In
the darkness of her shallow grave, she felt a pang of remorse at the
loss of her mother and her brothers and sisters. Even now, she could
still remember her mother's scent, the sound of her breathing, the
pattern of the spots on her fur. So like hers.
Back
then, eating to her heart's content and playing with her littermates
had been her whole world. Occasionally, they would leave the pen to run
through the tall grass, but always under the supervision of one of the
Tall Ones. Of course, in those days, she'd paid no mind to their maze of
fences and gates. She had been too busy exploring the sights and
scents. She had been so very content then.
That
contentment had ended when the other Tall Ones came to take her away.
At first they had intrigued her, with their strange new smells and
constant attention. She had particularly enjoyed playing with their
child, chasing and being chased. He was so soft and pink and when she
licked his face he would make a sound that was not quite like squeal and
not quite like a growl. When they had put the collar around her neck,
she thought nothing of it. She had thought it was another toy like the
ball or the stick.
As
the sun had set, she found herself bundled into a cage -- its bottom
was lined with newspapers and a strange-smelling blanket. Before she
could even utter a yelp of protest, she had found herself in their car. A
long sickening ride later, she had found herself at her new home.
Thoughts
of that place stirred her further. Rage goaded her, drove her to begin
digging. Dirt and snow filled her mouth, choking her howls. The earth
clung to her greedily, sucked at her. She was so tired, she just wanted
to lie there and let go -- but she couldn't. They had taken so much from
her. In the end, they had taken everything.
Despite
her initial fears, she had adapted to her new life quickly. The Tall
Ones fit into roles just like her own kind did. The male was called
"Dad" or sometimes "Danny", a female was called "Ma" or "Shirl" and
their child, "Billy". Everything had many names, even her, sometimes she
was "Puppy" or "Doggie" but mostly she was "Patches". It had felt good
to have a name, felt good to belong.
For
a time, she knew nothing but joy. There were always treats and pettings
to be had. She would lie on Dad's feet as he started mesmerized into
his box of colored lights. Sometimes she would play in the yard, running
from one end of the fenced perimeter to the other and chasing the
occasional squirrel. She had accompanied Mom on her walks, enjoying the
feel of the wind and the thick soup of odors it brought to her nose. She
would play with the boy until they were both exhausted and then at
night she would sleep under his bed.
But
sometimes there had been pain. When she had messed on the floor, or
chewed on the carpet, the male or the female would rain blows down upon
her.
"No! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad dog!" they would cry.
As
the summers passed, she got better and better at following their
strange rituals but some of the rituals still didn't make sense.
Sometimes they had fed her from the table, other times they had swatted
at her for begging. Sometimes they allowed her lie on the soft couch,
other times they had yelled when they found her resting there. Sometimes
Mom hit Dad, sometimes Dad hit Mom, and they both hit Billy.
It
was for Billy that she'd damned herself. Dad had been in the throws of
his strange madness; the madness that always seemed to be brought on by
the strange smelling water he drank. The boy had tried to run when Dad
turned on him. He'd almost made it too. He was young and strong, just on
the cusp of his adolescence, but he'd stumbled and fallen. His father
was on him, lifting him up by the throat, shaking him like prey.
The
boy had been like a brother to her. He had always fed and watered her.
Patches had reacted the only way she knew how -- she had growled a
challenge. She had bared her teeth and readied herself. A warning nip,
she had been sure that was all she would need.
The
man had dropped Billy and rounded on her with a kick. The kick had
caught her in the belly, knocking the breath from her. She had wobbled
on her legs trying to recapture the boldness she'd felt just moments
ago. He had came at her with his fists, dazzling her with the ferocity
of his blows. For the first time in her life, Patches had thought that
she might die.
"Fucking dog! Growl at me you cocksucker?"
"Dad! Leave her alone Dad!"
The
darkness that had claimed her then was much like the darkness she found
herself in now. Except that then she'd woken to find herself in the
basement, locked into the barred cage they'd brought her here in.
Through a fog of pain she had waited.
Time
had crawled past. The cage had soon become too small for her -- she
couldn't stand or turn around, she could only lie there and wait. There
had been a window in the basement. She had watched the grass flutter in
the breeze and had wondered when they would come for her.
Then
the final day had come. Pressure had begun to build in her bladder. She
knew better than to lose control in the house. She had to get outside.
She had to let them know. There was a special whine she had used for
just this occasion.
The
whine had brought Dad storming down the steps. He had bellowed and
kicked the side of the crate again and again, terrifying her.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"
When he had exhausted himself, he had stumbled back up the stairs and slammed the basement door shut.
A
day had passed. Patches had soiled herself three times before Billy and
Mom came down to get her. They had cleaned her, cooed softly to her and
fed her some of their food. When they took her outside, Billy had wept
to see her limp.
After
a few hours of bliss, they had brought her back down to the basement
and put her back into her cage. Thankfully, they had cleaned it first.
That
became the pattern of her life. All day and all night locked into that
tiny box. A few hours of freedom in the afternoon was all she had left.
Every night, it seemed the shouting and thudding upstairs became louder.
If
she made even the slightest noise, Dad would come down to shout and
beat her. She could sense that he was trying to break something within
her; the part of himself that was already broken.
Time
had passed so slowly in the cage, it was maddening. Occasionally, she
had gnawed at the edges of her prison, hoping to free herself. She had
gnawed at the cold, reflective lattice until her mouth tasted of blood
but the door never loosened and the walls never gave away. On warm days,
Billy would take her for short walks, sometimes she would hope that
they weren't coming back -- that they would just keep walking and
walking forever.
As
the days wore into weeks, she had found her periods of freedom growing
shorter. Billy had been there less and less and Mom had begun to carry
the smell of the strange water on her was well. The boy had become a
man, and had begun to walk and sound like his father. A swagger had
appeared in his step that somehow made Patches nervous.
With
her time in the yard growing less and less, she had become more frantic
to enjoy it. She would race wildly in circles; she would entice Mom or
Billy to play with her. They rarely did.
As
the fall had become the winter, they had begun to forget to let her
out. As hours had become days, she had began soiling her cage and
herself again. When Mom had found her in this state she would groan and
called her a "Bad dog." Which didn't seem fair.
When
Billy had found her he would whisper "Damnit Patches" and call for Mom.
If Dad found her, he would yell and let her out just so he could shove
her nose in the mess she'd made.
Finally, she had began to cower at the sound of someone treading down
the basement steps. She had cowered and shook when a hand was raised to
her. When Dad saw her do this, he had made a noise that was not quite a
bark and not quite a growl.
"Not feelin' so tough now, are you?"
With
those words, Patches had found her exile lifted, to a point. She was
only confined to the accursed cage at night but she had remained in the
basement. Billy's visits had dwindled further and further. Sometimes
they had forgotten to feed her, sometimes they didn't change her water.
When she had cried or barked out of need or loneliness, they had banged
on the floor and shouted at her.
The
first few inches of the grave had already begun to ice over. It cracked
in protest as her nose broke the surface of the grave. A savage wind
blew litter and shell casings back and forth. She saw the moon through a
veil of dirt and struggled to reach it.
The
miserable routine her life had settled into ended when Patches found
herself unable to hold down food. At first her vomitings had been
rewarded with beatings and scoldings. Even Billy was striking her now,
"Stupid dog! What the fuck is wrong with you?" His condemnation had made
her want to die.
The more she had tried to eat, the sicker she became. Patches had heard them shouting above her.
" . . . damn dog is sick."
"Maybe if you stopped hitting it."
" . . . please no fighting just once . . . "
"Don't fuckin' talk to me that way! Besides, maybe if you took it out for a walk, got it some fresh air."
" . . . that would be nice. We could all take it out for a walk together . . . "
"Dad, if I weren't so busy with -- "
"Only thing you're busy with is playing with your dick in your room!"
" . . . there was blood in her vomit this time. She's wasting away . . . "
"Fuck you!"
"What did you say to me? You little shit!"
" . . . we have to do something . . . "
That
night Billy had come down into the basement. Patches had wagged her
tail when he collared and leashed her. There was something about his
scent and posture that felt wrong to her, but still she had hoped
against hope that this walk would be the one that never ended.
She
had lead him up the basement stairs, past Mom sleeping on the couch and
out the door only to find Dad waiting there for her. He had reeked of
his foul water and he had carried a long dark stick in his hands. She
had never seen anything like it before. Billy had led her into the thin
forest behind their home; Dad had fallen into line behind them. They had
spoken uneasily.
"Do we have to do this?"
"You gonna be a pussy all you life?"
"Can't we just take her to the vet?"
"You got two grand to waste, you fuckin' dumbass? It's just a fuckin' dog for Christ sa kes."
The
recent snowfall had made the woods had take on an almost mystical
aspect, she had shivered with delight at the way the snow felt under her
feet. The moon had seemed to follow them, its light filtering through
the trees. The cold had blunted the scents in the air but what she could
smell was intriguing enough. There had been something strange in the
air that night, the sickly-sweet odor of meat gone to rot. It had been
strong and thick; the wind had carried it over her in waves. Something
was coming, she had realized, something different and strange. She had
been tempted to loose a howl of greetin g but then had thought better of
it.
When
they had arrived some distance from the house they had stopped. Her
senses were driving her mad. Couldn't they tell? Couldn't they taste it
in the air?
"You gonna do it or do I have to?"
"I can't."
"Tits on a bull that's all you are boy."
With
a long, shuddering sigh, Billy had unhooked the leash and stepped back
behind his father. She had wagged her tail uncertainly. Swaying
slightly, Dad had hefted the stra nge stick, propping the thicker end
against his shoulder, and pointing the other, smaller end at her. She
had cocked her head with curiosity.
There
had been a sound like a crack of thunder. Pain had lanced though her
side, knocking her off her feet. Hot warmth had spread across her fur.
She had looked desperately to Billy but he only watched from his
father's shadow as she had struggled to move, floundering painfully in
the snow.
"Jesus Dad she's still moving!"
"Shut the fuck up will you? I'm trying to aim!"
Through
her torment, she had realized that they were doing this to her somehow.
Her first thought had been, What did I do? What have I done wrong?
Another
flash of lightning, another bolt of pain, this time right below her
throat. Blood had gurgled up into her mouth, choking her. Coldness had
swept up over her, robbing her of everything but a sudden blossoming
rage.
How
dare they? How dare they when she'd given so much? She had gnashed her
teeth, dark spittle spraying onto the snow. The moon had loomed over
her, a silent witness. She had made a vow to it, a vow and a curse.
"There, that's done it. Go back to the garage, get a shovel."
"But she's not -- "
"She will be. Now get a fucking shovel before I put you in the Goddamn grave with her."
The
rage had remained even after she died, even after they had buried her
in a hastily dug grave. It had gnawed at her. Somehow, it had spurred
her lifeless limbs to action.
With
a grunt, she tore herself from the grave, her grimy, bloody tongue
lolled from her gaping jaws. An army of foul-smelling shapes surrounded
her, passed by her on every side. They groaned as they hobbled, moving
with one mind, with one purpose towards unsuspecting civilization. A
curious sense of belonging washed over her, she knew she was welcome in
their ranks. She knew that there would be no beatings or cages for her
now. And meat, there would always be warm, pulsing meat to sate the
hunger that clouded her thoughts. Cities of meat. A world of meat. All
she had to do was join the shambling mass.
But not yet.
Entrails dangling beneath her, the dog named Patches began to make her way home. The moon seemed to shimmer with approval.
