The Dogs and My Mother

I've written this story for entry into the Writing Contest sponsored by @bycoleman. The rules are that it has to be true, has to have an emotional impact, and must be between 250 and 2500 words.

Here's my true story:

Boots, with the family cat

My mother used to say she wasn't fond of animals. I think she just didn't want to take on more responsibility. The animals loved her. They sensed what she couldn't admit: she was kind, caring and receptive to their affection. Certainly she was tested in her disavowal, for we had nine dogs, and one cat, all at the same time.

There were six children in the family, three boys and three girls. With nine dogs, each of us was able to claim one for our own. This made no difference to the dogs. They apparently felt they owed allegiance to my mother, and pretty much no one else. All the dogs, that is, except Boots.

Boots was an extraordinary animal. He was huge, part St. Bernard and part Great Dane. My father found him scrounging for food behind a restaurant. The animal was docile, so my father put him in the car and took him home to us. Then my father did what he always did. He left.

My mother cared for us. My mother cared for Boots, and for the other animals that had somehow gravitated to our home. It was remarkable the way this came about. We never adopted a dog. They all came our way, and stayed, despite the fact that we didn't have enough food for them.

One of the dogs, Shed, was a German Shepherd, a wild animal who survived somehow in the rural environs that surrounded our house. Shed simply showed up at our door. From time to time he would wander off, but always he came back. Shed loved my mother. He trusted her.

I remember the night it stormed violently. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. We were in the kitchen, gathered around a wood-burning stove, when a sudden crash broke our peace. Shed had jumped through one of the small window panes in the back door. This wild animal, who carried battle scars on his body, wanted to come inside and be with my mother during the storm.

Most of our dogs co-existed with little conflict. Only once was this Pax Domestica violated. A distant relative had given my mother his Chihuahua, Chico. It was the kind of gift she couldn't decline. This relative was the source of many of our clothes, and he didn't want his dog anymore.

The Chihuahua was not with us for long. He was outside one day when we heard a terrible howling. By the time my mother reached the disturbance, Shed had torn Chico's throat open. My mother wasn't deterred by bared teeth or growling. She picked up the fatally wounded Chihuahua and brought him to our couch. There, in the space of a couple of moments, Chico died.

My mother was angry with Shed. She chased him off. But he came back, as he always had, and she accepted the wildness of his nature.

It was probably because of his size that Boots didn't have a problem with Shed, or any other dog. Shed certainly wouldn't challenge him, and Boots didn't challenge anyone. He was the gentlest, kindest animal we ever had. There were times we tried to climb on his back and ride him as though he was a pony. He would just sidle away and regard us in puzzlement. Our cat would find a warm place under his leg and snuggle up.

My mother loved Boots, and he loved all of us. He was a quiet presence in our games and activities. It seemed he just wanted a family, and he'd found one.

My mother's affection for Boots was cemented when he saved my younger sister's life. Dog and child were sitting on the back porch. The stairs to the ground below were steep and at the bottom was a small cement slab. My mother supervised from the kitchen. She watched through the very window Shed had smashed.

The accident happened so quickly, she could do nothing. My sister tripped. She fell backwards, down the steep stairway. In the span of a breath, Boots was on her. Her caught her coat collar, held her, and dragged her up to the porch. My mother was there by that time and she took over.

The loyalty of our dogs to our family is hard to understand in practical terms, because we weren't a reliable source of food, not for them or ourselves. There were times when we had to ask a relative if we could "borrow" a box of spaghetti. On those days, and many others, the dogs did not get leftovers, because there were none.

I don't remember which dog turned up dead first. We didn't understand what was happening until the second body appeared in our storm cellar. Someone was poisoning our dogs.

There had been complaints that the dogs were a nuisance. My mother didn't keep them tied or penned and they foraged wherever they could find food. Whoever was doing the poisoning didn't get Shed, and didn't get Boots. Maybe the poison wasn't powerful enough to kill such large animals, or maybe these two were clever, and avoided the toxic bait. Unfortunately, poison wasn't the only danger they faced.

Shed didn't come back one day, and then he didn't come back at all. My older brother said he'd heard a dog who looked like Shed had been run down by a truck, on a distant road. Maybe. Maybe not. Shed led a wild life and likely came to a violent end.

Boots was the last to go. I can't say for certain he was killed. Until I sat down to write this piece, I refused to contemplate what did happen to him.

We had to leave our home and we had to do it quickly. My father had threatened to kill my mother if she attempted to move away, so she made arrangements quietly with her family in New York City. They had space for us and a few things, not space for a large dog. I came home one afternoon and discovered a man had taken Boots away in a truck. My mother assured us Boots would find a good home.

But I understood this was said to buffer the truth, which was that the town had taken Boots. There wouldn't be a family. Who would want a middle-aged St. Bernard/Great Dane with a shady past? He'd be caged, and then killed. I couldn't bear the thought of that intelligent animal, with his awareness of betrayal and abandonment.

Even so...part of me harbored hope, a hope that softens the hurt as I write today.

There might have been someone who saw my magnificent dog, who recognized the gentleness in his eyes. Maybe Boots was adopted into a family with children, and large yard. Maybe he lived his final days in peace and comfort. And there, surrounded by people who loved him, he was never hungry again.