My Mother and the Dog

*This is an excerpt from a much larger work that I’ve been working on. The story is untitled at the moment, but it’s about the life of a girl named Camila. This particular story of hers hasn’t found a place in the larger story yet, but I like it, so I thought I’d share it. All you really need to know to read it is that throughout the story Camila is grappling with her mother’s death, attempting to come to terms with who her mother was and what she had meant to her. I should probably also mention Camila’s sense of humor and sarcasm, it’s strong. So, I hope you enjoy, and, please, tell me what you think.

I had a puppy once. I named him Charlie. He was a golden. I loved him. But my mother sure didn’t.

                We had been living in our old house then, Wellville still a foreign land to us.  At any rate, Charlie showed up one morning barking and begging for food. He was dirty and thin and in need of help, my help to be exact. So, of course, my mother turned him away immediately. But he didn’t leave; he just sat there and pissed off my mother. I really think that he hated her as much as she hated him. But, then again, he’s a dog.

                So my beloved mother took it upon herself to contact the good people at animal control. They came and gathered Charlie, did some kind of dog background check or something, and then asked if we wanted to keep him. Dad said yes and my mother said no, almost simultaneously. She gave dad a look and he looked back, and there was this long pause. Then my dad spoke again, and we got to keep the dog. Mother never forgave my father for that.

                Charlie and I got along splendidly. Unlike my mother, he took interest in almost every aspect of my life- he even wanted to sleep in my bed! Again, a dog, I know. But still, I was happy. Mother wasn’t.

                No, dear mother was not going to rest until the dog was no more, until she could be sure that he was gone. She was kind of like one of those mindless villains in action movies, you know, the ones that are cruel just to seemingly see how cruel they can be. Stealing orphanages from homeless children and dogs from friendless daughters. Well, you know what I mean.

                We were outside, having a picnic. Mother, as usual, was glaring at Charlie evilly and for no reason. Charlie was playing with me, rolling around in the backyard. It was summer. Dad was at the grill next to the house. A perfect little slice of life. Then mother advanced and put her, “take away my daughter’s only source of affection” plan into action.

                Mother walked casually up to us smiling. So out of the ordinary and unexpected was this act, that I to this day remember my exact thoughts upon witnessing it. And I quote: “What is she up to…?” I looked up at her curiously, Charlie did too. “I just wanted to say hello to you little dog there,” she seemed sickened by her own words, “Hello there, boy. Hello Charlie.” She began stroking his head roughly and Charlie pulled away. She, my mother, seemed bizarrely pleased by this. “Come on now boy, play nice.” She started stroking his head in the same uncomfortable manner. Charlie pulled his head away again, whimpering now. “He doesn’t like it!” I yelled. But she already knew that. Fucking hindsight.

                “Look at me boy, when your master’s speaking you look!” She hit him. She hit my dog! Right on the head. She smacked Charlie! That bitch! Charlie began whimpering again and backed away. I stood up and yelled, “You can’t do that! You can’t hit Charlie!” Being seven, those were the strongest words I could think of. She looked at me, with daggers for eyes and all of those other euphemisms describing anger, and she said, “I’m his master, if he doesn’t like it he should find a new home!” She kept calling herself “master,” I mean, who talks like that?

                I started crying and yelled, “You’re not his anything!” Then she advanced on me, and, for the first time since I had known him, Charlie growled. He had barked plenty of times, but he had never growled, he had never been angry. She hesitated and a strange triumph appeared in her eyes. It was like watching Dr. Cruel turn on his Death Ray for the first time. A true Kodak moment. She looked into his eyes and moved closer. Charlie started barking, but it wasn’t playful, it was actually, well, kind of scary. “Well,” she said calculatingly, “I guess he doesn’t like me.”

                That night she told my father that she didn’t feel safe with the dog around. She always called Charlie “the dog.” The bitch knew very well he had a name. Sorry, this story always brings up mixed feelings on my mother. I wonder why? Anyway, she fought and fought until she got her way. The next day I was forced to take Charlie to the pound. My father drove. I didn’t cry. I wanted Charlie to think it was okay. He didn’t I’m sure. To any dogs that ever find themselves in the position of a quiet, depressing car ride to an undisclosed location: Run.

                We said our goodbyes in the noisy lobby

of the pseudo dog ghetto. He licked my hand and I shook his paw. It was very formal. I walked away with the tears already beginning to well up. My dad put his hand on my shoulder and I turned and cried into him. He whispered, “I know… I know… I’m sorry…”

                I didn’t want any pets after that and mother was happy. She had won.

                And I, well, I wasn’t even sure if I loved her anymore. The fact that I questioned that, loving my mother, at the age of seven, well, it says a lot, I think, about mother dearest. She just had an effect on people. Kind of like how a vacuum sucks all of the air out of a room. Or like a firecracker held too long. Or like a piece of poisoned Halloween candy. Or like a bad mother. Oh, sorry, I already mentioned that one.

A guy