Dog

I was eight when it happened, an age where few things cling tightly to us that aren't alarmingly good or bad. My older sister, the eldest of three at the time, was eleven. Our brother, the baby of the bunch, was five.

As the eldest, Ashley bore the brunt of chores on our small farm, bossing me around in proper sister fashion. Like most farms, we kept a dog to ward of predators and for company. One of the many dogs we owned over the years was a German Shepherd named Dog. Originally, we set out to name him Rex, a name my sister chose, but my dad called him Dog, so Dog it was.

Since I already had a dog myself, a small terrier named Benji, Dog was Ashely's. He knew it. She knew it. Dog obeyed her every whim. He followed her about the barn as she did chores, inspecting the pens. When she went on long walks in the pasture or woods, he would nuzzle her arm out of his way so he could tuck himself between it and her side.

When the summer grew too hot, they took naps in the shade of trees or splashed under the sprinkler. He would sit pretty for her as she brushed out his thick coat and heaped the tuffs of fur into a pile. And, on the occasion that strays did venture onto our property, Dog chased them off. Under his careful watch, the barn and his little girl, were safe.

My relationship with Dog could be summed up in one dreadful sentence that I insisted to my mom over and over; "He wants to eat me."

But my parents did not see what I did.

Dog was large for his breed with a deep red-brown coat and black saddle. He was a terrifying beast, bulking in size, and with eyes that seemed to know more than a dog should. In the dark, he became a shadow, a demon with pointed ears and hidden teeth.

Dog would find my brother and me on the swing set and watch us, glowering, staring. We would clamber up the chains till we were out of his reach and shout for help. Or perhaps he would catch us in the yard and send us scurrying up the nearest tree. He stalked where we played, threatening, warning. One day. One day.

Sometimes Ashley would come over and call him away. He was never mean to her, not once. Occasionally, it would be my mother that freed us, convinced our antics were silly like a game of lava.

"It's cause you're mean to him," Ashley told my brother and me when we expressed our concerns. "And it's cause you always act scared of him.”

I internalized those words.

One Saturday afternoon, we were slowly getting ready to go to our aunt's house. My mother was like a blimp totting around the house, her belly stretched with our soon to be little sister. Eager to leave, I headed out to sit in the car despite being the only one ready. After a while of frustrated silence, I decided I needed to pee.

Out the car and back to the house I trod. Much to my dismay, Dog was seated on the top step, blocking the door. It was a warm afternoon, his mouth hung open in a pant, tongue lolled out.

"Move Dog," I commanded in a tone more like an ask. He did not.

I shuffled on my feet and reminded myself not to act scared. I reached for him, petted the top of his head. Usually, he left when I petted him as if my touch disgusted him. His eyes squeezed half shut in that relaxed expression that always makes me think of a smile.

There was no growl. No warning.

I was suddenly on the concrete porch. I curled up in a ball, like they taught me to do in tornado drills. Dog was on top of me. There was snarling, a kind I had never heard before, like a monster had been released. I felt nothing. Saw nothing. Just heard.

My mother shouted. Dog fled, seemingly ashamed. Perhaps he understood the gravity of what he had done. I felt warmth, a lot of it. I knew I was bleeding badly from the top of my head, but there was no pain.

Mom scooped me up into her arms, shouting, "Allen, Allen!"

Then my dad was there. My mom's face was streaked with tears, furrowed with an ugly cry and she wailed, "My baby, oh my baby," over and over as if the words held power.

Calm, still feeling nothing, I held up my hand to show the minor bite, "He got me here too. And here." I pointed to my eyebrow where a long scratch was. My mom cried harder, hysterical.

My dad took me from her and carried me to the bathroom. They sat me on the toilet. Together, they grabbed towels and wrapped them around my head. From the corner of my eyes, I watched as the white turned red. Bright, brilliant, dazzling red. My sister leaned around the door, asking what happened.

"Dog attacked her," my mother answered, starting to simmer down.

"Go get in the car. Buckle your brother in," my dad ordered.

They picked me up and I interrupted them, "I peed myself."

It was an absurd thing to fret over, but I did not want to go to the hospital covered in my own pee. And understanding, my parents quickly changed me into dry clothing then carried me to the car. They buckled me in. My brother was clipped into his car seat, ready to go. My mother took up the middle in the back with me, and my sister joined our dad in the front.

My brother’s small chubby face looked frightened. His brown eyes were very wide and white. My sister looked angry. My father drove, which gave my mom more time to settle down. The hospital was thirty minutes from us. I had never seen Dad speed before, but it felt like he did that day. It was easy enough to explain if he got pulled over.

I clutched the towels to my head, still able to see all of that red. I wondered if I was going to die. My dad's expression was serious but not worried. If he was not panicking that meant it was fine. Right? I cried a little as I began to process what had happened and the fear returned. My sister began to blister with her temper.

"He didn't mean to," she started. She understood what was next for Dog, and suddenly, I did too. He deserved it. Kinder animals had met crueler fates.

"I didn't do anything, he just bit me," I protested. Like I always thought he would.

"It's your fault! He's a good dog. Why did you mess with him?"

We started arguing. Fervently, she pled his case. He had always been a good dog to her. I knew he did not like me. I should have stayed away, should have left him alone. I later found out; my parents were as surprised by his actions as she was.

Not me though. Not my brother. We had sensed the rotten.

Our bickering rose in volume. Strained and fed up, my mother half turned in the seat and ordered, "Ashley stop it. Just stop it. We can't keep Dog."

We both cried on the remainder of the drive. My feelings were hurt severely. I did not understand how she could be more worried about the dog than she was me.

Of course, Ashley remembers it differently. That drive to the hospital was full of silence save for my mother's hysteria. Apparently, she was beyond consolation as if she truly believed I was going to die.

Before that long drive of crying, Ashley remembered running to the door, the memory itself long blurred and unsure. Dog was still atop me; I was curled up. Dad pulled him off and picked me up. There was no blood in her recollection, but instinctively she knew there had to be. It was a massive head wound. Head wounds bled, a lot.

Dad carried me inside as mother wailed and panicked. Before they could get me loaded into the car, I started pitching a fit and insisting I could not go to the hospital in my own pee. It melted into a tantrum despite my injuries. Quickly, to pacify me, they changed me.

On the drive to the hospital Mom was belligerent, wailing and screaming as she clutched the towels around my head. That was when the blood entered her memories. The towels, once clean and white, were red. Red where my mother's hands pressed into them. Red as she cried. Dad was calm, silent. Ashley was too.

One of my aunts met us at the hospital and accompanied my mother and me to the back. My father stayed with my siblings. There was a lot of chatter with the medical staff. They took me back into a room and nurses busied themselves about my head as I lay on a hospital bed, one with wheels, just like from TV. Their words were calm and measured as they cleaned my head.

A cat scan was needed, whatever that was. I must have asked because the nurse and my aunt explained to me that it was to take pictures of my head, to check for additional damage. I was terrified anew. Was the meat in my skull showing? Was my skull? How bad was the damage?

They carted me down a hall and a tech explained to my mother that she could not go in with me, not while pregnant. So, my aunt did instead. My mother waited behind the window, hand to the glass, a brave look plastered in place. I gripped my aunt's hand firmly as they placed me inside a tunnel like machine and it whirred up, bright and buzzing.

Then I was removed and taken back into the room. My mother and aunt were both kicked out. But, the nurses were there, soothing and encouraging. They further prepped my head as they talked me through it. Cold things brushed it. The pain, if there was any, still did not catch up. The doctor, a middle-aged man with a surprisingly jovial demeanor, joined us.

“We’re going to give you some big shots now so I can stitch you up. It's going to be the only part that hurts,” he explained in a much too cheerful voice for the situation. Oddly though, it settled my nerves. “It’s going to hurt really bad, it’s okay to scream. Go ahead and give me some good screams.”

It was an odd way to give me permission to yell. The needles he moved to my head were large. One of the nurses gave me her hand. There was a pinch and a burn. Suddenly I felt pain, sharp, hot, like a knife. I squeezed the nurse's hand and shrieked. I had gotten shots before, stitches even, but it had never hurt like that.

More pain, more fire, more screaming. Several painful jabs later and it was over. No shot has ever hurt as badly as those. The nurses told me how good I had done. How brave I was. They patted my hands.

“You did great," the doctor praised in that same comforting lull. "Now I am going to staple you up, you shouldn’t feel anything, just some pressure. You might heart the staple gun click. Let me know if it hurts.”

They worked on me, bit by bit. Click. Click. Then the occasional tug when the staples were swapped for stitches. Cold and pressure, that was all I felt. I heard them talking, water running. They cleaned the blood from my hair.

Then, they were finished and my mother finally allowed in the room. I hugged her tight, feeling weak and relieved all at once. I needed to pee, again. She walked with me to the bathroom, a singular room I was told not to lock.

“Can I look in the mirror at it?” I asked her before going in.

“If you want." She looked sick.

“Does it look bad?” She nodded. They had instructed me not to touch my head, but I wanted to.

I strolled into the bathroom, did my business, then twisted around, trying to somehow catch a glimpse in the high up mirror. I saw nothing. We returned to the bed and waited for the doctor. He came to talk to my mother about the details. It had taken sixteen staples and fourteen stitches. He went over wound care. I was to keep it dry for a few days. We needed to avoid bumps and high activity. All of the annoying asks of a child.

While I was fussed over and mended, my sister remember waited in the car with our dad and brother. What all happened in that long space slipped past. But information stayed with her, like little stamped facts. They had to give me rabies shots because Dog did not have his vaccination. It took thirty-something staples to close up my head.

When I got into the car, I showed her the shiny line of metal. It started the top of my head and went all the way down the back, a quick line of clasps to hold my skin shut like a zipper. I sat in the back on the rider home between her and my brother.

“They put me in a tunnel, I was scared,” I told her. My mom was quiet for the drive home. Thoughts began to catch up to Ashley.

“What’s going to happen to Dog?” she asked our dad.

"We have to hold him for ten days to watch for rabies. After that, I’m going to shoot him," he explained.

Her dog would be shot; put down like every other dog she ever owned. Dad was always fastest to shoot her dogs.

Ashley got upset. She was convinced I must have hit Dog in the face. He was sweet, good. I hated him and had caused this.

I denied her accusations. "I was just petting his nose."

She did not believe me. Could not. He was sweet and gentle. I had always hated Dog because he was not the puppy I had wanted us to keep. We argued and squabbled until our mother made us stop.

Dog showed no signs of rabies. No one knew what made him snap. He was kept chained up at a tree by the barn while we waited. My mother sternly told us to stay away from him. No warning was needed for me. I was afraid to go into the back yard so long as he was there. Afraid the chain might snap or his collar slip off.

Ashley did not heed our mother's instructions. Every day, she snuck down to pet him. He never growled, never showed signs of anger. Not towards her, or inevitably my father when he finally ended it. Ten days, then she had no dog again.

The day he was shot, a mixture of relief came over me. But, the fear, the fear did not leave. It crawled into my heart and took years to unpack. Big dogs terrified me. German Shepherd’s stalked my nightmares, and to see one in wake made my hairs stand on end and my stomach twist.

The day he was shot, Ashley did not speak to me. She crawled into bed and cried. Her best friend was hauled off into the woods they played in and buried. Like me, it would take her years to unpack what happened. She would insist in every childhood retelling, that I had hit Dog first.

We never had another aggressive dog. We also never had another German Shepherd.