The Old Dog

My first memory was of his warm face. Brown, like caramel, and with kind, big eyes, gazing into me, sharing in my joy. What joy? Well, I suppose it was the joy of my being here. I had just been introduced to life, and he had just been introduced to me. As family members and close friends clustered into that small space to see me, I knew his chest swelled with pride, and everyone gave him kind pats and warm words.

He was the old dog. And I knew in that moment that there was a covenant between him and I. He would protect me to the bitter end, and teach me everything he knew. And I would listen.

When my mother took me home, she brought the old dog into live with us. It was a joy to see his warm face, and listen to his magic lessons. I couldn’t speak, not consciously at least, but I could feel.

The old dog was mostly preoccupied out in the world, patrolling our family’s fields and keeping us safe. He hunted and brought home food, and occasionally a treat that I would marvel at.

I rarely saw him in those days, when he was lithe and strong, rippling with muscle and raw strength. On the off chance he would return before I had slipped into sleep, I would gurgle and laugh and clutch at his face. The old dog had a countenance of wisdom.

But even though I was sad I could rarely see him during the day, I knew he watched over me as I dreamed.

I grew under the watchful protection of the old dog. Occasionally I'd hear howling outside our small walls, and the old dog would come back limping and scratched. In those moments I always pretended I was asleep, because deep down, some part of me knew that he wouldn’t like me seeing him like this.

Sometimes he would take me out with him, and we’d frolick in the sun together. His paws took me through cicada covered trees that looked like alien monuments, and through gateway shrubs to the magical land of my, no, our imagination. The old dog and I crafted entire worlds together… vast naval battles in the small streams nearby, and valiant ant captains leading their marching cohorts against the gargantuan termites. ‘Always root for the underdog,’ that was what he taught me.

As I got older it was time for the old dog to teach me right from wrong. One day I stole a classmate’s toy, and hid it for three weeks. The old dog sniffed it out. There was much growling and snarling that night. In an effort to do right I sought the help of God.

The old dog had told me about him, that he watched over all of us, and was the most powerful thing in the whole wide world.

‘Even more powerful than you, old dog?’ I had asked. He had smiled, and simply nodded.

He taught me to talk to God, and i’d stay up late into the night, telling him of all my problems; which boys were mean to me at school, how I was scared of thieves and the dark, my love for the old dog, which toys I wanted for Christmas, and above all, thanking him for my warm bed.

It was during these late night talks that I would hear the clashes. My mother would scream at the old dog, and the old dog would bark back. Sometimes they got quite loud. Out of concern for the old dog, I'd wait a while, and then tip toe out of my room to see if he was ok. He would usually be curled up on the couch, sometimes with scratches on him. And I thought that was strange, because I knew he had a sleeping place in my mum’s room.

One night, when the old dog was out hunting for us, I was talking to God in my room. I heard the scrabble of paws and the clack of claws on the floorboards. I ran up to my door to see him return, but as I peeked through the crack, I saw my mother creeping inside, leading another dog by his leash. I went back to my bed and buried my head in my pillow.

As time wore on, it seemed as though the old dog was getting tired. With every secret dog my mother would sneak in while he was away, the old dog seemed to lose strength. The clashes became more frantic, and sometimes I saw the old dog with bruises on his flanks. He had bags under his eyes, his ears drooped, and his tail sagged. But when it was time to take me out into the world he’d do his best to hide it.

I tried to cheer him up in the best ways I knew how. I wrote poems for the old dog, telling him how much I loved him, and I'd draw pictures of us together, playing in the sun. I’d tell him how I asked God to protect him every night, and I boasted of his strength to all my friends.

I really did love the old dog, more than anything in the world.

Slowly, I grew taller than the old dog, and started venturing out into the world on my own. Many people would tell the old dog what a promising young man I was, how full of potential and power, and his chest would swell with pride. And I would be happy that my actions had made his days just a bit brighter.

One day I returned home from school, eager to tell the old dog of my adventures, when I walked in on a sight that made me shudder. My mother had the old dog on the ground, kicking and beating him. He whined in pain, but saw me watching from the shadows. His eyes were like teary swamps, cloudy with pain and betrayal. I made a step forward to defend him, but he gave the slightest shake of his greying muzzle.

Then he closed his eyes as my mother continued to beat him. Eventually she pulled out a spiked muzzle, and dragged it tight over his mouth, so that it dug deep into his flesh. And he bore it. And he was silent. I slipped into the shadows, and pretended like I hadn’t seen anything.

Everyday, the old dog wore that muzzle, and every couple of nights, he would get beatings from my mother. My hatred for the woman grew, and although I feigned ignorance, I started to disobey her orders, and snap back. She would try to control me, force me into submission, and for a time I resisted, but eventually I would succumb. But every time, I would resist just a little longer. I looked to the old dog for support, but he was muzzled and silent, and could only look on in sadness. That proud, muscled protector that formed my first memories was now a helpless prisoner in his own home, powerless. Where once he had told me magic stories and travelled to imagined lands with me, he could now barely meet my eyes.

Eventually, I fled. I found a new home, and travelled far from the domain of my mother. I could no longer bear to see the pain of the old dog, or hear the sounds of the beatings at night. I remember packing my belongings into the car, and seeing the old dog, sitting on the steps, alone. His shoulders slumped, his eyes sad. The boy he had sworn to protect, the one he had taught everything he knew, and over whom he had spent many watchful nights, was leaving him. And for the briefest moment, I fancied I saw something penetrate the sadness in his eyes. Pride. And then my mother was behind him, dragging him, kicking him, spitting insults upon him and forcing him back inside. And I left. I left him in that place, alone, with her.

Time passed, and the stresses of my life crowded out thoughts of the old dog. He was always there, in my mind, and in my heart, a part of him always would be, but on most days I chose to ignore him. Sometimes, I would wonder how he was doing, but those thoughts quickly led me down a dark, sad road, and so I forced them out. But no matter what I did, pain filled my heart. Whether I ignored him, or thought about him… I could never find peace.

One day I called my mother.

I demanded to see the old dog, and to know how he was doing.

There was a long pause on the phone, and then she told me she had decided to get rid of him.

I could have asked why, but I had always known, deep down.

All those nights sneaking in strange dogs, the beatings, the muzzling… I knew what my mother was. I might have decided it was easier to suffocate myself in forced ignorance, but I knew. And I always knew how this story was going to end.

She told me she had moved out, and I asked her where the old dog was, and she said she didn’t know and didn’t care.

I wish I could say I swore at her in that moment. I wish I could say I had the fortitude to call her out for the monster that she was, the abuser, the double-faced coward. But I didn’t.

I found the old dog in that place where we had shared so many memories. The house was crumbling and in disarray, and angry clouds overhead roared with thunder and hurled screaming sheets of rain inside. He was lying on his side covered in open wounds weeping rich, red blood. His matted hair barely covered the protruding bones on his emaciated frame, and his once glowing coat of caramel was now a stringy, patched grey. He could only summon enough strength to draw one shuddering breath after another. And that damned spiked muzzle, it had evidently been squeezed even tighter into his flesh before my mother’s departure.

I didn’t weep when I saw him. I didn’t know what to feel. As I walked in, his eyes rolled weakly up to see me. They were first filled with shame, that I should see him in such a state, but, the shame slowly turned to joy, and I don’t know how, but he summoned the strength to give a pitiful wag of his tail. His boy had come back for him.

I tenderly removed his muzzle, and bandaged his wounds. I fixed the house to keep out the rain. And I held him. Soon, he began to cry. And I realised now, the one final lesson he had never taught me. The old dog, the strong protector, needed the most protection and care of all.

‘It's ok Dad,'' I said as I held him. And we endured the night.