Dog Days in White Rock

White Rock, Arkansas, was a temporary town, home to construction workers, illegal aliens, and old people left behind by their families. It consisted of a collection of pastel green pre-fab huts, rusty mobile homes (we called them trailers back then), and ancient RVs. My family moved around a lot while I was growing up; hell, you might say one, two, or even three new schools a year was normal for me. We moved enough that I considered myself at the age of seven to be somewhat of an expert travel guide, and I could honestly say White Rock was the dirtiest, most depressing place I had ever lived, bar none.

We had a nice enough trailer, but that's like saying I wore cool Goodwill clothes. There was only one hole in the floor in the corner of my bedroom, and the toilet flushed as long as there was nothing in it. The school had no playground, just some scary woods that we weren't supposed to play in, so we all stood around at recess and told dirty jokes or got in fights. But every new home was a mystery waiting to be revealed, and I had my dog Prince and his mom Buffy, so I didn't really need a steady stream of friends. This was good, because friends were hard to find in White Rock.

I only really had one real friend there. His name was Gordie. He was 13, and I was 7, so you could say that a friendship was problematic, but not when boredom and children and mutual hatred are concerned. Besides, there were no other kids in the neighborhood, except for my nemeses. I was a smart-aleck skinny kid who loved comics, and Gordie was a hulking country boy who wandered around town and shot things with his air rifle. Of course we got along.

Gordie and I were not the only kids who lived in our neighborhood. There were also the filthyneighborkids. I don't really know how many of them there were; at least four, because I'd seen at least four of them all together once or twice before. Some of them were related, I'm sure. But you couldn't really tell much else about them, as the years of ground in dirt and neglect had cast them all a uniform, sexless, gray and brown. I met them on my first day in White Rock, when we came back from eating lunch at Dairy King to find them inside our trailer, pocketing my mom's jewelry and eating our potato chips, the Ruffles, not the cheap Piggly-Wiggly brand. Dad, roaring, grabbed them and shook everything they'd taken out of their pockets and hands and then threw them out the door. Gordie stood outside, laughing his ass off. He'd come over to see who the new people were, and had received the unexpected bonus of seeing those filthyneighborkids cast out like moneylenders from the temple. Since then they'd begun to take a personal interest in badgering me, following me to school, screeching insults and swear words, throwing rocks and cans. Until I told Gordie, that is. He swore that he was going to have to shoot those filthyneighborkids one day, and began walking me to and from school, air rifle in hand, and we quickly became best friends.

Gordie loved Prince, calling him a lil’ scrapper, and so the three of us soon became a regular sight all over White Rock. The town seemed to be in constant danger of losing a battle with nature at its most primal, and we would happily explore parking lots torn by creeks, dumpsters surrounded by woods, and fences straddling overgrown ditches. Gordie always had that rifle, Prince had his twisted red collar, and I had them both. Prince would dart ahead to flush out any hidden rabbits, birds, or bears, his puppy-sized frame concealing the tight, coiled muscles and easy grace of a fighter, his black and pink mottled tongue flapping crazily.

His mother, Buffy, was half Pomeranian and half Pekingese, and the most dangerous little bitch alive, in spite of her small size, painted nails, and ribbons. His father was a medium sized black shorthaired mutt, a local stray. Prince got his mother's size and fighting spirit and his father's appearance. Buffy used to kick Prince's dad's ass all over the yard whenever he came over, much to our delight, and Prince would join in, his tiny black body working in tandem with Buffy to confuse and terrorize his father relentlessly until he fled, whimpering and whining. Buffy and Prince loved to fight other dogs, and were surprisingly good at it.

They developed a system. Prince would wander the streets of White Rock, looking for the biggest, meanest dog he could find. Once he found this alpha male, he'd start some shit with him, snap at him, maybe growl a bit, or piss on him if nothing else worked. The alpha would finally lunge at this arrogant pup, giving chase all the way back to our trailer. Prince would slow up, making sure the alpha was still following, then dash across the yard and behind the trailer, where Buffy typically held court on the back porch. The alpha male would follow, and before he knew his doom was upon him, Buffy was all over him, snarling, snapping, tearing, growling; a brown, beribboned, pink-nailed and pigtailed ball of fury… Prince, his duties as bait taken care of, joined in, the two of them working like some crazy Mexican midget wrestling tag team pitted against a giant. But as long as they were together, they never lost.

When Prince wasn't helping his mother destroy and humiliate larger dogs, he stayed close to me. He was my dog; Buffy belonged to my mom, and we had gotten her long after she was already full-grown and while I was much younger, so she never really took to me. But Prince we'd had since he was born, the only one of all of Buffy's litters that we kept. He watched TV with me. He went bike riding with me, running lightly beside me. He slept with me, pacing and snarling around the hole in the floor, making sure nothing was coming in, before crawling under the covers.

Gordie and I were returning from school the day Prince picked a fight with the wrong dog. As we approached the trailer we could hear Prince's high-pitched yapping from further down the street. Grinning in anticipation, we raced toward the trailer, not wanting to miss the show. We had almost reached the trailer when we saw Prince tear into the street, a monster of a Doberman hot on his heels, slavering and snarling madly. Prince raced past us, flashing his crazy tongued smile, accelerating toward the back of the trailer, leading the Doberman to his date with destruction. Gordie and I tensed, waiting for the force of nature we called Buffy to rain down on the Doberman like the wrath of God, wondering if we would hear the impact.

We heard nothing. Prince raced around the other side of the trailer, Doberman still in tow, Buffy nowhere to be seen. He raced past us again, still grinning cockily, still leading the Doberman by inches, and cut for the back of the trailer again. Gordie and I followed, looking anxiously for Buffy. She wasn't on the back porch. I yelled for my mom, a little bit worried.

"Mom! Mom! Where's Buffy! We need her out here quick!" I yelled, trying to keep up with the dogs as they began their third circuit of the trailer.

"Your mom's not here, see? The car's gone," Gordie noted, pointing.

I looked, and he was right. Inhaling sharply, I realized that Mom must have taken Buffy with her when she left. Which meant that Prince was on his own.

The dogs raced past us one more time. Prince looked a little tired, and not quite so cocky. The Doberman was a machine, not even breathing heavy, rage dripping from his jaws in long, snotty strands, straining to reach my tiny little dog.

Prince spun unexpectedly, launching himself at the Doberman, knocking the bigger dog backward, snapping at his face and neck. I cheered, relieved, while Gordie yelled “Go Scrapper! Kick his ass!”

The Doberman continued to backpedal, drops of blood flying from an ear Prince managed to snag. I laughed as the bigger dog turned tail to flee, my heart soaring. Prince lunged after him, determined to get one last lick in before his victim escaped. The Doberman halted his retreat though, and with frightening speed snapped his jaws around Prince's ribcage.

CRACK.

My laughter choked off. Gordie scrambled to bring his air rifle to bear on the Doberman. I screamed "NO!" and shoved him. "You might hit Prince!"

"That Doberman's going to kill him unless we do something!" he screamed back.

He was right. Prince wasn't fighting to win anymore; he was fighting to escape. His back legs didn't seem to work right, and blood was flying from his mouth as he snapped at the Doberman's head. But I was right too. Shooting at the Doberman was too risky. I had to do something.

Prince wailed and the Doberman shook its head back and forth, Prince's cry cutting off jaggedly. I sobbed as my fear ripped free “aaaheeEEYARRRRRRRRHHHHH!!!” and I ducked my head and charged the dogs, knocking all three of us to the ground. Prince landed to my right, limply, wetly, whimpering as he hit. The Doberman rolled smoothly to his feet on my left, menace personified. He growled at me, low and serious, then lunged past me at Prince.

I jumped between them.

The Doberman's teeth ripped into my arm and I howled. The Doberman paused for a second; perhaps he realized he'd gone too far, or perhaps he was just startled by my cry. Whatever the reason, he stopped, just long enough for Gordie to swing his rifle, butt first, straight into the Doberman's face with a splintering crunch.

"Shit eating sumbitch! Git! Fuckin' git on now!"

The Doberman yelped and spun to confront his attacker, and again Gordie smashed it in the face with his rifle, still yelling.

"Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck shiteater!"

Two hits to the face was more than enough for the Doberman, who growled and sped away, one ear hanging and bleeding. Gordie continued to curse, raising his rifle and firing at the retreating dog.

"Stupid (pop) sumbitch! (pop) Fuckin' piece a (pop) shit! Eat shit! (pop) Eat shit and die! (pop)"

Feeling suddenly heavy and slow, I turned back to Prince. He was panting harshly, and he didn't seem able to stand. I glanced at his middle, where the Doberman had grabbed him, and saw white bone in red pulp. I shuddered and looked away. Prince whined. Blood pulsed from my arm, mirroring the pounding in my head. Blue sparkles danced at the edge of my vision as the ground hit me in the face.

I spent the rest of the day in the emergency room. I got poked with a bunch of little needles and one giant one in the stomach. It felt like it was going to come out my back and tear my body in half. It hurt so bad I forgot to think about Prince, but then I felt guilty for forgetting to think about him. They kept taking blood samples, and I'm surprised I had any blood left at all by the time they were done with me. I got stitches and bandages, and drank some really nasty tasting medicine. Mom was there with me, but she wouldn't talk about Prince, saying that she asked Gordie to take care of him. She bought me comics, Jell-O, and a Dr. Pepper, but none of that mattered. I just wanted to go home and check on Prince.

A doctor came and said I could go now, but that I'd need to get another shot in my stomach every day for two weeks. I thought he was kidding, but Mom's somber nod convinced me otherwise. I pretended to pay attention so he'd stop talking and we could leave.

When we got home, Gordie told me that he'd moved Prince under the back porch, with a blanket and some water. I started for the porch, but Dad put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me.

"Prince is hurt pretty bad, son," he said. I shrugged; I knew this. That's why I wanted to go see him.

"I don't think he's going to make it. His back is broken." His eyes were sadder than I'd ever seen I was crying again, and I wiped my bandaged arm across my eyes.

"He's in a lot of pain, so just be careful and don't get too close to him, okay?" he asked. I nodded and waited for him to let go. He sighed and released me. Gordie and I headed for the back porch.

Buffy was waiting. She stood by the steps, whining. Gordie moved the cinderblock beside the stairs and we crawled under the porch. It was hot under there, and it smelled like shit and vomit. Prince was curled up in the corner. He whined at me and tried to bark, but it sounded like an old lady cough. I started to reach for him but he growled. Gordie pulled my arm back, so I just sat there and talked to Prince. I called him good dog and good boy, and he tried to wag his tail, but it just twitched. I went back under the porch after dinner and tried to give Prince some of my meatloaf. It dawned on me that neither Prince nor I thought much of Mom's meatloaf and I started to laugh. But that made Prince whine and try to wag his tail again, and so I stopped. I even tried to sing to Prince. He just stared at me, and eventually Dad came out and told me it was bedtime.

The next day Mom took me to the doctor for my second shot. It hurt worse than the first one, but I didn't care, as long as it was fast. Mom offered to buy me comics, but I said no. It would take too long. As soon as we got home I was back under the porch with Prince. Gordie was already there, trying to get Prince to drink some milk. Gordie coughed, took a deep breath, and spoke.

"He's really hurtin'," he said. I nodded.

"He's not going to get any better. You don't get better from a broke back." I glared at him.

"Somebody should end it for him. Quick, so he don't hurt nomore." I looked away.

The silence stretched between us as I thought about what he'd said. He was right: Prince wasn't going to live much longer. He was broken and hurting, and I knew that the kindest thing I could do for my dog was to kill him. But I couldn't, and I couldn't let anyone else do it either. As long as Prince was alive, no matter how bad he was hurt, I could hold onto the dream that he could still get better. So I told Gordie no.

I got my third shot the next day, and still Prince held on. Another shot and another day spent under the porch and still Prince lived. I began to allow myself to believe he would make it.

He died the next day while I was getting my fifth shot.

Gordie had offered to bury him while I was at the doctor's office, but my Dad said no. He knew that I needed to bury Prince, even if I didn’t want to. So I removed his twisted red collar for the last time, wrapped my little dog in the blanket he'd died on, and carried him into the woods. Gordie had a shovel over one shoulder and his rifle over the other. We found a nice spot beside a creek and I began to dig, or at least I tried. But I wasn't strong enough, so Gordie dug the hole and I held Prince’s body. Afterward, as we finished carving his name into a piece of bark we'd decided to use as a gravestone, three of the filthyneighborkids found us.

"Whazzat?" one said, pointing to the grave.

"My dog. He died."

"Good. He wuz a stupid dog."

I surged to my feet, fists clenched. Gordie stepped in front of me.

"Ya'll need to beat it before you get in trouble," he spat at them, picking up his air rifle.

"We ain't skeered a' you. We'll just come back tonight an' dig 'im up. Whatcha gon' do about that?"

Gordie hissed and raised the rifle, pointing it right at the ringleader.

"I said we ain't skeered a' (pop)-YEOW!!" He hopped back, rubbing his chest. "Hey! You cain't shoot (pop)-OW!"

"If I ever hear that any of you shits did anything to this grave, I'll fuckin' kill you. And that's a promise. Now GIT!" (pop) (pop) (pop)

The filthyneighborkids fled screeching as beebees smacked into their fleeing backsides. Standing there over the grave of my dog Prince, watching my friend Gordie open fire on those stupid filthyneighborkids, I felt my guts twist and flex. Laughter boiled up inside and fought with the death of my first pet, and I thought I might throw up. But that would be better than laughter. The last thing I wanted to do was laugh; people don't laugh at funerals, do they? But I had no choice in the matter; trying to hold the laughter in made me cough, and once I started hacking the laughter and tears poured out. I stood there over the grave of my dog Prince and I laughed and I cried and I cursed. When the tears and the laughter finally stopped, I felt just a tiny bit better.

A few weeks later we moved someplace else. Dad had found a better job in Texas, and so we packed up our lives again and moved on again. I really missed Gordie, especially at first, but I took comfort in the fact that he was still there to watch out for Prince's grave. As I unpacked boxes in my new room I felt a little more at home. Each toy or book or game I put away reinforced how much better this house was than the last; there were no holes in the floor here.

Unpacking the last few boxes, I came across Prince’s twisted red collar. For weeks after his death it had been a source of both solace and grief, as it served to remind me that Prince had been a great dog, but he was no longer here. I wore it as a bracelet for a few days, but Mom put a stop to that when my wrist turned greenish blue, telling me to take it off, put it away, and wash my hands with soap this time. I hadn’t seen it since then. I held the collar, waiting for tears that never came. Losing Prince still hurt, but I was coming to accept it, and it was nice to remember him and just smile.

Thirty years later, that twisted red collar has never failed to bring a sad smile to my face.