No, it was I alone among my litter who had paid attention to the nuances of human speech. It was I who understood exactly what the dishwashers were saying as they passed Tug around and planned his future.
And I knew what the words meant when I heard Pete say, "If there's one puppy, there'll be more! Let's take a look!"
I had just a few seconds to hide under the corner of a nearby flattened cardboard carton, but there was no time to waken and warn my remaining brother or my sister as the quartet of aproned men approached our secret home in search of pets.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Chapter 2
I LAY TREMBLING UNDER THE DAMP, warped cardboard, trying to make myself small. I was small, of course, still a partially grown pup. Though we were clearly descended from distinguished members of herding and hunting breeds (none of those miniatures or toys designed only for laps were in our background, I am certain), I was still of a size that could be held in one large human hand. And I was frighteningly aware that several sets of such hands were approaching my hiding place. I tried to make myself invisible by stretching my body and legs out as flat as possible. Suddenly I experienced once again an impulse toward poetry, born of panic.
Flee! Flee! Flee! were the words that came to my mind as I cringed there in terror. Then, unbidden, they were followed by Gotta pee! Gotta pee! and though it was true enough, my physical urge brought on by fear, what caught my attention was the sound of the rhyme. For a brief second I almost forgot my precarious position as I felt a desire to play more with the words, to rearrange them in a more pleasing way. But the danger that confronted me won out, and I postponed any poetic yearnings in order to concentrate on remaining hidden. I thought nervously about my tail.
I was not certain whether my tail was exposed. Surprisingly, a dog does not have much awareness of his own tail. Pride in it, certainly; my own, though still young and incomplete, was beginning to show signs of developing into a particularly magnificent tail, fringed and straight. But awareness of its minute-to-minute placement was difficult to achieve without actually turning around to look and assess.
"Here they are!" It was the voice of Pete.
"Looky there. I thought she was eating a lot." The thin black man was speaking. His voice was not at all cruel, just concerned.
I did not dare to peek. They were quite near. I hoped my tail, if it was exposed, would not move and betray me. Considering its importance as an appendage, the sad lack of control over one's tail is astounding.
I could hear the men talking. "Counting the one Pete's got, three of them little buggers. They're cute, aren't they?"
"Maybe I'll take two home instead of just the one. Whaddaya think? Will my girlfriend kill me if I take two?"
"Nah. Women like puppies. She'll start talking babytalk to them the minute you walk through the door."
"Find me another female, would you?"
I waited, shivering and listening, as they picked up Tussle and Wispy. I pictured the embarrassing scrutiny taking place.
Then I cringed, crouching there under the cardboard; and probably my tail, unwilled by my brain, wiggled in humiliation for my brothers (and I was glad that they had not learned the nuances of human speech, and so would not know) as once again the dishwashers, almost in unison, pronounced each puppy to be female.
I heard the men gather them up. I heard the frightened whimpers. I did nothing. What could I do? I stayed hidden.
I have carried that guilt with me all my life.
"This one don't look too good," someone said. I knew he must be referring to Wispy. Her fur was so discolored and sparse. I would like to think there was compassion in his voice.
"Ah, bring it along. If nobody wants it, we'll drop it off at the animal shelter."
My heart leaped. I knew the word shelter and that it meant, for humans at least, food and clothing and a bed. Sometimes, on rainy nights, several human occupants of the alley where I had lived since my birth decided to go to "the shelter." It was crowded, I had heard them say, noisier than they liked, and lacking in privacy, but in times of stress and need, it was a place of comfort and respite.
I had not known that there was an animal shelter, too.
"Yeah," I heard Pete say as they headed toward the restaurant door, their aprons weighted with puppies. "They'll put it to sleep at the shelter."
I was relieved. Maybe, I thought, I should have revealed myself and gone along. To be put to sleep—after some food and perhaps warm milk and some playtime—sounded like an appealing thing, and would no doubt involve some nice ragged blankets, free of fleas.
I wriggled free of my cardboard and scampered toward the restaurant door.
"Wait!" I yipped. "I was here all along! I'm part of the group! Can I go? Can I be put to sleep?"
But the door had closed.
Night was coming, I noticed.
Sadly I plodded back to the corner behind the trash cans. I curled up, my tail all the way around to my chin, and tried to get comfy. I began to play with rhyming words again. All alone! What to do?
Brothers gone! Sister, also!
Very quickly, thinking it over, I realized my mistake and corrected it to Sister, too! How pleasant it sounded, with the words in order, and in rhyme. What a comfort poetry could be in one's life. At that point, cold and lonely, I needed what comfort I could find.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Mother had been away for hours. She had never left us for such a long time before. As much as I longed for her, and her warm belly to sleep against, and the supply of milk that it always provided, I dreaded seeing her face when she returned and found her babies gone.
Finally, still waiting, I dozed off.
***
I woke again, chilly, sometime in the night. I wiggled my nose and sniffed Essence of Mother, that particularly reassuring smell that said she was nearby. But the familiar scent seemed slightly different. It was mingled with Essence of Other Dog, Male. Puzzled, I yawned, sneezed once, and raised my head to look around.
There she was, at the end of the alley. I stretched, tiptoed over to the side of the trash can, and peered around to get a good look. My mother was standing there with a tall, dark, and handsome Doberman. She was ... well, I guess the only word would he flirting. Her tail was moving with a very contrived swish, and she arched her neck to rub against the Doberman's sleek shoulders. It was cheap, trashy behavior, in my opinion, and I was shocked to see it.