Salt and Pepper

The little one lay on the other side of the fire, not moving. I watched the flames lick and furl their way up the front door, then stretch further along the side wall, fanning like feathers into the night.

The house was burning. And soon, so would he.

I couldn’t just sit there and watch it happen.

So, I called to the little one, loudly, but still, he didn’t move. I ran then, making as much noise as I possibly could, trying to get someone, anyone’s, attention.

And I did.

Eventually a man stepped outside. A man wrapped in a robe, I think. His eyes went wide, and he disappeared back into his house. Five minutes later, the red truck came and doused the flames.

When the big man in the big black boots ran back outside with the little one tucked safely in his arms, I knew everything would be ok.

Still, I stayed and waited until the little one was loaded into a car and traveling far down the street, out of sight.

I never thought I would see the little one again.

But I did, two days later.

I was at Harris Park, running my usual laps, when I saw the little one sitting beneath a pepper tree. At first, I was relieved he was alive. I felt my whole heart flood all of me. But then, I noticed how he looked so small and so out of place. Everyone else came to this park with someone, and there he was, all alone.

I wondered where his family was and why they would let him wander freely. Someone had to look after him, and I felt that pull towards him even then, stronger than ever.

He was so little, after all.

I didn’t want to scare him away, so I walked over slowly. The little one lifted its head and met my eyes. There was fear there, oh most definitely. And something else, too. But he didn’t run off, so I continued to inch forward, bit by bit, until I was only a few feet away from him.

Then, I stopped and lowered myself to the ground. If he wanted to approach me, he would, but I wouldn’t force it. Most things, the best things, can’t be forced.

And to my surprise, the little one crawled forward, closing the distance between us. We stayed like that, sitting side by side beneath the pepper tree, for many hours. I felt the sun on my back, heard the wind rustle the leaves overhead, and knew instantly that life could be this easy, this safe, and this full.

We waited until the shadows shifted, and the sun began to set, then, it was time to go. I wanted to take the little one home with me, but he already had a family.

I knew this, because I followed him back to his house that day. It was the same house I had seen a few nights before. Besides the shadowed stain on the front door from the fire, it looked as normal as any other house on the block; small, square, and sound.

But as soon as the little one went inside, I knew something was terribly wrong with it.

That house held a sickness, a sadness, that could not be overlooked. 

After the back door swung shut, and I knew the little one was inside, there was this voice, this deep, dark voice, that got louder and louder by the second. The voice wobbled in pitch as it rose, and the sound made me so uneasy I began to slowly back away. 

But I forced myself to keep watching. I had to stay. I had to make sure the little one was ok.

The deep, dark voice was yelling and screaming and scolding and then—

Then there was a crashing. A tearing. And finally, a falling. I heard someone else crying softly, and that someone else’s voice was very different from the deep voice; it was lighter, I think, and so sad and heavy.

I wanted to run inside and take the little one away from it all. He shouldn’t have to hear that, no one should ever have to hear that.

But I couldn’t enter because it wasn’t my home. And it wasn’t my place. 

From that day on though, I kept an eye on the little one.

He needed me, after all.

Every day would be the same; the little one would come to Harris Park in the afternoon like clockwork, always alone, and waiting for me beneath the pepper tree. We spent our whole summer right there underneath that tree, and much of the fall, too.

I learned quickly that we were different from each other, very different, like salt and pepper. But somehow, we belonged together, too.

In no time, the little one trusted me enough to curl up beside me, and we’d watch the clouds drift overhead, or listen to passersby from the park. It was peaceful, and pleasant, and just so nice to be together; to be understood and heard without ever saying a word. For there was only the language of grass, wind, and warmth.

And I swear to you, we were bigger than the whole damn sky.

Then, once the shadows shifted, and the sun began to set, I’d walk the little one home.

I hated when he had to go inside. It was like he’d disappear into the mouth of a monster I couldn’t save him from.

Some days he would go inside and nothing would happen. The house would remain quiet and still as night fell. But other days, most days, those terrible, awful noises would begin as soon as he got home.

And one day in particular was the worst of them all.

I remember it was cooler than usual. The leaves had changed colors, and the wind had a bite to it. I had just walked the little one back to his house and was about to turn away, when I heard it: a loud, piercing, gut-wrenching scream.

I’ll never forget the pain that it held, or the panic that followed. It was like watching a glitter globe shatter; an entire little world worn to waste.

I froze in the street, my hair standing on end, and slowly, I turned back to face the house. There was a second of silence, then another, and then the unmistakable sound of something smashing. Crashing. Tearing. And finally, falling. 

Someone inside was screaming for help, and it sounded bad, it sounded so bad. It was instinct to run inside and save the little one, but before I could move, a tall thin woman with red hair came bursting through the front door. She was clutching something bundled in a blanket, and I realized it was the little one.

I watched the two of them get into a small, blue car. The engine roared to life, then, they were tearing down the street. At first, I tried to follow the car, but it was going too fast, and soon it disappeared out of sight. Panting and out of breath, I stood there in the street for a long while, listening to the motor fade.

I wondered if the little one was ok. I wondered where the woman with the red hair took him, and if that was her screaming minutes ago. A part of me wanted to run inside the house and shred the deep, dark voice that had caused so much pain. So much hurt.

But the little one wasn’t inside anymore, so for me, it was time to go.

After that day, the little one never came back to the house. I watched and made sure of it. Part of me was glad about that, because then that meant the little one never had to hear that deep, dark voice again.

Still, I missed the little one terribly and worried about him. Was he safe? Was he fed? Was he all alone again?

I went back to the pepper tree at Harris Park each and every day in hope that the little one would return to sit with me. I also went back to the pepper tree each and every day, because I knew that if the little one ever needed me, he would come to this very spot, our spot, to find me.

So there I stayed. And there I waited.

I felt time stretch and the seasons change. There were no more leaves on the pepper tree, and it got so cold I couldn’t be at the park for more than a few hours. My stomach felt like it was caving in from hunger. But I didn’t care about that. I didn’t have time to eat, not when I knew the little one might return.

So still I stayed. And still I waited.

One day, when it was very dark and the sky was a blanket of white, I laid down beneath the pepper tree and decided to rest a while. I felt so tired, so spent, and so hungry. But that was alright. It was more than alright, because I had made it, one final time, to our beloved pepper tree.

As I settled down, I thought about that first night framed in flames, the night when I first saw the little one. I remember thinking how small he looked through the back door window, and how this last summer was my most favorite of them all. Suddenly, I could feel the grass, and wind, and warmth all around me.

I didn’t need much. I didn’t even need him. I just needed the memory of what we once were. So, I shut one eye, then the other, and began to let go.

And I was just drifting off when I heard him.

No. It couldn’t be.

I dragged open my eyes and saw the little one racing towards me from across the park. He was smiling at me, beaming at me, and calling out my name. I felt my whole heart flood all of me.

The thin woman with red hair was trailing behind the little one, a hand cupped over her mouth. The little one turned to her and said, “See Momma, I told you he’d be here!”

Somehow, I found the energy to lift my tail, and I thumped it hard twice in agreement.

Yes, I was here. I would always be here.

The little one pulled me into his arms and held me close, and I was reminded instantly that life could be this easy, this safe, and this full.

Then the little one said, “Can we keep him Momma? Please? He needs us.”

I looked up at this woman, this woman who had struggled to survive as much as I had. We eyed each other for a minute. There was fear there, oh most definitely. And something else, too.

An understanding. A mother’s knowing.

And then, the woman with the red hair was down on her knees, stroking my fur.

“Of course we can, baby. Let’s get him home.”