was the first to turn away from the doghouse, his eyes now square with mine. “Let me run a scenario past you. Say, I was walking down the street and a mugger attacked me. Punched me here and there, slashed me in the face. I’m lying on the ground and someone takes me to hospital. Would you want the attacker punished?”

               “Blood oath.”

               “Would you want him dead?”

               I flap my jaws like a fish before I reply. “There are many ways to punish people.”

               “Exile is a form of punishment.”

               “My family wants more.”

               Dad gives me a pocket-sized card with his friends’ name, address, phone number and email. “Just giving you another option.”

               I slip it into my wallet behind the vets’ business card.  We walk back into the house. My mother says its time for them to go.

               The next morning, Alisa followed her mother down the stairs, wearing a fresh bandage on her cheek. The bruising was starting to darken, and the whites of her eyes were almost covered by red. She complained that the air made her eyes sting and I dug into her backpack and found a small pair of sunglasses that her childcare centre gave her. 

               “Put these on, hon.”

               She did. I asked if that felt better, to which she looked up and nodded. “It still hurts daddy.” I said that it would for a while, but that the doctor would help make it better. 

               Catherine came back with some breakfast for Alisa. “Have you organised the dog?”

               I nodded. “I’ve made the appointment.”

               We apologised at the same time before laughing awkwardly into each other’s arms, nuzzling into each other’s necks, sniffing back our tears. 

               “It will be over soon.”

               Catherine nods and wipes her eyes. I suggest that she get some breakfast for herself.

               I slowly approach the doghouse and call pup’s name. He edges out of his shelter, his head still bowed low, looking at me through his eyebrows. I lower my hand and he trudges towards me, spending a few moments to sniff. He begins to whimper while I put on the collar and when I stand, he leans against me. 

               “Come on, boy. We’re going for a drive.”

               He straightens up. He always liked his head out the window, feeling the wind on his face. We walk towards the side of the house, just like we’ve always done, but Pup catches sight of Alisa through the glass door and stops dead. I ask him what’s up, keeping my voice soft, but his eyes go all big and wet as he watches Alisa banging the door, telling him to go away. What looks like tears falls from Pups eyes and he lets out a howl. I bend to embrace him, saying that we’ve got to go, feeling stupid that he doesn’t understand the words, but grateful that the howling calms quick. I wave goodbye. Catherine waves back. Alisa gives Pup a cold stare.

               I return a couple of hours later. I come home alone.