The Dog that was NOT Mine

It was a calm night, warm and breezy. The girl had just settled down in her favorite chair with her cat, yawning wide she took a sip of cocoa and contemplated a nap. The TV was on, playing an amazing movie, one of the best...at least exciting enough to distract her from rest. So this girl nestled happily into the cushion of her seat and pulled a blanket over her chilled feet.
Then a frantic knocking at the door, a pounding really, insisting the girl rouse and demand “what for?” Though she was alone in her house, this college sophomore did not fear, she loved company and did not think the noise queer.
Once opened a woman mid forties with mousy brown hair peered in, her eyes were not accusing, not yet, but there was bafflement there. “Is this your dog!?” She demanded urging a large brown dog into the house. He treaded slowly, sadly, across the hardwood floor (already badly scratched from his youth). His drooping eyes were cast down in apology and he stayed carefully out of the girl's personal space as he trudged past her to the living room then collapsed to the floor to go back to sleep.
“I wouldn't say my dog, exactly.” The girl answered nonchalantly, slurping the cooling cocoa. “The family wanted him.”
The woman's mouth dropped open but the stunned silence did not last long as she sharply cut over the girl's voice “He is yours!?”
“Like I sai-”
“No! Young lady I nearly ran over that dog! He was sleeping in the middle of the street! What is the matter with you people?”
“Not my fault, never asked for a dog. Besides, he's like a hundred million years old and gets out all the time.”
The accusation was evident now and had chased all the shock out of this lady's face, her mouth began to move again in effort to keep pace. “How dare you! My husband and I love dogs, we have three of them at home and I would have felt horrible if I'd run yours over, he nearly gave me a heart attack as it is! Don't you think you have a responsibility-”
“It's not my fault that he's suicidal, Max lays in the middle of the street whenever he gets out, If he wants to die then who am I...or you really, to try and stop him?” She, the girl, began to back up, still holding her (now empty) cup.
“If I ever see that dog out again I'm taking him to an animal shelter, better there than with you people!” This mousy lady was smug now having given adequate threat, she seemed prepared to accept begging from the teenager not to be in her debt.
The girl laughed though (and the sound was not muted low). “Go right ahead lady. Or better yet next time finish the job.” Door slams shut.



Mom was the one to wake me up the day Max died. I looked at her sad face and sat up. “What's wrong?”
“Oh Honey, Max got really sick. He started shaking and couldn't fall asleep, I laid on the floor with him all night until he finally passed.” Her voice was shaking as she continued. “It's five a.m. Now and I know you have school in a couple hours but I want you, and your brothers and sisters to come down and help me bury him in the back yard. We'll have a little funeral, a last good bye.”
I was torn, I felt bad seeing her unhappy but at the same time I felt nothing for the pet we'd had for the past ten years. “Mom, I'm exhausted and you know how I felt about him.”
“Please get up Shannon, don't pretend you're that heartless. Come say good bye.”
So thats how the five of us kids (well not exactly kids being that Dylan, Allison and I were over eighteen) ended up in the backyard shivering in our PJ's for a funeral service for a creature I had always despised.
Allison had always been pretty indifferent to Maximus but she was a chameleon when it came to emotions. If sadness was in the air, Alli would cry. If it was happiness she would smile. But if it was a paranoid conversation about government conspiracies she would flee the room immediately unable to portray an emotion she had no aptitude for.
Dylan was crying, yes my little brother was. Standing at 6'2 in flannel pants, unshaven with pimples at his temples...he had never been so vulnerable. That creature had been his friend and comfort, taking the place of a beloved teddy. Dylan used to take him for walks and on camping trips upstate. Max had loved Dylan fiercely, the only family member he actually attempted to protect (Max was a terrible guard dog, we had been robbed three times and nearly been molested as children because of his nonchalance regarding the rest of us).
Lenore, the baby of the family, sobbed openly. She was the only one that had been with him her whole life, truly not remembering a time without him being a part of the family. She, fearless at age two, had ridden him like he was her Shetland pony. At age eight she was both the most theatrical and the most heartbroken.
Matt stood stoically, pretending to be tough like his father (who was really not tough at all, just violent). He was twelve and had just started failing in school, he wanted and wants to be James Dean, a rebel without a cause. He came forward after Dylan set the example, and the three of them, Mom, Matt and Dylan lowered the lumpy white sheet that had been the family pet into the shallow grave.