Red Dawn

     When I was 7, I rode the school bus home from my elementary school. The bus stop was about a quarter mile away on the curve of the paved road, next to the Johnson's mailbox. None of the Johnson kids were my age, but we all rode the bus together, and I considered them friends. My closest friend at the bus stop, though, was Fuschia Johnson, though she was a few years older than I. I was never invited into Fuschia's home, although sometimes we gathered for a game of Kickball in her yard. I had occasionally asked Fuschia to come to my house, but in fact, Fuschia thought my dirt road under the mossy oaks was haunted. And so, when the bus let us off at 2:30pm each weekday afternoon, she would only walk me to the first telephone pole before turning back and telling me I was on my own.

    Truthfully, I did not mind walking alone. There was nothing scary to me about this sandy road I had called home my entire life, even if there was a 19th century cemetery at the end of it. Still, I could see why Fuschia and her kin might be skeptical. The woods along both sides were dense and shadowy. The trees - longleaf pines, laurel oaks, and southern magnolias - towered over the road leaving only dapples of sunshine on the path below. If a "boogie man" did exist, this would be great place to snatch little children and disappear into a wall of trees.

    One day in the middle of the school year, a new boy appeared at the bus stop. His name was Josh, and his family had just moved into a house at the end of the dirt road. Like Fuschia, Josh was several years older than I was, but we would walk together until I turned off at my mailbox, taking note of the rabbit tracks and flattened toads along the way. One day I asked Josh if he wanted to come to my house for a little while. Josh agreed, and so when we arrived at my mailbox, we both turned down the drive and followed its meandering curves until we reached my house, an angular 2-story cedar-sided structure that my father had let an architect design without knowing the history of the plantation that once covered this piece of rural Florida.

    As we approached the house and Josh spied the wide breadth of water beyond, he exclaimed, "Wow, you're right on the river!". Indeed, most of the properties on our little dirt road were waterfront, but the home Josh lived in was just one of many houses on a subdivided plot of rentals that did not afford a river view. We passed beneath my living room by way of the carport and started across the yard towards the water's edge. My parents had never built a dock, choosing instead to splurge on a swimming pool, and I felt a stab of embarrassment over this fact as I looked around at my neighbors' docks and boathouses. To distract Josh from this impending observation, I blurted out, "Do you want to climb in the treehouse?".

    At the top of the riverbank in the center of our view was a stately live oak, draped in Spanish moss, with a triangular platform of 2'x6' boards. The "Crow's Nest", as the plantation's inhabitants had called it, pointed southwest towards the site of the old boarding house's pier, long since reduced to mere pilings. At the foot of the tree were three wooden steps, all that was needed to reach a nice foot hold you could then push off from to reach the deck above. I had never sat in the treehouse with anyone other than my father, and it was fun to show it to someone new. But before long, Josh said he should head home before his parents wondered about him, so we descended back down to the yard, and headed for the house. As we retraced our steps through the carport, my father's gray Dodge Caravan pulled up.

    It's too early for him to be home.

    Since I had not expected to see either of my parents at this hour, I felt as though I were being caught doing something wrong. Will Papa be angry that this boy is here? My father appeared from behind the van with something quite curious extending from one hand, and my anxiety vanished. It was a blue dog leash, but not one that you would buy at a pet store. It was the braided slip lead version that the vet's assistant would use to walk your dog out to you after surgery. But this leash had come from the county animal shelter, and attached to the other end of it was a silvery gray ball of fur with dark shiny eyes and a broad laughing pant.

    "Ohhh, he's so cute!", I squealed, and ran to the puppy, completely forgetting my new friend. "This is your new dog", my father said matter of factly, which I thought strange because I didn't remember even asking for a dog. In the excitement, Josh was dismissed, and I became instantly infatuated with this new squirming bundle of puppy breath that licked and gnawed on my fingers as I tried to stroke his fur.

    The puppy quickly earned the name 'Shark' due to his mouthy nature. In retrospect, this may not have been the best choice of nomenclature - an omen perhaps of what was to come. I cannot recall how long Shark was a part of our family, though it could not have been more than a week. What I do recall, however, in vivid detail, is what sent Shark away...

    One morning, my father was leaving for work when he spotted Shark across the yard, tossing something in the air, then grabbing hold of it again and shaking it vigorously as a dog will shake a stuffed animal. Upon closer inspection, Papa realized it was not a chew toy, but rather one of our Siamese cat's newborn kittens. Surrounding Shark on the ground were other kittens, bloodied and still. Having no time to deal with the situation, he took the puppy to the carport where he tied him up on a short length of marine rope, and went to rouse my mother to tend to the gory scene. My father then drove off in his minivan, while my mother stomped angrily about. She was not a morning person, and having to deal with a kitten massacre before coffee was not helping her disposition.

    I remember her plopping me down in front of a clothes basket in the breezeway, then thrusting an eye dropper and bowl of warm milk into my hands. In the basket were two impossibly small kittens, one white, one black, eyes still tightly sealed, crawling weakly about as they searched for their mother, who was now nowhere to be found. "Feed these kittens until they won't eat any more", she instructed angrily, "I have to get ready to take you to school". As she stomped off, I wondered to myself, "How do I feed them?".

    I picked up the tiny black kitten and held the tip of the dropper to its lips as it mewed plaintively. I squeezed some milk onto its tongue, but rather than swallow hungrily, it choked and sputtered, twisting and turning its fragile body in my hand. Drinnnk! I squeezed the dropper again as it gagged and cried, frothy white bubbles gathering around its nostrils. This is not working! As panic rose in my small chest, I put the black kitten down and tried the same method with the white one....with the same result. Before long I heard my mother's heavy footsteps returning, and her impatient tone, "Did they eat? Did you feed them? Because if they don't eat, they'll die."

    "Yes, I fed them."

    "Both of them?"

    "Yes."

    I'm not sure why I lied. Maybe it was because my mother was already angry, and if she had to do one more thing, it would escalate. Maybe it was because I did not want to admit I had failed such a simple task. Whatever the reason, I did lie, and when I was confronted after school with the news that the remaining kittens had perished, I knew it was my fault.

    That evening at the dinner table, my father said we needed to have a discussion. In a low sullen voice, he began, "I had a dog once, a German Shepherd, that killed my neighbor's dachshund right in front of them. They could have sued me, but they didn't....I felt really bad, and I even offered to buy them a new dog, but they said 'no'....I don't ever want to be in that situation again, and if Shark would do that to another animal now when he's just a puppy, he might bite a person when he's grown." My father let out a conflicted sigh before saying, "I think we should take him back to the pound."

    My mother did not reply, and indeed, it seemed my father was asking for my permission, not hers. There was a long silence as my mind raced. I didn't want to give up my puppy, and I didn't think he was a killer. He just didn't know any better! But Papa seemed to think this was very serious, so at last I said quietly, "I guess you should do what you think is best."

    The next morning, my father took me to school, but before he dropped me off, we drove out an undeveloped highway to the same animal control facility Shark had come from. When the expanse of chain link fencing came into view, I looked down at Shark, seated on the floor at my feet, and wondered if we were doing the right thing. But it was too late to express these wavering thoughts. The van pulled onto the shelter's gravel drive and came to a halt at the entry gate, still padlocked at this early hour. Off to our left was a bank of 'drop cages', each with its own dog house, where anyone could leave an animal outside of regular business hours. My father and I both climbed out of the van, me carrying Shark, and him carrying an old shoe we had let Shark have a toy. As Papa opened the door to first of the long row of cages, I felt a sharp pang of guilt. Maybe if I had asked my mother to feed the kittens, maybe if those two would have survived, we wouldn't be here right now. I set Shark down inside the cage and Papa placed the tattered shoe on the ground beside him before closing the gate. Shark did not whimper or paw at the door. As he watched us walk away, he looked just as happy as he had the first time I laid eyes on him, his open mouth forming a wide toothy smile as he stood panting in the early morning sun.

    I don't remember crying over Shark, but I did cry for the kittens. Alone in my bed that night, I thought of them all lying dead and mangled around a clueless grinning puppy. I thought of our Siamese cat watching her babies being slaughtered in front of her. And I thought of the tiny kittens I could have saved, but instead let die because of a lie. And I cried.