How ‘Just a Dog’ Found Something to Believe In

Through the eyes of a cast off…

I don’t like this place. I don’t like these people. But there’s not much I can do about it. After all, I’m just a dog.

Luckily I have a spot way back under the bed and so far, no one’s been able to find me here. I figured out from the minute I came into this house that hiding would be my best option.

I’ve been shuffled around since my dad passed away. God, that was awful. He didn’t get up to get me breakfast no matter how much I tried to wake him. When the neighbor knocked on the door, I barked and barked, but dad didn’t move.

Then the flashing lights showed up and the people in the uniforms. I was so scared.

I went with his daughter before I came here. They’re a lot different than dad. They scream a lot here. At each other. At me. Sometimes even, for no apparent reason, at the television.

And I really don’t think the kids have ever been around a dog before. The youngest one likes to pull my ears and tail and no one stops her. She did it right in front of her mom the other day. I know her mom saw her. I guess she doesn’t know how much it hurts.

The older one chased me around the house the first day with a squirt gun full of water. I was damp for hours and then got in trouble for getting my bed wet, even though I didn’t even do it.

I wonder why they even wanted a dog? It doesn’t make much sense. No one takes me out on a regular basis. And right now, I really have to go to the bathroom.

I’m trying like crazy to hold it, though, because when they found my first accident on the carpet, the father hit me on my back so hard, I can still feel it and that was days ago.

I’d try to go stand by the door to let them know I need to go out, but I don’t want to get caught by one of the kids.

They don’t even really feed me with any sort of regularity. I wish they would get me on some type of schedule. I like order. I like a routine.

I like to eat at a certain time, go out to the bathroom at a certain time. I know that probably sounds a little insane but it would give my life structure. I like a system. I like knowing when things are going to happen. It makes me feel secure.

When the little girl peeks under the bed and shrieks, “Puppy!” I swear I flinch.

If I could claw my way through the wall, I think I would. Don’t they know that dog’s have sensitive hearing? And how do children get that unbelievably high-pitched scream?

As she crawls under the bed, my only thought is escape. I don’t want her touching me. I don’t want her hurting me. Before I can manage to get away, she clamps a hand over my front paw — the very one she stomped on just this morning — and pain lances through my leg.

I yelp loudly, but it doesn’t stop her. She laughs. Honestly laughs.

What happens next is instinctive. I already cried out. I tried to tell her. I just want the pain to stop. I can’t speak. I can’t say it out loud, so I use the only line of communication I have at the moment. I growl in the back of my throat and nip her with my teeth.

I don’t even see her fist before it connects with my jaw. And for a little girl she has a surprising amount of strength. She doesn’t stop with one. She just keeps hitting.

My vision starts to blur when centuries of genetics kick in and I feel the animal surge to the forefront. I give another growl and another bite and this one doesn’t bring about humor. She screams for her mother and races from the room.

I’m given only a few minutes of respite before I hear them on the phone. They’re calling the animal shelter. They’re using words like “aggressive” and “bit my child” in self-righteous tones.

I want to talk. I want to tell what really happened. I want to let someone know how much my paw hurts. I want someone to know what I’ve been through.

In a surprisingly short time, I’m being yanked in the door at the shelter. The family gets rid of me like I’m no better than a bag full of garbage.

The shelter workers look so sad. I can’t help but imagine that mine isn’t the first case like this they’ve witnessed.

They must see something in my eyes or my demeanor that gives them a glimpse into the real story behind why I’m here because some of them whisper, “Why’d they even get a dog?” and “What’s wrong with people?”

But there’s really nothing they can do. All they’ve got is what the family told them. They’ll never get my side of the story.

When they put me in a kennel, their eyes are somber and grave.

The first night is kind of scary in the dark with other discarded animals around me, but there’s a part of me that’s relieved. At least here I know the kids are gone and there won’t be any more screaming.

Unbidden, I remember dad’s gentle eyes so clearly in my mind. I miss him so much.

I’ll never really know what it is the next morning that makes the person who peeks into my kennel pause. She stops for a second and looks me right in the eye. I try to put all of my sadness, regret and fear into my face.

When she whispers, “Hi, sweet baby,” my tail wags on it’s own. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has spoken to me so kindly.

She takes me out to a place where I can potty and gives me a soft pat on the head. I’m sorry to say I flinch at first. I had just gotten so used to being hit.

It sounds like she murmurs something along the lines of, “What did they do to you?”

I wish I could tell her.

When she comes back to get me, she pauses again, with that kind of knowing expression on her face and instead of taking me inside, she sits down near me.

I hesitate. Really unsure.

She pats her leg and I take a tentative step forward.

She smiles and makes a soft sound.

When I get to her thigh, I sniff a bit first and put my paw on the material there.

She says, “You’re not a bad dog, are you?”

I’m not. I’m really not.

She pulls me against her and I lean into her and being there, in the grass, with this stranger is such solace, such comfort, if I could shed tears I know I would.

I put my head on her shoulder and she holds me in her arms and it’s the brightest, warmest moment I’ve known in a long time.

After that, I start to hear the people who work at the shelter talking around me.

They say things like, “He’s not a biter” and “There was something fishy about those people.”

Another one adds, “You should have seen how those kids were with each other. I would have bitten them, too.”

Then one day when I’m out in the yard with the lady from that first morning, she whispers in my ear, “How would you like to come home with me?”

I try to convince myself I didn’t hear that correctly. It can’t be. Not after everything.

I lift my eyes to hers and she waits. I lean forward and lick her jaw and I see the tears in her eyes.

We’re inseparable. Her home is so nice and she lives by herself, but there is another dog and two cats and we get along even when she’s gone.

They call her mom, so I guess I should, too.

They all accept me — all of them. I didn’t think that would happen. Not with what that family must have said about me.

One night, as we’re all snuggled in bed — even the cats! — mom gives my head a little kiss and murmurs, “Never again, baby. No one will hurt you ever again.”

And for the first time since I lost dad, I have something good to believe in.

**

Animal shelter workers often don’t know where they come from. We never know what they’ve truly been through. But we work very hard to give every one of them a second chance.