Lessons from Jail

Lately I've begun to feel like I'm stuck in a small room with a radio playing a bad country song.  Over and over and over.  Everything seems to be about broken hearts and cheating, breakups and bar fights, getting drunk and being thrown in jail.  Well, I think to myself, it's tragic and melodramatic but at least it's colorful rather than dull.  I've never visited anyone in jail before and I hardly know the protocol - until now it had never occurred to me that I'd ever need to know - but life is full of surprises.  After all, I was the one who bought that til death us do part thing.  Twice.

I suppose it's just one more reminder that when it comes to people, it's hard to know what we're truly all about.  Here is a gifted musician, bright and quick witted, well educated and generous of nature, a cat lover with a steady job and a ready smile.   And here is that same young man, wild eyed with rage, vindictive and menacing, out of control and spitting poison with every breath.   Like Dr. Jeckyll after drinking the elixir, he revealed another personality - filled with hate so stunning that it took my breath away.  Disintegration was quick to follow and in a matter of weeks the woman he loved so dearly ordered him out, the newspaper fired him, and friends fell like dominoes.  After a nasty fight in a local bar, he was arrested and jailed without a dime for bail and human nature being what it is, the popular opinion was that since he'd brought it all on himself, he could rot.  He had driven away or threatened to hurt so many people that not a single, solitary soul was willing to step up to his defense.

A handful of people take pleasure in this fall from grace but the majority are simply saddened and bewildered.

I want to think we would all reach out to a friend in need, that there's enough kindness and empathy in us to want to help someone in deep trouble.  But I also know that feelings are fragile things, easily bruised and delicate.  Spit on an offer to help once too often and you may not get another.  There are times when we're defeated before we start and we distance ourselves for the sake of peace of mind and security.  We walk away because to stay risks our own well being.

My heart, however, tells me he needs a friend and that I need to make time to be one.
   

  


   

Nearly November

After a night spent fully dressed and under as many layers of covers as I could find, I come to grips with the thoroughly disagreeable fact that the heat is not going to fix itself.  Despite being in a sweater and wrapped up in a blanket, the small brown dog's teeth are chattering and she can't stop shivering.  More bad luck, it's Sunday and the bill will be astronomical.  I pull on long johns and two hooded sweatshirts and start the cleaning chores.  The tiny flicker of hope that physical activity will keep me warm vanishes when I realize I can barely feel my fingers. 

It's nearly November but the weather only turned yesterday.  I can see frost on the grass and the deck is covered in dead leaves.  A fine time for the heat to go out, not quite as bad as losing the air conditioning in August when the temperature locks in to 100 degrees, but close.  All I can see of the small brown dog is the tip of her nose - the other two sleep and keep watch - they're blessed with thick coats and stronger, tougher constitutions.  Would that I were more like them.

Not long after I call, the repairman arrives - a cheerful and attractive man who's only defect is his lack of optimism.  He crawls under the house, tool belt jingling, and after the first hour the feeling of dread that's been building in me begins to grow feet.  I'm trying hard to banish the thought that anything that takes this long is bound to cost prohibitive and when he finally emerges and tells me a figure, I nosedive into as deep a depression as I've had in years.  Worse, unless I'm willing to pay an extra few hundred dollars, it needs to wait until tomorrow and even then there's no guarantee that the parts will be readily available.  The long chill begins and the small brown dog gives me a look that breaks my heart.

By early afternoon I've made the trip to Sears and bought two ceramic heaters and a heating pad.  With both running at full strength for several hours and the outside temperatures getting into the upper fifties, two rooms are marginally less frigid and the small brown dog is curled up peacefully enough on the heating pad.  I spend the remainder of the day in a nest of blankets in the sunroom, trying desperately to nap and not think about the rate of interest on the credit cards, what the temperature will be come morning, and how best to convince the bank that I'm a good risk. 

I know other people have more serious troubles.
I know it could always be worse.
But on this miserable, nearly November day, I swallow my pride and admit I'm too weary, fed up, and depressed to care.

Last of the Litter

It's hard to comprehend that it was nine years ago that I happened on the small brown dog, last of the litter, sitting and shivering in a milk crate outside our local Petco on a blowy Sunday afternoon.  Her siblings had all found homes that very day and the human that had brought this disreputable clutter of pups to give away was tired and cold and about to give up.  Don't look, don't look, don't look!  I told myself as I approached the doors, but of course, I did look - she was barely a handful of wild hair with pleading eyes, light as a feather and looking miserable and half frozen and lonely, some unfortunate mix of terrier and Lord only knew what - and I was done for the very second our eyes met.   God granted me no immunity from such sweet, sad faces.  No reason or common sense prevails at these moments and the fact that I already shared my life with five cats and two dogs was eminently forgettable.  I scooped up her tiny body and tucked her inside my jacket for the ride home and have never regretted it for even a second.  This month, on Halloween, she turns nine - and since she spent the first two years of her life on the counter of the photo shop where I worked (winning hearts with no effort at all and delighting customers of all ages), people still remember, still ask about her, still smile when I tell them she's doing just fine.

These days she spends most of her time sleeping and playing with the little daschund.  She's a naturally friendly but timid animal, loving, sweet natured and eager to please, exceptionally well behaved.  I often wonder if she misses the daily car rides and the steady stream of people as much as I miss having her with me.  At times during those couple of years, it was hard to tell who was being socialized.

Being a small dog, nine isn't quite over the hill and she'll be with me for several more years.  I'm glad for each day.  She's more like a cartoon character than a movie queen but then beauty is in the eye of the beholder and as I tell her frequently, we can't all be Liz Taylor.  Some dogs are meant test you to your limits and some are 
just meant to bring you joy.

On balance, I always get the best of the bargain.

Taking Out the Trash

There's no other way to put it.  After six months of abuse and denial and intimidation, police calls and warnings, under threat of eviction and unemployment and loss of her children, she finally unraveled.  There were tears and hugs and apologies and self recriminations - later in the day there were search warrants and restraining orders and an eventual arrest.  It was all very touching and highly emotional but whether it was real is yet to be determined.  I'm afraid this little drama is only act one.  For the moment, her job was saved.  Her children would be able to sleep safely and securely.  Her family welcomed her back with open arms and she'd been granted another chance.  But this is sickness, deeply rooted and powerful and very, very stubborn.  It's not over by a long shot and the road back is going to be long and littered with obstacles.

It was late in the afternoon when word of the arrest reached us.  He didn't, as the deputies suggested but didn't expect, go quietly and resisting arrest was added to the list of the charges just as more drama and chaos were 
added to a day already teeming with both.  I felt a twisted satisfaction at the thought of his being read his rights and led away in handcuffs - predator had finally become prey - and a part of me hoped they'd taken him down hard, had perhaps inflicted a little of his own back.  As it turned out, they had -  he'd fought like a typical hyped
up junkie and ended up being tasered twice before he was subdued and thrown none too gently into the back of the police car.  By the time the drug dog was done going through the house the following day, the deputies had uncovered the outstanding warrants from Mississippi and Alabama as well as a record of felony convictions and prison time, everything from robberies to credit card fraud to assault and battery.  Bail was upped to $100,000 in less time than it took the ink to dry on the police reports.

Not surprisingly, the threatening calls began the same day - his mother and sister joined forces but weren't bright enough to realize that we could "star 69"  their calls or far seeing enough to think we would report them.   A deputy returned the sister's call and we listened in awe as he told her flatly that if she continued, he would be more than happy to have her arrested and make arrangements for her to be brought here - where, he added in a soft drawled  afterthought, she could be really close to her brother.  There were no more calls.

That such people exist in the world is not news to me.  That they take advantage of and prey on the innocent and the desperate is fact.  That they succeed so easily and often is tragic.  The only thing that shocks me is that one of them got close enough to touch my life, even superficially.  I've never been on speaking terms, however briefly, with a career criminal before and I find it unsettling - not to mention disappointing.  I suppose I was expecting a little flair, a hint of mystery or casual charm rather than white trash with with bad teeth and a greasy ponytail.

And so, act one concludes with the villain in jail, the evil exposed and neutralized, the children safe and their sadder but wiser mother picking up the pieces with a new found determination to repair and rebuild.  Today I saw her smile and heard her laugh, really just naturally laugh, for the first time in months.

It's a good sign.
At least that's what I hope.

Apple Picking Days

If, at the end of summer, you were young and strong, could spare a few weeks away from home and were in need of cash money, you signed up to pick apples in New England.  It was hard work but the air was clean, the leaves were turning, the ocean wasn't that far away and the money was good.   The orchards of Londonderry and Exeter and Lee welcomed the young Canadians with open arms.

Apple picking was a six day a week, dawn to dusk affair but on Sundays, the young men piled into borrowed, dusty pick up trucks and drove to my parents' where they gathered on the deck.  They drank astonishing quantities of cold beer and consumed fried chicken and potato salad and told tales.  The ones that were homesick called home, all were grateful for a day off and my mother was pleased to have them.  In return for the day's hospitality, they would help out my daddy with small projects around the house, cut and stack wood, rake leaves.  Often one would bring a guitar and music floated out over the lake well after dark.  These were good days with laughter and conversation, days that felt like going home.  It always made me melancholy to see them end - it was like leaving the island all over again - and it didn't comfort me to know that there would be another summer, there was too much cold and winter in between.
  
Often, if not always, I felt divided as a child, torn between the life I lived in the summer and the one I lived the rest of the year, never quite sure to which I belonged.  Much like my two families - my mother's on the one hand and my daddy's on the other - I wavered and changed sides, searching for a balance that was always just out of reach.  During the long winters I would yearn for the island and feel guilty, during the too short summers
I would remember I had another life and feel guilty.  It was one metaphor after another - the conflict between the seasons, the war between my parents, the never to be reconciled differences between the families, the
distance that separated the country and city life.  Belonging seemed to be a continuing tug of war.

Eventually I managed a mostly tolerable compromise - I settled and stayed in the States but left my heart in Canada.  It's still there to this very day even though the rest if me isn't.

A Clean Break

It's deja vu all over again.

A recent breakup has a friend on a roller coaster, streaking to the sky one minute, high on optimism and determination and a fresh start - then free falling with rage and bitterness and recriminations the next.  I read  her posts and while a part of my heart aches for her, another part wants to shake her senseless until she's forced to let loose, forced to see that she's doing most of this to herself.  An image of dead, dry branches and green twigs reinforced with resin comes into my mind - one makes for a splintery but clean break, the other is sticky, incredibly strong and resistant.  One you step over and move on, the other will entangle and engage you until you slice through it and shear it off.  So much easier said than done, I remind myself, remembering that it took me years to get free.  

Though it may not be readily apparent to those close to us, each of us has a personal limit to what we're willing to tolerate and what we're willing to live without - we need only to work out which is which - also easier said than done.

“Some people live in cages with bars built from their own fears and doubts. Some people live in cages with bars built from other people's fears and doubts; their parents, their friends, their brothers and sisters, their families. Some people live in cages with bars built from the choices others made for them, the circumstances other people imposed upon them. And some people break free.”  ~ C Joybell C.

T'aint easy, McGee, as the old tv show liked to say, but it's worth it.  

Lock Up Your Daughters

Aside from fire and flood and the random hurricane, there wasn't much that unsettled the island folk - they simply circled the wagons and trudged through whatever adversity befell them, taking eventual victory for granted.  It was never supposed to be an easy life, they reminded each other, God was on their side but had no intention of letting them slide.  Everyone knew that you got to the next life through charity, good deeds,
faith, and most especially, hard work.

Well, almost everyone.  Scallopers didn't have a chance in hell.

For an honest, industrious, early to bed and early to rise, usually law abiding fisherman, the arrival of the scallop fleet signaled eight long weeks of troubled waters.  Hide the whiskey and lock up your daughters was the general rule if not the battle cry - the dredging muddied the passage, the boats took up valuable space at the breakwaters and the scallop crews were a hard drinking, hard fighting, hard cussing lot with big tempers and big appetites.  They cleaned up on Saturday nights with after shave and shiny boots and hit the town square like gunslingers looking for a new sheriff and ready to make a name for themselves.  The only rule seemed to be that there were no rules - they were loud, had no respect for property or virtue, and prided themselves on being hard drunk.  They didn't stand in line for anyone and though most all had wives and children in Port Wade or Church Point, their loyalties appeared to be defined by geography.  One frivolous, foolish night with a scalloper often meant ruination for a curious and restless island girl - more than one found herself alone and in dire (if predictable) straits at summer's end - but when it happened to a tired, overburdened, taken for granted and vaguely restless married woman, well, things had simply gone too far.

The wife of the lighthouse keeper was in her forties and ran a small take out canteen at the other end of the island.  She'd never strayed before, never did again, but on one starry summer night after a fierce fight with her husband and feeling unappreciated and old before her time, she'd put on a low cut blouse and a short skirt and had come to the dance, a small flask tucked into her purse for courage.  She woke the next morning, on the floor of the canteen with an empty flask and a powerful headache, cursing her own foolishness and wondering what in the world had gotten into her and what she would tell her husband.  She had no idea a makeshift posse was forming with the lighthouse keeper in the lead nor that the life of a scallop fisherman was about to take a drastic turn.  She dressed and crept home, hoping against hope that she wouldn't be seen but her husband, waiting quietly in the kitchen and drinking coffee with his old shotgun laying on his lap, was expecting her.  It only took one shot - she died before she reached the back door.  The lighthouse keeper drove to The Point and joined the gang of men he'd hastily organized to avenge her honor but the scallop boats had sailed before dawn and there wasn't a trace of them.  By then the Mounties had been called and the entire island knew the sordid story.

The lighthouse keeper surrendered, the scalloper was never caught, and the dead woman was buried with only the minister and his wife standing sadly standing at the grave.  

Island folk have long memories and it was several years before the scallop fleet returned to the waters off St. Mary's Bay.  They fished, they minded their own business, and each time they left, Miss Clara would find fresh flowers on the grave of the lighthouse keeper's wife.

The House at Lost Dog Lane and Shut Eye Road

It was a Sunday and dawn had not yet broken on what would be a serene and pastel summer day. In what seemed to be a matter of minutes, the house at Lost Dog Lane and Shut Eye Road was first engulfed then devoured by the flames.  By the time the volunteer fire brigade arrived - summoned out of their warm beds by the wild shrieking of the factory whistle at just past 4 am - there was little left save smoke and ashes,  a few scattered and charred cinderblocks and the sad remains of a foundation.  It was all they were able to do to contain the damage and prevent it from spreading to the surrounding woods and it was several minutes before anyone noticed the small terrier-like dog who emerged from the trees, his coat blackened and his muzzle sooty, dragging a little girl's doll and whining anxiously.  

Sweet standin' Jesus!  Jacob Sullivan suddenly yelled and abandoned the body he was dragging out of the still smoldering debris, John, look!  It's Shadow!

John Sullivan peered into the slowly brightening dark and dropped his shovel.  Shadow!  Come here, boy!

The dog  came, still holding the baby doll in his teeth, whining softly and shivering.  He dropped it at John's feet then began a frantic dance, repeatedly barking and running toward the woods, nipping and tugging at John's boots.  Jacob and his brother exchanged a quick glance then with Shadow leading, they both ran for the trees while Uncle Willie and Uncle Shad continued to count bodies - all in all, there were nine dead - only the two little girls that Shadow had saved survived.  They were found together, in their nightclothes, scratched and bruised, covered with dirt and unconscious, but alive.  In was only when Jacob and John carried them to the relative safety of the fire scene and laid them in the back of Uncle Shad's wagon that anyone realized Shadow had stayed behind in the woods.  The Sullivan brothers went back for him, whistling and calling his name - they searched until it was light, until the last of the bodies had been pulled from the ashes and laid out in the early morning sun to await the hearses from the mainland.  They searched the following day and the day after that but there was no trace of a dog, not alive and not dead.  John and Jacob began to consider the possibility that the stress of the fire and rescue had caused some kind of mutual hallucination - no one else could remember seeing Shadow and they were both a little fuzzy on the details - but the fact remained that two little girls were resting and recovering at Rowena's and the Sullivan brothers were not prone to flights of imagination.  If Shadow hadn't led the way, how had they been found, John and Jacob both wondered but only to themselves.

By unanimous decision, the village decided on one unifying funeral, the thought of nine separate services was too overwhelming to bear, even the minister agreed.  Clean up of the fire scene would begin the day after the burials, a final act to cleanse the ground and repair the damage as much as was possible.  A dozen or so volunteers, including John and Jacob Sullivan, arrived with shovels and axes, Uncle Willie and Uncle Shad drove  in wagons to haul away the debris, the island women brought box lunches and gallon jars of iced coffee and the men worked in shifts, wanting to finish this sad duty as quickly as possible.

They began at first light, shoveling and raking, tearing down the remaining support beams and gathering the remnants of what had been a home.  It was tragic work, done silently and respectfully.  No one complained or joked in the light hearted way people sometimes do to alleviate sorrow or distance themselves from a very bad situation.  It was coming on sunset when John and Jacob Sullivan lifted the scarred but intact claw footed bathtub out of the ruins and discovered Shadow - his small emaciated body, scorched and singed in places, his muzzle blackened, one ear nearly severed and his front legs crushed.

Aw, hell and damnation, Jacob swore and his voice carried clearly in the clear afternoon air, Put the sumbitch down, John, and look here.

John Sullivan knelt and looked, his face frowning and puzzled as he reached one gloved hand out.  How'd the poor little bastard get under here, Jacob?  How come he ain't....you know....decayed?  It's been a week.

Maybe he ain't dead, Jacob said tentatively and his brother glared.

Look at'im!  John snapped, 'Course he's........

And at that moment, Shadow's eyes fluttered open and he whined, soft, low, and pitiful.  Both brothers cursed  and stumbled backwards in shock - John lost his balance, Jacob pinwheeled against him and fell.  For a second, neither spoke then both scrabbled on their hands and knees toward the wrecked animal, scooping him up as gently as they could and carrying him away from the burnt out ruins.  Rowena, packing up lunch baskets and loading them into the wagons, dropped everything and immediately slipped out of her jacket and wrapped Shadow in it.  Get me home, John, she said urgently, I've got work to do.

Children and animals, Rowena had been heard to say, share the gift of innocence and natural resiliency.  Why, I can't recollect one didn't take to love and a little kindness when they was needing healing.

It was a long healing season for the two little girls who had survived the fire, longer still for the small dog who had saved their lives but all three were mended.  The house at Lost Dog Lane and Shut Eye Road was returned to the wild and eventually nature reclaimed it.  The trees grew and the wild grass thrived.  No one ever thought to ask John or Jacob Sullivan how it was that Shadow had come to be buried after he had escaped the fire and led them to his children.  

Some things are just meant to be a wonderment.

Undercover

There's nothing finer than a cozy bed on a chilly morning.

Under the cover of two quilts and a fleece blanket, with four cats and all three dogs jockeying for position, I search for the will to rise and shine.  It's October, not quite all the way light, and the only thing I'm clear about is not wanting to leave this warm and secure nest.  Let daylight burn, I mumble and burrow a little deeper.  My grandmother would be appalled by this attitude, I think dimly, and while I can almost hear her disapproving voice, I find I can shut it out if I try hard enough.  I loved her dearly but we never did agree about mornings and on days like this, I can't help but think that all roads lead back to childhood.

As a child with one parent an alcoholic and the other overworked and mostly absent, I suffered from an excess of freedom or - depending on your point of view, I suppose - a fair amount of neglect.  There were no sleep overs at our house, no birthday parties, no study groups or supper guests or after school visits from friends.  We knew, I think by some natural instinct granted to children, that such things were for other kids - it was wiser and safer not to test the boundaries, smarter to follow the rules and keep family business in the family.

Solitary and self reliant children become solitary and self reliant adults with a shy streak a mile wide.  We have trouble with small talk and crowds, we're slow to trust and are often perceived as being distant, unfriendly, even anti-social.  We're not big on holidays and absolutely detest being the center of attention.  We don't like asking for help, don't like admitting we can't do it all.  Confrontation scares the daylights out of us.  We live with a constant fear of being unmasked, of failing or not meeting expectations, realistic or otherwise.  We keep to ourselves more often than not, need more approval than is good for us, and don't suffer fools at all.

On the bright side, we're curious, loyal to a fault, usually fairly well read and imaginative, often artistic.  We know the difference between lonely and alone and don't believe in regrets.  We've reconciled our demons as much as they will allow and learned to live with the ones that remain.  If not outright blissful - and really, who is - we're content and at peace.  These are some of the things I used to think about in my tiny, second floor room, on chilly October mornings when I would burrow deeper under cover in a second hand cot and search for the will to rise and shine.

Had I'd the will or the words to explain this to my grandmother, I'm pretty sure she'd have given me a few extra undercover minutes.

'Course she might also have booted me into next week.

Soulmates

A wedding invitation received yesterday is very nearly enough to restore my faith in love and marriage and the  starry eyed notion that everyone has a soulmate.  I can't remember seeing two people closer or more committed or more dedicated to one another - they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle - and I was moved to tears by the prospect of seeing them marry.  

It was the second such invitation in less than a month and it makes me remember that there's something about weddings.....I think I like the idea if not the actuality, the romance if not the reality.... there's work involved in partnerships and only play in romance, kind of like the difference between poetry and prose.  But these two upcoming weddings will, I think, have the best of both.  If soulmates there be, they have found each other.

My soulmates all seem to have four feet and tails.  They don't bring much romance to the relationship but they love unconditionally and always soothe my troubled soul.  They take up less room in the bed, don't leave towels on the bathroom floor or expect me to cook, and never, ever wander or pick a fight.  They sense my emotions and bring comfort, comedy, or company as needed and while I don't admit it to everyone, I haven't the least doubt that they understand, reason, and feel - very much as I do.  I talk to them without the slightest sense of self consciousness and if one day one were to answer back, I'm reasonably sure I wouldn't give it a second thought.  I've been more than halfway expecting it my whole life.  A silly and uneducated notion, some say, a fantasy.  We believe what we believe because we need to or because it pleases us to do so.  Well, perhaps.  But, I remind myself, just because I can't prove that my animals have minds and hearts and souls and will all go to heaven in their own good time - doesn't mean that anyone can prove they don't.

Soulmates are for this life and, if you believe, for the one to follow.  So I will go to these weddings with a happy heart.  I'll celebrate whatever forces brought these friends together and trust in whatever powers will keep them together.  And then I'll come home to my own loves....'cause nothing says soulmates can't have four feet and tails.

The Search for Shiloh, Part Two

So Ruthie and I stood there at the edge of the Westport Woods about to leave the bright sunshine and cross over into the dark.  The air was heavy with the smell of lichen and moss and the ground itself seemed to rustle, beckon almost.

 A rabbit (ogre), I told Ruthie.

Maybe a fox (fire breathing dragon), she told me.

Surely nothing that could do us any harm, we agreed, and together we took the first steps into the forest.  We were on a search for Shiloh, the old man who was supposed to live in a cave and keep the woods and the animals safe.  A few feet in, with the sun just flickering through the tops of the trees, we were seeing him everywhere and nowhere.  Every shadow seemed to take form and every tree appeared alive.  We imagined hidden yellow eyes following us from behind the dark boulders, watching and waiting and I think we were both beginning to regret all those Saturdays with Uncle Bernie's stories of mayhem and madness and blood.  With shaky voices, we repeated the spell Glenda had taught us and sprinkled more of Rowena's magic herbs on the damp ground.

We mean you no harm!  Ruthie suddenly shouted and squeezed my hand in a death grip.

We're only eight!  I hollered, as if it were a magic age.

 But the woods didn't answer.

A few feet further on, there really were yellow eyes - an owl sitting on a high branch glared at us and hooted in alarm.  The leaves beneath our feet moved and a turtle emerged, crossing our path with slow, even turtle steps.  Something howled in the distance, a lonely and forbidding wail and then just for a moment we saw a shape that might've been a man - it stood tall and unwavering in the small clearing ahead of us with another shape that might've been a deer at its side.  Both were gone in an instant, magically and silently melting into the trees and underbrush.  Ruthie seemed frozen in place and I could hear my heart frantically pounding, roaring in my ears like the ocean.

Wasn't real, she muttered.

Was so, I whispered back.

Under different circumstances we might've argued til the cows came home but this day it didn't seem to matter much who was right.  Still hand in hand and moving very slowly and deliberately, we backed up, one careful step a a time.  The forest began to feel as if it were closing in on itself and imagining that our escape route might be cut off, we instinctively dropped hands, spun around, broke and ran for the light as if the devil himself was at our heels.  By the time we reached the ferry, it had all begun to slip away and we were starting to feel foolish, beginning to suspect that our imaginations had outrun us.  In the way that children have of making decisions without words, we decided to keep this particular misadventure to ourselves and when Cap lifted us into the wheelhouse for the crossing and gave us a suspicious look, we pretended not to notice.

We were back on our own island in no time, skittering off the scow like water bugs and running for home.

Boot Hill

I'm rudely awakened from my nap on the couch by the sounds of a dogfight in progress. The black dog has cornered the small brown one in the hall, has gotten her on her back and pinned to the wall and it sounds as if the world is ending.  I haul her off and send her packing into the next room with a healthy smack and a violent curse - the small brown dog leaps into my arms, shivering and crying, and in the corner of my eye, I see the little daschund peeking out uncertainly from under the bed.  There is no sign of anything that could've been even the slightest provocation but I know the black dog and understand that she doesn't need to be provoked. She watches me comfort and reassure the little ones with no remorse in those dark eyes and I'm sure the only thing she regrets is being caught.

Don't even think about it!  I tell her sharply - very sharply - when she drops to her belly and commences the low crawl toward us.  She looks contrite and confused but her eyes give her away and I'm not buying.  One of these days that temper of your's is going to earn you a one way trip to Boot Hill, I say, Are you trying for a lethal injection?   Her expression turns pleading and seriously soulful and I can feel my anger evaporating.  The small brown dog has stopped shaking and is curled up on a pillow beside me and the little daschund has perked back up - he sits bright eyed and alert on my other side, ready to forgive and forget.  I don't want to, but I relent.

Oh, all right, I tell the black dog at last, But you'd better mind your manners.  She settles for this and comes closer, circles once or twice and then arranges herself at my feet, her head resting on her paws but her eyes watching me, evaluating me.  Discipline has never been my strong suit with her and I'm convinced she knows it, but, I tell myself, nobody got hurt (this time! a tiny voice insists and I push the thought away roughly) and no real harm was done.  There's no sense in punishing her further since I'm sure in her mind she thinks it was justified and anyway, it's already history.  I've dealt with her aggression and jealousy and unpredictable temper for twelve years now - it's a little late to expect or demand an attitudinal correction.  She is what she is and while I don't like her all that much, I do love her dearly.  She's backyard bred, curse the concept and the idiot who thought it was a a quick way to easy money.

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully with the two little ones sleeping at my side, neatly tucked in between a couple of the cats.  The black dog sleeps as well but restlessly, she stirs at every small noise and keeps a watchful eye on us all.