Tagged: dying

DOGGONE

(Photo courtesy of Apertome)

In the last post, I introduced you to my dog Rex, the only dog I ever loved died when I was fourteen. When the story ‘DOGGONE’ came to me, I thought of Rex.

The picture above, although not Rex, reminds me of him. Rex was smart, cool, and he had heart; he didn’t take any mess, not even from me. But he loved me and I him. I like to remember him as a dog on a journey.

 This is for you boy.

 DOGGONE

“Hank, wake up, wake up!”

Hank woke with a start and looked over at the clock.

“Boy, it’s six o’ clock in the morning. What the fu–”

“Spare me the obscenities.”

“Okay, okay, what is it?”

“I’m dying.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Thanks, but no. But there is something I want to do for you.”

Hank sat up.

“Take this map and this envelope. Promise me you will follow the map to the letter. And you won’t open the envelope until you hear the sirens, promise?”

“I promise, boy. Hey, Rex, maybe you’re wrong, maybe you’re not dying, maybe–”

Rex hit the floor with a slam.

“Oh, boy. Right again.”

Hank unfolded the hand-written map, which detailed the many places that Rex, during his lifetime, had buried money.

Hank, over the years, the many times money came up missing I was the one who stole it, not the few friends you chased away.

Now that you’re broke and I’m dead, I would like to tell you where I buried a small fortune in several places on our property.

“Why that lousy mutt!”

Hank! Hank! Calm down and listen!

Four feet from the oak tree in the back yard is buried five-thousand dollars. So get your shovel and bury me nearby – then get digging.

Hank buried Rex in two shakes of a dog’s tail, then went sniffing and dug up the money.

“Whoaaaaa, good boy, Rex, good boy.”

All right, all right, let’s keep moving.

Near the back fence under that smelly bush you planted is ten-thousand dollars.

After some digging and cursing, Hank dug up the loot.

“Rex, you were the best dog. Ever. I miss you already.”

Yeah, yeah, let’s keep moving.

Four feet in front of my doghouse you will find fifteen large.

The doghouse was in a sad state of repair. Hank now wished he’d taken better care of Rex.

Three feet down, just as Rex had predicted, lay the dough wrapped in plastic like the others.

“Awwww, boy, how did you ever do this? Thank you, boy, thank youuuu.”

Hank! Get a grip. Onto the last stop.

Near the patio, four feet from that stupid rock you call art is twenty Gs.

Hank found it so.

“Oooh, Rex, I loved you so much, boy. Why did you have to die? Why? Why? Why?”

“Hey, Hank, are you okay?” asked the neighbor.

“No, Phil, as a matter of fact, I’m not! And for your information, Rex died.”

“Good! I never like that mutt, anyway.”

“Why you no good–”

Hank leaped the fence, grabbed Phil and punched him near to death. Phil’s wife came out screaming, and then rushed to call the police.

Within minutes, Hank heard the sirens then he remembered the envelope.

Dear Hank,

I knew one day you would do something stupid. Whatever it is, I hope the fifty helps.

And to quote the best quote you ever stole: ‘May the fleas of a thousand camels invade the crotch of the person that ruins your day. And may their arms be too short to scratch.’ I love you, my friend, take care.

Love and happiness,

Rex

This story is from the LIFE: AS FRAGILE AS DUST COLLECTION. If you enjoyed this story, purchase this short story collection at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

For our GOOD FRIDAY, tell us your most heartwarming story about your four legged friend. And as always, keep your head up.

DYING TO STAY ALIVE

Image

He watches as she cleans the last of the mess. She holds a bag filled with old newspapers, beer bottles, and cigarettes butts. Slowly he comes into the room, offering his assistance.

She turns and strains a smile; holding a finger to her lips she whispers, “Thank you honey, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” She kisses his bruised cheek. He heads back to bed.

He leaves the door slightly open and watches. He prays.

His prayer is interrupted. Large feet slam onto the wooden floor, the sound resonating through the house. The Monster is awake.

He resumes his prayer. “Stop you’re hurting me!” The child begins to cry. He wants to save her, but his stinging bruise stops him.

The sounds of breaking bottles and things crashing everywhere and shouts of, “YOU LOUSY WHORE!” will always remain. But it’s just one of many times he heard his mother being slammed to the floor. The sight of his father kicking her will remain forever.

Then silence. Silence so deafening, he hears it to this very day.

Suddenly, it’s broken. “DON’T YOU RUN FROM ME YOU BITCH!” The beating begins once more.

A toilet flushing, the creak of the bed – only after the child hears these sounds, he feels they’re safe. The Monster sleeps.

A few feet away she lies crumpled on the floor, blood draining from her mouth and nose. She, too, sleeps. In darkness, he prays.

Now lay me down to sleep, I pray you Lord my Mom do keep. If I should die before she wakes, I pray You Lord my Dad do take.

For many women, scenes like this are their reality. Broke and broken, they feel trapped in their relationship. To survive, they stay with their abusers. But they’re dying to stay alive. Unfortunately, scenes like this continue to grow because, for some, it’s justified. Someone on their WordPress site, (you know who you are) said, “I can feel no remorse or compassion towards such women, they wanted the bad guy and still they have the audacity to complain? Did anyone put a shotgun to your head and told you to hook up with him?”

I ask that person to look at the young woman in the photo, look hard and ask yourself…what woman deserves that?

These women don’t need our judgment, they need our help. Fortunately, many abused women do escape their abusers, many times with just the clothes on their backs.

Let’s help. For our GOOD FRIDAY, donate one article of clothing to a battered woman’s shelter. Come back on Friday and share your experience. And as always, keep your head up.