This small, nondescript Cabin with soft, green shag carpeting and a warm wood stove.
This out-of-the-way sanctuary for broken and forgotten dogs. A playground for pedigrees born under kinder stars.
This tiny island off the coast of Maine.
This Heaven.
I go through the unlocked screen door and step out onto the deck. A completely different world from the Sky Prison. I wonder whether Fights-On-Her-Back might have escaped The Long Night if she'd only been able to let herself out, like I effortlessly just did.
I imagine her enjoying a long sun-bath on the deck. Then tearing through the lush grass after the insolent crows. A short jog down the root-tangled path to the small sand and gravel beach. Running with the pack of Horn Cove dogs who play and run to all the Houses, demanding ready treats and thrown balls.
I slowly walk the knotty, mossy path to the beach. The young spruce trees close their branches overhead, darkening the ground and scattering bright, untouchable jewels of sunlight on the path. It must be some sort of Cathedral of The Great Earth Dog. He is close. I am surrounded by him and his creatures. I am watched with benevolent eyes.
Auggie, Fudgie and all the other Horn Cove Dogs are already here. They rush up to give me Licky-Greetings and then disperse back to the fun they were having before I arrived.
I torture myself endlessly on this beach.
How could I possibly tell Auggie and Fudgie about Fights-On-Her-Back's Long Night? How could I tell them she deserves this Heaven more than me?
And how much I wish she was here?
THIS SACRED PLACE
All The Great Dogs are here. I can hear them. I can feel them. They are everywhere.
The Ocean Dog's waves are always crashing in my ears. His salt perfumes the air. He is generous with the currents that bestow sand to this tiny, ragged island beach.
In his petulant fights with his Sister, The Great Ocean Dog brews angry storms that scatter this beach with driftwood suited for cozy beach bonfires and stick swimfetching that Fudgie loves so well.
The whispering, creaking, overgrown pine trees surrounding The Cabin are full of The Great Earth Dog's squirrels and chipmunks that infuriate Fudgie. Those trees speak much like The Talking Stairway at The Sky Prison. But they are silent when The Great Sky Dog is gone, and have too many quick, groaning voices to hear when her wind is up.
There is never a day at the cabin when The Great Ocean Dog isn't fighting the other Great Dogs in some way. Particularly his Brother, The Great Earth Dog.
In the spring, when he gets particularly angry at his Brother, he covers the little beach with thick layers of stinky seaweed, logs and other debris. I wish Little-Big-Feet could see firsthand what Flotsam and Jetsam really were.
Definitely not edible, my son!
Another time he brewed a huge storm and sent it straight at The Cabin. I wondered how we brought the ire of The Great Ocean Dog upon our heads.
But it wasn't us he was after. He was in an enormous fight with his Brother. Each bolt struck in rapid succession, moving inland from the water like he was chasing The Great Earth Dog into our Cabin.
It was violence like nothing I had ever seen. From the sliding glass door, Don and I watched the lightning strikes march closer and closer. The lightning terrified and the thunder deafened. But I could smell no fear on Don and his whiskey.
Therefore I had no fear.
It wasn't until the thick pine across the driveway exploded with a cannon-shot that Don and I retreated.
That old pine was in splinters and impossibly burning brightly in the deluge. I wouldn't believe it had I not seen it with my own eyes.
I watched it from the bedroom until the rain extinguished the coals and the smoke breathed its last into the squall.
In the morning, the stump was still warm and steaming in the calm air.
\+\+\+/+/+/
Sometimes I tell Fights-On-Her-Back these amazing stories. Other times I tell her everything about my humdrum day. Yet other times I tell her about The Runt. Or my mother. Or the nameless pup she ate.
We talk for hours before I realize I am accounting with worthless currency and talking only to myself. I imagine the Dog she might have become. The things she might have loved. The things she might have feared. For every answer, I invent another question, and every question demands another answer I could not possibly know.
But that has value, too, doesn't it?
Filling in the answers with only questions?
Or was it a fool's path to madness?
Someday I would find the right words and the right time to make Auggie and the other dogs understand.
AFTER THE LONG NIGHT
In the months following The Long Night, I listened intently to Doug and Joan's conversations from my crate, hoping to hear any scrap of news about my lost pup. I learned that Red brought her to The Vet. When she was fitted with a cast and ready to go, he couldn't (or wouldn't) pay the bill. He ended up abandoning her at The Vet.
Red couldn't possibly comprehend the commitment, cost or kindness needed to heal my child's splintered leg. He couldn't possibly be that kind of hero.
I thanked The Great Black Dog for not taking her that Long Night. I thanked The Great Mother dog that she did not will Fights-On-Her-Back to go with Red. I prayed to The Great Earth Dog and asked for him to send an infinitely deep-hearted Biped to adopt her despite her injury and the cost.
Red never came to The Sky Prison again. After The Long Night, there was no word. I clung to my vaporous hope that my daughter wasn't put down for lack of Biped payment or mercy. That marvelous little dog deserved a better life.
The only good thing to come out of The Long Night was that Doug treated us dogs more like investments-- not to be messed with when he was shitfaced.
Digging deep in his beer money to refund Fights-On-Her-Back's life to her adopters made him more humane.
PASSING LIVES
The seasons rolled over and over each other in The Sky Prison. Most of the time I was bored. I was largely ignored by The Bipeds, and that was fine with me. It was better than the raucous weekend parties that seemed to breed only cruel and crueler Bipeds.
My lives between litters were the worst. I say "lives" because I count each litter as a separate life. The Bipeds measured their lives by the movements of The Mother Dog's Sun. I measured mine with each visit to the Stud Mill.
The months between the taking of my last pup and my next visit to the Stud Mill brought a sadness that crawled over me like vicious little armies of dread.
Then I could feel a litter in me, and I was joyful with the prospect of all those little lives soon to call me "Mumma." Like the rolling seasons, I moved from cold and bereft to warm and full. Unlike The Great Mother Dog's seasons of Sun and Time, my seasons were drawn from my body and, inevitably, when my pups were sold.
The thing I regret most in my life is that I could not have a litter here in this Southport Island Heaven.
THE DEMONS
After I birthed my first litter, I vowed to remember all my pups' "real" names. Please don't think me an awful mother, but I cannot name all my pups today. I remember almost all of them, except for the pups in a litter I had no chance of naming.
Like my nameless Brother who was eaten newborn, I am glad I don't have those eight pups' names to haunt me. Those eight names pressing me. Those eight lives of mine.
It was unimaginable. There are some Demons so evil they can consume somedog long after their evil is spent. The only thing A Dog can do is smile and try to forget.
These Demons do not even last long enough in this World for a fair fight or an exorcism. They seize what they can, and in a heartbeat, they are gone.
In the end, I tell myself I only did what a Mother Dog could do.
\+\+\+/+/+/
I gave birth to a litter of eight. Three girls, five boys. Three Yellow, three Black, and two Chocolate. I remember that much about them.
For the first few days, they were all lively. Then I smelled an stench. It hovered over The Whelping Box.
Some pups were fine. Others stopped competing for a teat. And others grunted and burned with fever.
After several days, even Joan noticed my burning, dying pups from their diarrhea and vomit and carcasses.
I initially got the hairy eyeball from her and Doug, as though I was shitting and puking in The Whelping Box. I hated them, then. But there was no other help available. I thought Doug wanted to protect his investment and bring them to the Vet, but that would have cut more into his beer money and bring scrutiny to The Sky Prison.
I had no friends here.
The Great Black Dog hung over The Whelping Box, thick and dripping in the putrid air. I watched him solemnly take my puppies one by one. There was no joy for him. He only did what he had to. No more. No less.
Whenever The Great Black Dog took a pup, The Bipeds put them into the kitchen garbage bag, overflowing with yesterdays coffee grounds and frozen burrito wrappers. They didn't even have the decency to start a new bag. They stuffed it full of trash and my babies. I stared at that bag for hours for even the slightest movement or sound. Seeing nothing, I wished one of them had at least been able to open their eyes before being cast off.
I whined at The Whelping Box. I whined at the garbage can. I went back and forth. When I was desperate, I whined at Joan. When there were only two pups left, Doug yelled at me to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!" and tried to kick me.
I could tell Doug was upset because he paid for the Stud Fee, two months of double rations for me, and several Vet visits that were unnecessary in his mind.
He wasn't going to recoup dollar-one.
He hadn't taken any deposits yet.
He was fucked and angry.
At me.
DEATH AND DYING
After Doug's attempted kick, I went to The Whelping Box and nuzzled the black boy. He feebly turned to face me and reached out with all four legs. He hadn't vomited or had diarrhea since he was cleaned last. He was a fighter. He would beat this evil Poison with the help of his mother.
The yellow girl was done. Filth ran out of both ends. Motionless. This is the most vivid memory I have of my heart breaking. I can never part from it. It is burned into my inner self with something much worse than heat.
Soon, yellow girl would be with frozen burrito wrappers and the others.
I moved the boy out of the yellow girl's filth and licked him vigorously. His taste and smell were awful. I kept licking with my eyes and nose closed. I thought I could lick The Poison out of him, and I could save at least one of my babies.
At least one, Great Mother Dog. Only one I ask. One. I ask for nothing more.
Doug gripped my head with his muscled hand and tossed me away from the Whelping Box. Maybe he thought I was eating the black boy, and it must have looked like I was.
I was feverish from The Poison and my life. If the black boy died, I wasn't even a mother anymore. If I couldn't protect my helpless pups in their greatest time of need, why was I even alive?
I went back to my crate and again tried to summon The Great Mother Dog.
The Great Black Dog still hung over The Whelping Box in a liquid black fog. His steady steel eyes locked on mine. I saw them flinch ever so slightly and become soft with something like sympathy for the briefest of moments. Then he dissolved.
He had taken the black boy.
I begged and shrieked at The Great Black Dog to take me with them. I wanted to die. I was ready to die. I was their mother, Dog Dammit! Pups needed to be with their mother! Couldn't he see that?
I realize now that I was in a delirium. I had nonsensical visions of Doug and my dead puppies floating around me. When I tried to reach out, Doug kicked the crate I was in and yelled, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" It sent all the pups yelping away from me. The Runt. The dog who attacked me when I was a puppy ran up to me and Doug broke his neck all over again. That sickening sound, and that smug look on Doug's face. Then I was being caressed and fed Biped treats from Doug's leather-clad friend at that Sky Prison party when I was a pup. Outside the Sky Prison in the cold. Chasing Jet at the beach. Nibbles. My mother. Doug...
My visions got shorter and dimmer until only ghosts remained.
I was enclosed in darkness.
Had The Great Black Dog finally answered my wishes and taken me?
LIVING
In the morning, I saw The Sun shine those grimy kitchen windows, and I understood the answer was no.
There was nothing we could do but stagger on with our unwavering, repetitious, soul-crushing Sky-Prison routine.
The burrito wrappers were brought to the dump in the back of Doug's truck. The Whelping Box was sterilized. I was given a thorough bath with stinging shampoo, and dog mats and towels were thrown away. Even the ratty couch and furniture were steam-cleaned.
After that brief moment of normalization masquerading as grieving, Joan and Doug sent me to the Stud Mill as soon as I was in heat. My teats still had milk from my dead litter.
Hope springs internal in the Sky Prison.
\+\+\+/+/+/
I remember this next litter as well as my first. How could I not?
There were ten this time. That made both Doug and me happy.
Five females: two black and three yellow. Five males: two black, two chocolate, and one yellow.
I wouldn't ever be able to completely absolve myself of The Poison Litter. But these new, squirming little puppies from my body allowed me to forget The Poison and focus again.
I only had eight teats for ten hungry mouths. I worried.
I worried unendingly that two of my pups were going to starve. It was my first under-teated litter since I was a member of The Teatless Three. I stressed over whether Joan and Doug would provide for The Teatless Two. I decided it best to hatch a plan and keep them both healthy.
That's what Doug would want -- his investments alive.
Right?
THE LIVES
From even before their births, I could tell the difference between the Alpha and the Runt merely by their motions inside me.
The Alpha was always up at night when I was trying to sleep. It felt like she was marching through my uterus, drilling the other embryos, and not happy with their progress. I named her "Midnight."
"Swimmer" was a yellow and so-named because she consistently rolled and "swam" in the water bowl. Water went everywhere. It drove Joan and Doug crazy! Sometimes they removed her so the rest of the pups could get a quick drink. I don't ever remember Swimmer actually drinking water herself.
Another yellow girl grunted whenever a pup sidled up next to her when her eyes had yet to open for the first time. The litter had trouble deciding whether to name her "Grumpy" or "Piggy." Even though she had the sweetest heart, "Grumpy" won out. I don't remember any of my other litters being so sarcastic!
"Bright Eyes," the chocolate boy, couldn't avoid trouble with dog or Biped to save his furry butt. But he was mostly good-natured and had a great sense of humor. He would lie next to Grumpy when she was asleep and try to get her to grunt. He got her to grunt louder and louder until she woke up in a spasm. He would stay next to her and look far away, getting the litter to laugh uproariously.
The Runt was very strange. He didn't do things like the other pups. It felt like he was either trying to get out of my womb or dead. When born, he didn't wrestle, play tug, or chase. He didn't compete for a teat. I had to kick Tubby off a teat several times before The Runt finally decided to suckle.
He was brought outside on the grass and tried to get away from his brothers and sisters. Joan brought him back every time. The Runt looked all around with his head up like he was drinking in The World. The rest of the litter sarcastically called him "Animal."
Animal was a strange pup. He was sweet and tender. But at times he was indecipherable. He spoke his first words soon after opening his eyes. He looked at me and asked, "Are there others?"
He went into trances and gibbered nonsensically. When he came out of them, he carried on as though nothing happened. Midnight once cornered him and roughed him up. She asked why he did that weird stuff. Animal stared and said softly, "It's the way The Great Black Dog put me together, I guess."
Later in the night, Midnight came to me and asked in a whisper who The Great Black Dog was.
How could Animal possibly have known about The Great Black Dog?
I think he harbored another, larger creature's soul. Somehow it got in him when he was inside me. That larger soul consumed part of his body so he was smaller than the rest. I can't even begin to think where Animal's soul lodged itself.
But a giant owl somewhere out there thinks of nothing but fetching, swimming and eating.
And that still makes me laugh until I sneeze!
