You Are My Light

You can only listen to the bombs going off so many times before your hearing fails you. The white around my eyes should be evidence that this was inevitable. Old age brings bad ears, I imagine them saying.

When you come into a household young, you see the changes over time. As their first child, I was protector of porch and pantry. I was an experiment in their life. A gauge of their readiness for more responsibility. As a novelty to the home, I brought happiness. Novelty, in time, only does one thing.

There was an expectation of learning in those early years. It becomes habitual, an understanding of mannerisms. A hard strike to the face meant stop making noise. A mess resulted in my father, flushed and veiny, screaming, though I was so near him, his saliva catapulted onto my face, reeking of the poison he drank at night. I would make myself small, let out a whimper, recoil once again at being told to stop making noise.

Violence spreads; mom became the next target. Unbearable arguments became the norm. I lay, curled beneath the dining room table to avoid airborne crockery, but the explosions of their words were inescapable. The war would be fought, with violence and verbalizations, until mom escaped, or father fell unconscious. Warzones would manifest, for years, until the experiment was over.

On a snowy evening, my parents came home with Caleb, my brother. He smelled of frailty, and my parents smelled of love. The feeling was catching. By night’s end I could smell the adoration on my own skin. As they laid him to bed in his bassinet, I spoke my first words in his ear.

“You are my light, and I will protect you.”

At Caleb’s birth, our father took his duties seriously. The weight of responsibility revealed a new man. But most humans are who they have always been. As the bottles left Caleb’s life, they returned to our father’s.

We built a plan, Caleb and me. I whispered it to him late at night. When the bombs would start falling, I would grab his favourite stuffed tiger, and at that, he’d know to follow. Up to his room we would go, a pseudo demilitarized zone. Jumping into his bed, we’d move close, and I would whisper,

“I love you brother.”

“Your breath stinks,” he would respond with a laugh, and push at my cheek, forcing me to face away, but I couldn’t turn away for long.

“I love you all the same.”

He would smile, and I would kiss him goodnight, his head resting on the softest part of my underside until his breathing slowed and sleep overtook him. My ears still tuned for danger, I listened to the warzone below. Listened for signs that Caleb wasn’t safe. I would hear mom creep up the stairs to bed. Snores from the den below would follow. This was the holding pattern for Caleb and I, several times a month.

Bombs. Tiger. Bed. Listening.

As the years passed, the sounds became duller. Time brings age, and age brings deterioration.

After Caleb’s eighth birthday the demilitarized zone was invaded. I’d fallen asleep. My hearing had failed us, my post had been abandoned and here father stood, hovering above the bed. Hovering above us. I let out a low growl in warning, as I maneuvered into a defensive hunch. Father reached out towards Caleb, trying to lift him from the bed, but I smelled malice on his person. The hairs along my spine rose in protest. I snapped my teeth at his hand, a deterrent to his advances. In response he struck me, fist flashing out, catching the side of my head, sending me crashing into the wall. My mind groggy from the blow, I stumbled to my feet, trying to get between him and Caleb. As father reached down towards Caleb a second time, I let out a bark.

“Enough!”

He turned his eyes towards me, colour draining from his face.

“You will damage this home no more. I am the protector of these walls, and for years the greatest threat has been within.” Saliva bubbling at the corner of my mouth, baring my teeth, I stared at him. “You will damage this home no more.”

He looked down at his hands, and then back up at me.

“How drunk am I?”

“This is not your stupor. You cannot continue this way.”

“This is my house.”

“This is our house.”

“And you are a dog.”

“I am the dog of this house. The protector of this house.”

“He’s my son. It’s not my intention to hurt him.”

“I do not trust you.”

There was a feeling of pressure building in my head, a swelling from where I’d been hit. I knew, even as I stood between them, my strength was leaving me. I couldn’t stop him with my physical form. Instead, I barked. Loud. Incessant. The only way to prevent any danger was to alert mom.

She came, arms swinging.

“Stay away from my son!” she bellowed, trying to strike him. He knocked her aside, but she came again. And again.

Her violent advance pushed him from the room and down the stairs. Mom pursued, harrying his retreat, demanding that he leave the house, until my dull hearing could no longer pick up what was being said.

A drop of blood fell to the floor from my nose, landing next to my paw. Then another. A steady flow of blood started trickling out of my nostrils, and my legs gave way beneath me. The pressure in my head was overwhelming. Something had burst when the punch had landed minutes before.

Caleb jumped from his bed and knelt by my side. His eight-year-old hands gripped my fur tightly. Face buried in my side, tears soaking me. The vibration of his sobs against my body. Children are wise. He understood what was happening. I pushed my head against his arm, and he lifted his head to meet my gaze.

“All will be well brother,” I whispered, my breath growing shallow. “You are my light, and I will protect you.”

The recognition in his eyes was all I needed to let go.

Old age brings bad ears, I imagine them saying. Old age brings silence I say. Finally.