The Dog Box

It was a Wednesday afternoon and the father had come home seemingly angry.

He had told the Mother to keep the kids quiet because he had a “ripping headache.”

I sat at his feet and watched him drink that golden liquid in his small, short bowl.

The aroma reminiscent of the bottles that live under the kitchen sink and oranges.

I had wagged my tail and nudged his hand with my nose but it didn’t work.

His shoulders tensed and his eyes widened, his mouth stiffly spat words at me.

He grabbed me by my scruff and roughly escorted me to the back door and promptly shoved me outside.

The rain quickly wet my fur and with drew my animal scents into the tepid air around me.

I could hear banging and shouting inside the white sided house.

A light went on in a room and I heard a muffled cry and then the pattering of feet.

The little girl came out side.

Her pink coat dress tattered at the bottom and her eyes filled with wet, her snout running and her chin wobbling.

She wrapped her little arms around me, and buried her face into my wet fur. Her cries muffled by the damp.

We stayed like that, outside together, by the dog box, in the back square, on the tree deck, in the wet rain.