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"WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog""
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snoocharoo 1 desperate attention whore postings
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01-30-03, 09:36 PM (EST)
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"WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog""
I remember that day in early spring when mother came home from work around the usual supper hour. The day was like any other and found my brother and I sitting across from each other at the worn kitchen table, struggling through the division problems that Mr. Stein, our 5th grade teacher had cursed upon us. Mr. Stein, what a wretched man! He had red, rheumy eyes and the drawn yellowish pallor of a wax figure. Monotone and mundane, his droning instructions lulled me into a state of semi-consciousness that was only broken by the thunderous ring of the recess bell. As I sat at that table I hungered for summer vacation and salivated at the memories of lazy days by the brook where at the end of my fishing pole a brilliant trout floundered in death’s throes and the sunlight glinted like diamonds off the water.

Oh well, daydreaming isn’t going to get my homework finished…. Just as I begin to dig into a particularly hefty problem I heard a car door close and the clicking of high-heeled shoes coming up the walk.

The scent of my mother entered the house before her physical person came through the door. How I love that scent; warm, fresh and comforting, it seemed to surround her and waft from her ragged coat and scuffed pocketbook. Mother would usually rush in with a smile, lovingly kiss my brother and I on the head and start the nightly preparations before my father came home. Father was adamant about having his dinner on the table by 6:00 and mother had many a scar to show for her untimeliness. But this evening was different, when mother entered she smiled like a schoolgirl and opened her threadbare coat revealing beneath a small, thin, mangy, mongrel of a pup she'd rescued from the side of the road.

My brother Thomas bolted from the metal chair in which he sat, knocking it to the floor. A look of wonder and amazement came to his face as he quizzed mother about the puppy. “Mommy, can we keep it?” “What will Daddy say?” “Awwwww…Mommy he’s so little and cute”. Mother held the pup in her arms as one would an infant. She motioned to me; “Robbie, be mamma’s angel and go fetch the first aid kit from the linen closet along with the old towels. And for heaven’s sake please make sure you get the old towels, no telling what kind of hell would have to be paid if your father found out the new towels were used on a dog.”
Mother, Thomas and I ministered to the little pup that couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. The mutt was injured, part of its left ear was missing and it was covered in dirt, fleas, road debris and motor oil. Mother cleaned the pup gently and bandaged its wounds, Thomas and I watched in awe as the little pup snuggled into my mother’s breast and fell asleep. It seemed at that point that mother and the beaten pup had become soul mates.

We’d never had a pet before, father wouldn’t permit it and I feared that he would make us get rid of the pup, just like the kitten. That poor little kitten…

The kitten was a stray that Thomas found under the back porch. He always played under the porch when father was upstairs doing his business with one of the many women he brought home while mother was working. It was funny to me at the time that father had so much business to conduct, especially in light of the fact that he had no job. Only now in my adult years do I understand the stomach churning nature of his business.

Little Thomas, maybe 5 at the time clad in Oshkosh overalls, gathered the kitten in his arms and ran upstairs to show his treasure to my father. My brother, never having mastered the art of good timing, had apparently burst in on my father and the thing that sat on top of him moaning and undulating while they were conducting business. As for what actually happened I’m still unsure because father silenced Thomas with a blow to the mouth that knocked out the first of his baby teeth, he has never uttered a word about it and maybe that was a good thing. From the darkest chamber of my mind I recall coming up the brook hill and seeing my father, clad only in his under shorts taking after Thomas with a length of 2x4. Thomas frozen in fear and shock just stood there. In my head I screamed, "RUN, Thomas, RUN" But alas he didn't hear my thoughts and father roughly grabbed the kitten that squealed in pain and beat it to death. Blood flew from the lifeless body of the innocent creature and the wood length bore the tattoo of its demise. Father then turned on Thomas “You little bastard! I told you not to bother me when I’m doing business, now clean this mess up and get the hell out of my site”.

We never told mother for fear of beatings to come, but she knew. Mother knew what had happened, perhaps not the details but mother knew. The way women always know when something has blemished the innocence of their children. My brother has never been the same. It made me ill to think upon it.

“Mommy?” “Is daddy gonna hurt the puppy?” I asked. Mother looked at me, she glowed as she lovingly stroked the puppy. “No honey, this is Mother’s Dog and no one will ever harm Mother’s Dog. I saved his life, he owes me". How odd...now looking back I realize what an odd bond Mother and her Dog had.

Through the years mother suffered many blows administered by my father but none were quite as harsh as the night she brought her dog home. I recall her crying and pleading with him not to strike her in the face as she had to go to work the next day, the little pup yapping and tearing at my father, trying in vain to protect my mother. He didn’t care; it had been a long time since he cared for my mother or anything for that matter. He picked up the pup by it's small tail and threw it into the row of trashcans that sat behind the dilapidated garage, he then set out for the comfort of the bar he called home.

At some point in the night mother retrieved the pup and brought it into the house. She cooed to the puppy softly, "Revenge is a dish best served cold". My father may have won the battle, but mother won the war, at least that day. After all, the pup WAS Mother’s Dog and that strange agreement they entered into was sealed forever.

For some reason father never took after Mother's Dog again. To this day I don't know why.

The months slipped by and mother’s dog grew. She was often seen down by the brook on her days off walking and talking with her dog. They had secrets and promises to each other, it was spooky and surreal to hear her softly muttering responses to the dog when she thought no one was around. One time I swear that I heard that dog answer her.

Sometimes she would come sit near me and let her dog splash in the brook chasing away all of the prized trout I was determined to add to my creel. I didn’t really mind though, it was nice to see my mother smile, she did it so rarely. Mother’s Dog was beautiful; he had grown strong and lean with soft black fur and velvety ears. He frolicked in the cool water and flushed the ducks from their gathering place. Ya know how they say people often resemble the pets they chose? Well in mother’s case it was proven. Mother was a beautiful woman; strong and lean with glossy black hair and brilliant eyes. She was far more beautiful than any of the “business partners” my father brought home.

That image hit me like a brick just then. What makes a man blind to the beauty of his own wife?? What kind of vile disease poisons the soul of a man making him seek remedy in the arms and between the legs of vacant drug addicted whores not fit to lick my mother’s boots. Sometimes I could hear them upstairs, the shrill laughter of those women. The squeaking of the bedsprings, the moans and the heavy breathing terrified me. Thomas and I just sat fixated in front of the TV, trying to drown out the sound of the violation of my mother’s marriage bed, petting mother’s dog as he stood sentry and growled that low guttural, rusty sound until my father left for Duke's and left us in peace.

It’s funny when you’re grown how memories take on a movie like quality and you see your life’s screenplay acted out in your mind’s eye. The moments that define us are often so wrenching that we simply must convince ourselves that it was just a TV show or a movie. Funny how the mind protects us...

One time I recall Mother’s Dog laying under the table in the shabby living room. Father had just stumbled in, arm around some piece of human wreckage with absurdly, high red hair and a pock marked face. It turned my stomach to look at them so I fixed my stare onto the TV. The thing with it’s tinder hooks lighting on father’s arms spoke at me in a voice laden with stale cigarette smoke, booze and heaven knows what else. “ Ooooo…. what a handsome boy he is Jim. How old are you honey? 14, 15? I bet you ain’t never seen a naked lady cept for in a magazine or your mamma, who I hear ain’t too easy on the eyes.” “Why doncha come on up honey, I’ll make you man today. Doncha wanna be a man like your daddy? Me an your daddy’ll touch you like you never been touched before”. She cackled like a hen at my father, “ and if your lucky Jim I’ll do the boy for free”. My father just weaved drunkenly back and forth, who knows if he even heard her.

It was maybe the blink of an eye later that I remembered Mother’s Dog only because a field of black blurred my vision. Mother’s Dog sprang from beneath the table spilling the magazines, TV Guides and potato chip bags to the stained carpet. A flurry of red hair, black fur, white teeth, flesh and blood consumed my field of vision. Screams filled the air as Mother’s Dog attacked that piece of crap with the sagging breasts and ample ass. Unfortunately though for Mother’s Dog, father was a quick, strong man and brutally kicked Mother’s Dog sending him flying across the room. Unscathed by the experience my father and that thing preceded upstairs to their business as I gathered Mother’s injured Dog and hid in the hall closet. In that closet, behind the racks of coats and shoes I swear as God as my witness that dog of my mother's spoke to me in my head. The same phrase over and over again in my mother's voice, "revenge is a dish best served cold". It was scary and I was soon convinced that dog was no ordinary dog and had some plans of his own.

Mother came running through the door that night, tears streaming down her cheeks, immediately she ran to her dog and they spoke the secret language that only the two of them knew, the same language they spoke at the brook, that murmuring, indecipherable litany. Mother’s Dog was injured but not permanently, he must have somehow told her of my father’s business activities for the only words I could comprehend spilling from her mouth were “Don’t worry, revenge is a dish best served cold”. After she comforted her dog, she went upstairs and changed the sheets.

I hated my father, but feared him. We all did I suppose. It was a shame really, father used to be a good man, jolly and fun but that was before he lost his job at the mill, before the bottle he drank out of started drinking out of him. I recall him swinging Thomas and I on the old tire swing that hung from the Sycamore tree in our front yard. We used to fish together and race each other home from the brook. Some days we’d lie in the cool grass and watch the clouds roll, talking of baseball and man topics as my mother called them.

Then the mill where my father worked shut down and in many ways my father shut down as well. For a while he looked for work but there was none to be found in our small town except for maybe a dishwasher’s job at Jenny’s Diner. The inevitable came to fruition and my father’s days became a never-ending routine of drinking, screwing and tormenting his family. This continued for as long as he remained in that hellish house. How my Mother tolerated it for all those years I still don't know.

But for some reason known only to my mother and her dog, she stayed and put up with the hatred and the abuse. Ever vigilant, ever faithful, ever loyal. Mother, just coolly waiting, waiting, and waiting...that strange dog at her side growling at my Father.

As the days became years our lives had taken very different roads since that night in December when the stars were high in the velvet sky. That night when you could look up and point to the constellation Canis Major. That night Mother's Dog was long last satiated.

"YATZEE...AGAIN!!!!" Thomas excitedly shouted drawing groans from Mother and I. Thomas was the Yatzee champ and playing with him was a lesson in humility, but fun just the same. Thomas had just turned 16 the day before, an event that thankfully my father was too busy to attend, so the mood around the house was light and for perhaps the first time in a long time enjoyable. My mother smiled and looked like a fashion model with beautiful straight white teeth and stunning eyes. Even Mother's Dog appeared relaxed, though highly unlikely. He lay with his head on Mother's lap. If dogs had human expressions I believe that Mother's Dog was smiling.

No, he wasn't smiling now that I think back, he was grinning. Grinning like a fat man eyeing a desert tray, tail swishing back and forth. Now and again Mother would mutter something in that babble language and her dog would bristle...waiting.

Whether it was the screen door slamming or thunderous roar that stirred me from my waking slumber I don't recall, but what I saw was my father picking my mother up by the hair and dragging her across the room, leaving Yatzee cards like a trail of breadcrumbs behind her. Instinct caused Thomas and I to scatter quickly out of harm's reach. Frozen in fear I watched in horror as my father strangled my mother before our very eyes. Thomas crying in aguish as the choking sounds filled the room. I pleaded with him to stop, I beat at his back and did my best to take his feet out, but he was like a madman, high on adrenaline, strong as a raging bull. I could see my mother's face red, wet and bruised, her eyes searching frantically, gasping for precious air. It was all happening in slow motion but so quickly...

She barely produced a sound when she said it but over Thomas' wailing, my shouting, my Mother's dying gags and my father's blind rage, Mother's Dog heard it. In fact, Mother's Dog had been waiting a very long time to hear it.

Whatever pact my mother made with that strange dog was being fulfilled before my eyes. For as I stand here today I can tell you that I have seen the face of revenge when Mother's Dog became something so horrible I could barely conceive of it's existence. Her dog became something unworldly, something ungodly.

He uttered that low, guttural, rusty sound and his eyes glowed as fiery red as Satan's furnace, his black fur stood up on end and became spikes, hundreds of spikes. The dog doubled in size and its head and jaws expanded as its mouth split open revealing three sets of teeth sharper than a surgeon's blade. The smell of sulphur and ozone filled the air that crackled and glowed around him. His powerful muscles flexed and rippled causing the spikes to wave like sheaths of wheat in a breeze.

The beast that had become Mother's Dog was on my father before father could object. The ripping was so grotesque it hurt and assaulted our ears. I saw my father's right arm sail across the room and hit the wall with a sickening thud. My father stared at his shoulder that abruptly ended in a web of tendons, gristle and gore. His mouth formed a "O" shape as if he were about to ask a question but we never knew what the question was because it was then than Mother's Dog ate my father's face. At some point, maybe after the thing ingested my father's eyes, I fainted.

When I woke, still reeling and shaking from the massacre I had witnessed, the room was still. Thomas lay in a semi-stupor next to what remained of my father's arm. It may have three, maybe four days before Thomas came back to Mother and I, if he ever really came back at all. Mother and her dog were gone, a trail of blood led out the door to the well-worn brook path. I tended to Thomas, not as much out of compassion but out of fear that the beast would return. Quietly I ushered him to the back bedroom and tucked him in. In a haze I grabbed the bucket and mop from the broom closet and set out to bring order and sanity back to my world.

When she returned she carried a plastic trash bag, her dog by her side. The bag went into the chest freezer in the basement, Mother's Dog licked his chops, turned three times and lay down to sleep. Mother and I never spoke of what happened, time washed it from our mind and we were okay with that.

Thomas had enlisted in the military the day he turned 18 and was off battling the “sand niggers” in the Middle East as my father had called them. I had long since gone my own way, determined to never to become my father and to cleanse my memory of that night. It took me 12 years to find my balls and visit my mother.

And so I walked into the place that I had called home but was never really a home, at least not one of the storybook varieties. On the porch Mother’s Dog jumped up to greet me. He licked my face and allowed me to scratch behind his half ear.

The dog had aged well considering his advanced years, not many dogs live to as long as Mother's Dog, but then again he was no ordinary dog. His muzzle sported a white beard and his stride was bit slower, perhaps all the times my father had brutalized and kicked that mongrel finally were catching up to him.

I pushed open the rusty screen door and there stood my mother at the counter, slicing what appeared to be a roast. She was glorious in the bright sunlight that filtered into the run-down kitchen. Her glossy black hair now streaked with white showed that time had taken its toll on her as well. Stiffly she moved toward me and embraced me in a hug that made me feel as if I were melting into her. Those embraces would always make me feel as if I were a child.

“Awwwww…Robbie, my baby angel, I knew you were coming” “ I’m making special cold roast sandwiches for the occasion, I know that’s your favorite.” This took me aback for I had not told anyone that I was coming home, how did she know? Then I looked at Mother’s Dog and understood how she knew to expect me.
I smiled at my mother and took a cup of coffee from the pot next to where she was busy preparing my favorite meal.

Grayish colored meat neatly sliced on the cutting board.

Courageously I asked her “Mother, do you ever think about dad?”
Mother’s Dog uttered a low guttural sound, mother shushed him and he turned three times and lay quietly in his favorite sunny spot.

We never spoke of my father again.


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 RE: WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog" Drive My Car 01-31-03 1
 RE: WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog" Spidey 01-31-03 2

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Drive My Car 20045 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"

01-31-03, 09:47 AM (EST)
Click to EMail Drive%20My%20Car Click to send private message to Drive%20My%20Car Click to view user profile Click to check IP address of the poster
1. "RE: WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog""
I read this yesterday Snoochie.
I Loved it.
You are very talented.
Very visual and full of feeling.
I like how you took the story to a supernatural place, yet kept it from being too far out.

I hope you write more.


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Spidey 6259 desperate attention whore postings
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01-31-03, 12:00 PM (EST)
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2. "RE: WSC2 SS "Mother's Dog""
Wow. Great story. Thank you!



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