Dog Seed. Part 1.

[CW: >!Animal Abuse, Sexual Content!<]

There is a memory I always go back to, of watching my father bury our family dog the day after I’d turned eight. Considering he had been over a decade old, there wasn’t a single moment in my life up to that point where Toby hadn’t been an ever constant.  

Truth be told, I was too young to understand why he died. Old age, probably. When I was a toddler, he had this genius idea of jumping out the car window while it was going about forty miles per hour. Fucked up his hind legs pretty bad and as he got older, the arthritis labradors were known for hit him particularly hard.

He never got violent, thankfully, but I think that was because he was allowed to take it easy. He thought himself a lap dog through and through, always got the table scraps me and my brother would give him during dinner. We were messy children, so he ate good.

Then it got too hard for him to stand up. Maybe we fed him too much. Maybe his legs were finally giving out. But at some point, near the end, he just stopped wanting to stand. It got bad. He’d spend a whole day lying in the same spot. He’d only eat if we brought his food to him. It started getting even harder for him to lay down because of the sores his belly adopted.

My dad made the decision to put him down. My mom refused to leave the garage. She was sobbing on the phone with grandma when it happened. It was a clear summer day. My dad let me and my brother give our dog lots of pets and kisses.

Then he shot Toby twice in the head.

A mercy killing. I don’t think my dad wanted us to watch, but my brother and I refused to go inside. He grew flustered. I think he was losing his confidence. It was why he pulled the trigger twice. The first time didn’t kill him. I will never forget the howling.

Then came the sudden stop. Not so much as a yelp. My dad started cussing up a storm and I think that was because he blamed himself for making our old dog suffer. I was the only one who watched him dig the hole afterwards. My brother felt sick and needed momma. I got yelled at after asking my dad if I could still pet the dead.

He was buried two feet down. The grass buried him a second time before the end of the summer. I’d poke sticks into the ground to signal his grave because my parents refused to leave a headstone. We’d move houses the corresponding year. We didn’t take him with us.

I’d carry that memory for a long time. Hell, maybe as I child, I felt guilt and couldn’t quite grasp that. We did end up getting another dog. Three more in fact. But we only had them for about nine months before we had to get rid of them. My parents got a divorce, and the separation was ugly.

Mom blamed dad and dad blamed mom. They both took up drinking. I couldn’t help but believe maybe the death of our dog had been the seed. I’m sure they still thought back to that day, just as much as I did.

After my parents split, it was an odd couple of years. Displacement doesn’t quite explain how my brother and I felt during all of it. There was the standard amount of abuse from both sides, desperate attempts used to try and weaponize our affections for mom or dad.

By the time my brother turned eighteen, two years my senior, he ran off to attend some art school out of state. I lasted maybe six months by myself before ending up in a mental hospital at my father’s discretion until I eventually became of age.

I’d spend the rest of my teens and early twenties homeless. I was in and out of jail for a very long time. I convinced myself that I’d be dead by twenty-three. Then twenty-five. Hell, maybe I’d join the twenty-seven club.

Then mom died. I was too busy rotting in a cell to attend her funeral. I don’t think I mourned her as much as I did our dog. I always thought of him whenever I experienced another birthday. Maybe that was selfish. Or maybe there just wasn’t much of a relationship left between me and my mother there at the end.

Despite this, she still included me in her will. It came as a shock when I was notified after my most recent incarceration that there was set to be a windfall. There was little in my inheritance that came with any real sentimental value. I guess my mom didn’t trust me not to sell it for drugs or something.

What she had left was monetary. A large sum. Taxed all to hell but still enough to get me off the streets if I was lucky. I’m not too sure what actually drove my subsequent actions. But I cleaned up, moved backwards, and bought a house. Our old house.

The price was dirt cheap and no one had lived in it for half a decade. When I showed up to meet with the realtor in charge of selling it, they were utterly lax in the confidence that I’d make an offer after seeing the dilapidated property.

I was immediately met with crabgrass and trash. You almost couldn’t see the sidewalk from all the overgrowth. The roof to the garage was caved in, and one of the living room windows was boarded up. The front door itself had three deadbolts. Two of which were useless given the frame had been splintered from several forceful entries.

“It’s actually a very nice neighborhood.” The realtor would insist, but I didn’t doubt her. Look anywhere but here and there was nothing but fine combed lawns and expensive vehicles. I was surprised my old home hadn’t been condemned.

We’d enter inside and I could already tell that the carpet was rotten. The wallpaper was peeling in swathes, and all the light fixtures were buried in at least a decade of dust. Every floorboard fought to creak louder than the last, and the kitchen was stripped of all its appliances.

The rooms upstairs were barren and depressing. The furnace was older than me. I assumed the asking price for the house, while a steal, would only pale in comparison to the amount of additional work it’d need to become livable.

I might burn through my inheritance long before the worst could be mended. My dad would berate me for making such a bad investment. I should’ve turned around and left. But then I stepped out into the backyard, and saw that towering oak tree, stretching up into the sky.

The size couldn’t justify the age. It hadn’t been there when we moved. But somehow, it stood at a height that towered over the property. I knew where it had settled its roots. I made an offer then and there. The realtor had to ask twice if I was sure.

I was stubborn. I was stupid. But something about the dog tree called out to me. Even out in that still summer heat, I could hear that haunting howl. Give it a few weeks, and the house was in escrow. Give it a few more, and I was standing before my old home with all that I owned stuffed into a single cardboard box.

You could see the dog tree from the sidewalk. Its long branches overburdened by a shifting sea of fresh green leaves. I’d spend that first night curled up on the floor in my old bedroom. Restless yet unafraid. I’d hear the house sounds struggle to keep the walls upright. A frantic furnace pushed hot air out rusted lungs.

“Happy birthday, Lori.” My words lacked any sort of real heat. A part of me wondered, just why did I come back here? I believe I was grieving in my own way. Ocean eyes watched as the numbers on my phone transitioned to midnight. “Welcome home.” Somewhere, a dog barked.