for brutus

I was eight years old. I didn’t know anything about losing something or rather someone that was close to my young heart. Truth be told, there were deaths in my family and divorces so fueled by hate and aggression that it was almost a promise that I’d never see certain ‘family members’ again. But I’d learn about these things when I was much older. My mother tried her hardest to protect me from the real world. She just couldn’t protect me from this.

I remember the night as vividly as I would if it had only happened a few minutes ago. It had been raining for the past few weeks. The weather seemed fitting with my mood. I was completely miserable with a fever, food refused to make a bed in my stomach, and all the ginger ale, Shirley Temple movies, and fluffy teddy bears couldn’t make me feel better. I’d been made to spend the day inside. At first I was confined to my room but after quite a few well placed pouts and crocodile tears, I’d convinced my mother to at least let me set up camp in the den where I could see the dogs. I had set up a fortress of my own with several of the kitchen table’s chairs and made sure the opening to my pretend castle faced the den’s sliding glass door and my knight in shining armor beyond it. I knew he could see me lying on the tile floor with my flushed cheeks and puffy eyes. Every time I sniffled his ears would twitch just a little and though he knew I wasn't allowed outside, every time I coughed he’d lift his head in acknowledgement. He knew I was sick and although the other dogs were busy playing puddles, my hero stood strong at my side. We stayed like that together for what seemed to be a lifetime but perhaps that’s because I’d fallen asleep somewhere between seven and eight. I dreamt of something but that I cannot recall. All I remember was waking up in my bedroom to sharp crack of lightning outside. The rain must have picked up while I slept; and despite being deathly afraid of both the dark and the frogs that must be bouncing around the backyard in this weather, I grabbed one of my stuffed animals and made my way out into the hall way. The only light was coming from the kitchen; the light above the stove. Taking a deep breath, I bolted from my room to kitchen and quickly stood in the small circle of light near the stove. I listened intently for any signs of the boogey man but all I could here was the rain and a scratching sound coming from the den. I thought that this must be my knight coming to make sure I was safe because my motives for leaving my room were the same. Happily, with the thought of monsters far in the back of my mind, I moved to the sliding glass door in the den. But it wasn’t my four legged hero scratching at the screen door. It was a man, dressed in black, slicing through it. I did the only thing I could think to do, I screamed. I screamed for my mother. I screamed for my brothers. I screamed and ran to hide beneath the kitchen table. Lights came on and people shuffled out of their rooms. My brothers, all three, ran from the front door to catch the man and my mother, after briefly making sure I was okay, ran right after them with a phone gripped tightly in her hands. She stood before the door way and I slowly moved towards her; crying because I was afraid. But the second I came to the door, something caught my eye. My eyes fought hard to focus through the rain and my grip tightened on my bear. There was a dark figure running into the street with someone right at his heels. A cars horn immediately sounded and my brothers yelled, “STOP!”. Something flew through the air and my mother ran out, gripping my hand tightly in her own. As we reached the street where my brothers were yelling, I couldn’t hear anything. It was as if the world slowed down just for this one terribly painful moment. My mother tried to shield my eyes but I fought her. There, lying on the ground before the car was my hero stiff as a board. Instinct told me to call out to him and I did but he didn’t come. I yelled his name but he didn’t come. I fought against my mother to go to him, to be there at his side, to let him see that I was here and so he could stop playing now. He could stop playing dead because it wasn’t funny anymore. But the look on my brother’s face as I said this out loud let me know that he wasn’t playing at all.

I’d lost my hero because a stupid teenage boy decided to break into a family home. I’d lost my hero because he was trying to protect my family, to protect me. Brutus wasn’t just a dog; he was my best friend, my soul mate, my knight in shining armor. He was my everything and in just a few minutes, he was taken away from me. I didn’t sleep that night or the night after that and still to this day I can’t talk about him without crying. My sleeping habits are crazy and I often find myself comparing my dogs now to him. He grew up with me from when I was in my mother’s womb up until I was eight years old. I’m sure you can understand that a great piece of my childhood involved that dog and that same bit died with him.