Short tale a child and her dog

Rex
by Carole L. Piller

My dog, Rex, a combination of hound and German Shepard was black in color with touches of brown.  I’m not going to relay all the smart things he did because German Shepards are some of the smartest dogs you’ll come across.  What I do wish to convey is my relationship with my protector and best friend.

As a preteen, I had an argument with a boy, leaning toward an inevitable physical confrontation.  The boy got his friends and I got Rex.  The children surrounded us egging us on to fight.  I ordered Rex, “Sic ‘em.”  Rex bolted from the crowd.  Neglecting my intended victim, instead, he chased a little boy riding on a red bicycle.  Like most males, he couldn't resist a set of shiny wheels.  He bit the little boy on his thigh.  I apologized to the crying boy, and took Rex home.

A few minutes later the little boy, his mother, and a crowd of people appeared at our door.  The mother had her son pull down his pants, displaying Rex’s teeth prints to my mother.  The police were called and my poor doggie was carted off to the dog pound.  My mother fussed at me and across her lips came the dreaded words, “Wait until your father gets home.”

My father was working the evening shift and wasn’t due home until midnight.  With remorseful fear, the dreaded words stuck tightly in my throat.  My thoughts were of the wrath of my father and Rex in the dog pound.

At 10:00 p.m., I gathered a blanket and my pillow and hid in a corner of our dingy basement.  When my mother missed me, she, my siblings, and our neighbors searched for me.  Listening to their calls, I made a bed in my brother’s red wagon and dozed off to sleep.

At 12:30 a.m., my mother relayed the whole story to my father.  Possessing some mystical insight, he came straight to the basement and found me.  I woke up crying, knowing I would be the recipient of the beating of my life.

My mother reasoned with him, “Now dear,” she said, “she has been scared enough.”  I remember pleading for forgiveness and promising never to do that again.

My father’s uncompromising glare was enough to scare the pants off of anyone.  In front of him, I stood with my wobbling knees, hoping he would demonstrate some form of compassion toward an undeserving daughter.  He threatened, “If you ever do anything like this again, including attempting to run away from home, scaring all of us, I’ll tan your hide.  Do you understand?”  I nodded, collected my things, and went to bed.

Poor Rex spent ten days in the pound, subjected to shots and strangers.  The day my father brought him home, I stood in the backyard waiting.  Jumping out of the car, Rex ran straight to me so forcefully, he knocked me backwards to the ground.  His loving tongue showered my face with kisses, exonerating me for my misdeeds.