Lost Dog

Lost Dog

7 mins
767


The dog we found in our yard that autumn was in pathetic shape, though it was obviously some kind of pedigree. Its soulful eyes looked at us from between its brown, floppy ears as Darcy, Steve and I came out to play a quick game of Frisbee before sundown.

 

The brown coat was filthy, ragged and full of brambles. It had evidently spent a few nights in the open. It had an expensive leather collar on, but the small brass ring that had held the owner’s tag was empty. The dog had a number of cuts and bruises over its face and sides that definitely did NOT come from life in the open. It also looked famished.

 

“Oh, look – he’s so cute!!” squealed Darcy, running over to him. The dog jumped nervously to the side at her charge, then settled down and allowed her to pet him.

 

“He looks like a chewed-up doormat,” observed Steve, and his sister threw him a baleful look. Steve didn’t mean it, of course – he just needed to be contrary. He ambled up and joined the petting party. I felt my heart sink, because I could see trouble ahead.

 

Bedraggled and ill-used as it looked, everything about this dog spelled breeding and class. That means it had run away from someone, and that someone would be looking for it.

 x x x

 

In the past, I had steadily refused the kids’ entreaties to buy them a dog, stating that it was just too much of a hassle. Dogs need a lot of care, and they get into endless trouble if left unattended. Moreover, dogs are expensive,, especially pedigrees. After the divorce, I was juggling two jobs to pay the alimony and bills. The custody battle for the kids had eaten heavily into my savings, too.

 

I can give you the real reason without flinching, though. A demonic stray had bitten both my younger brother and me in our schooldays. We had been hospitalized for four days – I with eight stitches on my butt and my brother with ten on his thigh. Also, the usual regimen of anti-rabies injections on our tummies prevalent in those days.

 

I never got over my aversion to dogs after that. Adulthood had modified the hate to a workable level of antipathy, but it was still there. Always there.

 

“You know we can’t keep him, don’t you?” I asked wearily as I watched them fawn over the dog. He was beginning to perk up noticeably from the attention. His bushy tail was displacing air at an increasingly rapid pace.

 

Darcy looked over at me, resignation and anger in her eyes.

 “Yes, we know,” she said.

 

“I DON T know!!” said Steve hotly. We had had this kind of discussion before, of course - though not over a real-and-present dog. “WHY can’t we keep him? EVERYONE has a dog but us!”

 

“You know why, Stevie,” I replied patiently. “Dogs take up a lot of time and money – and I don’t have either of those. Besides…”

 

“I shall take care of him! I mean, WE will. Right, Darcy? We’ll use our pocket money to feed him. Besides, he needs care! Someone has beaten him badly, and not just once – you can see that!”

 

Darcy looked at me uncertainly. I could see the desire to keep the dog and her unwillingness to oppose me wage a minor battle in that look.

 

“…besides, that dog is someone’s property,” I finished. “Look at his collar.”

 They examined the undeniable evidence. “There’s no tag, though,” observed Darcy.

 

“It must have fallen off while he was on the streets,” I said. “Let’s go inside – it’s too dark for Frisbee by now, anyway. But the dog stays outside.”

 

Not for long, though. An hour later, their entreaties had managed to secure the runaway dog a place beside the shoe rack. They fed him a bowl of bread and chicken bones, and minutes later he was fast asleep. And there he stayed asleep, while I spent a sleepless night fighting off childhood demons.

 x x x

 

The morning papers brought grim news.

 

“Darce! Stevie! Check this out!” I called. They were downstairs in seconds, peering at the little box ad on page seven.

 

LOST DOG

 

Much-loved cocker spaniel missing since last Tuesday.

Responds to the name of Woofer

Reward offered for return. Please contact Brig. E. Klein, telephone number _________

 

Below was the colour photo of a dog with big, brown eyes and floppy ears. It was our houseguest, all right. I felt the zest go out of the morning behind me.

 

“That’s him. It’s Colby,” whispered Darcy. Good grief, they’d already named him!

 

“If that’s him, his name is Woofer,” I observed unnecessarily. Steve looked at the dog, which was eyeing us from its place at the shoe rack. It looked hungry again.

 

“Hey, Woofer!” he called. The dog jumped up and bounded over to lick Steve’s hand. He jerked back as if from a snakebite.

 

“It’s not FAIR!” yelled Steve and stalked off while I reached for the telephone. Darcy, evidently crestfallen but always more practical than her brother, went to fetch Woofer some breakfast.

 

That afternoon, I sat at my work desk and waited for the dog’s owner to show up. I felt sorry for the kids, but there was no option. The dog was going home. There was no denying the fact that it had been maliciously beaten somewhere along the way, but its owner would surely see to that.

 

Simultaneously, I could not deny a feeling of relief – no dog in the house, after all. It had nothing to do with that childhood incident I mentioned, of course… the dog was simply someone else’s property, and I was being an upright citizen by returning it. Who could argue with that…?

 

Promptly at 3.00 p.m., a severe-looking man appeared round the corner that leads to our home. He was dressed in a pseudo-military summer suit. His right hand held two cocker spaniels in check on heavy chains. His left held a whip-like swagger stick.

 

The cocker spaniels were bigger than our runaway was but were obviously his parents. The heavy chains seemed like overkill to me – I’ve rarely seen two more subdued and cowed-looking animals. Even as I watched, one of them strayed a bit to the side to sniff at a fallen dandelion. The man’s swagger stick flashed out and connected sharply with the side of its head. It yelped in pain. He and the dogs were now close enough for me to hear him.

 

“Wouldn’t be surprised if the two of you somehow helped your miserable offspring to get away,” I heard him say. “Just wait till I get the three of you together back home.”

 

The doorbell rang a minute later. Darcy and Steve had seen the man come from their window upstairs and had come down. They looked at me silently, Woofer between them. There seemed to be a question in his eyes, too.

 x x x

 

I motioned them to get back upstairs and take the dog along. The living room was deserted in seconds flat. I opened the door.

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the man with a courteous bow. “I believe you called me this morning. I’ll take Woofer off your hands now and write you that check…”

 

I drew a shaky breath, stifling the words my lips longed to speak.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” I replied with a rueful grin. “I’m afraid he’s longer here. Shortly after I called you, he escaped through our kitchen door. I’m so sorry that you had to…”

 

He laughed gruffly.

 

“Forget it, my good man. I was going to sell him off anyway. Not that I need the money, but it’s a damned nuisance, having three dogs at home. All so misbehaved, too! Anyway, thank you for your trouble. I’ll be off.”

 

I closed the door to his retreating figure and turned around to find Darcy, Steve and Woofer lined up along the staircase handrail. I can’t even begin to describe the mélange of emotions in the air just then.

 

“We need three things – a vet, the old mattress from the attic, and a spare bowl,” I said. “What we do NOT need is a leash.”

 

I’ve goofed up many times as a father after that… but I think that these simple words that afternoon bought me an unlimited store of forgiveness from my kids.


Rate this content
Log in

More english story from Arun Chitnis