Oh, Christmas Tree

I’m getting ready to say goodbye, preparing to have regrets. One sentence in a five-minute discussion with a stranger and I already know the outcome.

            “My boss’ll pay to have that giant pine tree taken down.”

            Later that afternoon I walked through the front door, down the steps, and out into the street. I faced the house, tried to hold my hand so that I blocked the fifty foot evergreen on the right side of our home. Failed. I lifted my other hand and partially covered its twin on the left. I’m pretty sure if one goes, the other will follow.

            “The one on the right could be the presidential Christmas tree,” I murmur to no one. “And they could use the other one at the Rockefeller Center in New York City.”

            The men will assure me it’s the right thing to do.

            “Our roof,” my husband will surely say.

            “My rental,” the landlord will add.

            I’ll think a thought but not say it: The sky-touching trees make our house seem magical, like a castle. Do men these days still dream of castles?

            I return to the kitchen. Make a cappuccino and sip it at the table, channel Scarlett O’Hara.       

            “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll think tree thoughts.”

            Actually, can we please delay the tree talk for a few days? So I can celebrate a little while longer the fact that the nocturnal wraith that lived next door for five years, or was it four, is now gone? I picture the plum-hued smudges beneath her eyes. Recall how they looked like an Ash Wednesday priest missed her forehead, twice.

            I wonder if the lives of her dogs will improve—Doberman, Pit Bull, Doberman, sweet boys all. For the last few months I’ve only spied each of them out in the yard once a week, if that. I imagine their nearly diaphanous pet mom in her dingy camisole and rumpled gym shorts with rolled-down waistband, wearing striped rainboots. By now she must be knee-deep in dog doo. I pity the extreme-makeover-home-edition folks that will soon arrive, consider going next door with my Bath and Body Works three-wick “Winter” candle and some clothespins.

            I ponder what will become of Pet Mom. “I’m going to kill you!” Those words were hurled at her on our street last month. Made us all shudder. Someone called the cops but without probable cause all they could do was knock on the front and back doors. No one answered.

            Earlier this week, I’d peeked out from behind a drape. Watched the U-Haul move slowly down the street, her black sedan with New York plates creeping after. At first I grinned and clapped. Then I stopped myself. Exhaled and sagged. I stretched my hand out till my fingers pressed against the cold window.

            “I should’ve told you shalom,” I whispered. “It means hi, bye, peace be with you, covenant relationship with God.” I gripped my throat. “’cause I think you’re gonna need it, sweetheart, wherever you go.”

            I darted out onto the porch and down to the street, thought maybe . . . But the truck and car had already disappeared around the bend. I spoke anyway, to no one.

            “I really should’ve told you that in person. I’m sorry, that I didn’t.”

Chessie Bites the Dust

We never realized what a heart Mom O. had for animals until the day Mark had to leave the warehouse to help Charlie bury his dog. After lunch, Van had phoned the office, hysterical as all get out. Mom O’Dell held the phone away from her ear so Van’s volume wouldn’t damage her hearing. We heard every detail of the conversation.

            “Now, Vandalia,” Mom O. said. “Calm down. I can’t make out a word you’re saying. Who is dead?”

            Van’s tone made us all wince. “Chessie is!” she said. “Charlie’s dog. He’s had her since he was sixteen and I swear, sometimes I think he loves her more’n me. Now she’s dead. Strangled and hanging over the chain link fence. Tell Charlie to get home right now. He’s gotta get her down before the kids wake from their nap!”

            To us, as soon as Van said the bit about strangled and hanging, Mom O. seemed to come perilously close to fainting dead away. Adam scooted his folding chair closer to her desk and patted her shoulder. Not a touchy feely gal, Mom tolerated it that day. Appeared to maybe even derive strength from it.

            Right before Mom O. spoke, she reached out and grabbed her blood pressure monitor. Latched onto it so tightly the skin on her age-spotty knuckles looked bleached.

            “You need to stay calm, Vandalia,” Mom said. “For the children. Now tell me, how exactly did the poor thing manage to choke itself?”

            Van’s huff was easy for us to hear. “She runs away all the da— dang time, Mom O.,” Van said. She paused a moment and when she resumed, her voice sounded slightly more collected. “She digs out under the fence. She busts through the gate. And here lately she’s taken to trying to climb over. So this morning, I tied her up. Inside the dog run.”

            Mom O. was now blinking non-stop, to try to staunch the flow of her tears, we’d surmise later. When a stream of snot began to creek toward her mouth, Adam plucked a tissue out of the box on the desk and dabbed at her face. She swatted him away.

            “Well, surely Chessie barked or howled or something,” Mom O. said.

            “But that’s the problem, Mom,” Van wailed. “She didn’t. Because . . . Because . . .”

            Mom O.’s steely eyebrows tangled together and her raisin eyes practically disappeared.           

            “Because why, Van?” Her words marched out individually and defined.

            Van didn’t answer right away. When she did, it sounded as if she was reading from a Hollywood script.

            “Oh, Mother O’Dell,” she began. Her voice was nearly impossible to make out at first. A wheedle really. “Do you remember what it was like? To have a house to care for? And animals? And babies? And a husband? And—” Her questions crescendoed and each item she added was imbued with more drama than the last.

            Mom O. cut her off, almost without moving her lips. “Get to the point, Van.”

            Our eyebrows lifted in unison as we heard Van draw a trembling breath.

            “Well,” she said, “at the beginning of summer when Chessie started staying outside the better part of the day, it occurred to me her howling might keep the kids from their naps, and you know they need their naps.”

            Mom yacked her free hand and rolled her eyes. “The point, Van,” she said. “The point.”

            “So last week I drove to the pet superstore up at the strip mall and bought a . . . bought a . . .” Van seemed to run out of gas about then.

            Mom O.’s gaze drilled a hole in the paneled wall over our heads. “A what, Van? What did you buy?”

            We leaned in to hear Van’s answer.

            “A barker breaker kit.”

            In one motion, Mom O. both stood and knocked her rolly chair to the ground. She gripped her considerable waist with one hand and clenched the phone with the other. Her eyes were squenched shut as if she was picturing the whole scene play out on her eyelids. After a minute, she transferred her free hand from her waist to her cheek. To scrape a tear away.

            “And this morning,” Mom said, “poor Chessie didn’t dare make a peep for fear she’d get the living daylights shocked out of her. That’s what you’re saying, Van, right? Right?”

            At that point the only thing coming from the phone was that blubbering racket girls make when a serious crying fit takes hold. Mom O. sneered and slammed the receiver into its cradle. Headed toward the warehouse door, her elbows pumping something fierce.

            “Mark!” she called from the doorway. “Charlie. Get over here. Now!” When she didn't get a response she ventured into the cool shadows of the warehouse.

            We followed close enough to hear her mutter. “Wouldn’t surprise me if that harlot was entertaining visitors of the male persuasion ‘round about the time Chessie choked. Wouldn’t surprise me a-tall.”

            We dropped back lest Mom O’Dell discover our proximity and aim her anger at us.

            “Her’s pissed,” Adam said as he shouldered the office door for us.
            "Her's most definitely pissed," Jason said as he reached for the treat bowl.

(This is an ongoing short story. If you'd like to read the whole thing, click here: "Vandalia and Charlie." That's where the saga starts.)

*Fast Dogs* Part III

"Are you praying for them to come home, Daddy?" Middle Child asked my husband at dinner that night. He glared at her. She twisted in her chair to face me.
            "Are you praying for the dogs to come back, Mommy?"
            I didn't look up from my pork chop. "Sort of."

            All three kids gawked at me. "Sort of?”  
            “What kind of answer is 'sort of''?" Middle Child said.
            I took my time answering. "You know how God knows everything?"
            The kids nodded.
            "Well, I reckon he knows part of me is worn out. Worn down. Doesn't necessarily wanna keep doing this forever. If I pray for them to come back, it's kinda like a lie, so why bother?"
            Middle Child's eyes were shiny, her voice all quivery. "You really don't want 'em to come back?"
            A tear dropped off one of her tarantula leg eyelashes.

            "How can you say that? What if they get hit by a car? What if they get picked up by some weirdo, freaky animal testing lab that wants to try out hair dye on 'em?"
            I huffed. "Oh, the drama of it all! I'm just being honest here! You know what I'd like? I'd love for them to be found by someone with a big ole farm where they could run all day, every day. That's what I'm thinking . . . Hoping."
            Middle Child Drama Girl slapped the table with both hands. We all jumped.
            "I've got it!" she said. She stabbed her chest with her pointer finger. "I'm going to fast!"
            My mouth fell open. My husband's too. Drama Girl nodded, her eyes wide.         
            "Fasting is what people did in the Bible when they really wanted to get God's attention, so that's what I'm gonna do."
            My husband's fork clanked as it hit the glass table top. He picked it up and pointed at her with it. 

             "You, little missy, are too young and small to fast. Who knows how long they'll be gone? What if they never come back? You could starve."
            Drama Girl crossed her arms and blew air out her nose. "I'm not going to fast eating, Daddy," she said. "I'm going to fast TV. I'm not going to watch another show until the dogs come back. So there."
            That night she stayed in her room reading while the rest of us watched High School Musical on the Disney channel.
            I lay in bed that night, squinting at the ceiling. "God, you know my heart. You know I'm so tired of those long-legged, Beagle howling, slut puppies and their gosh darn running away. You are fully aware I'd only be a little sad if I never saw them again."
            I sighed before I went on. "But the kids, God . . . The kids want them to come home. For their sake, could you please bring the doggies back? Please? Amen."

After school the next day, the kids and all their neighborhood buddies combed the nearby streets and yards. They returned after an hour.
            "Any luck?" I said, as I arranged a bowl of pretzels and cups of lemonade on the kitchen table.
            They all shook their heads and looked at their laps.
            A little while later, the kids were donning their jackets to leave when one of the oldest kids peeked out the kitchen door window.
            "Hey! Hey, you guys! Little Paint's home! She's on your back porch.”
            I cracked the back door and there she was, what was left of her anyway. The once stout and strong brown dog seemed to have lost at least fifteen pounds. Her fur looked like someone had blown their nose in it. She was panting, her tongue hanging out like a strip of raw bacon. Her tail wagging made her body sway side to side.
            When I opened the screen door, she stumbled in.  As soon as she plopped down on her blanket, she was covered with almost a dozen kids—a dog pile, for real.
            "Careful," I said, wrinkling my nose. "She may have rolled in cow poo."
            They didn't care. They petted and kissed and stroked every inch of her.
            I phoned my husband at work. "You're never gonna guess what just happened."
.           "They didn't."
            "Little Paint did."
            "No way."
            "Way," I said. "Guess Drama Girl's fasting got God's attention after all."
            "Guess so," my husband said. "Wonder what happened to Daisy May?"

The next morning, I discovered Daisy on the back porch. Curled in a tight ball, nose under her tail. I drummed my fingers on the window. She looked up and blinked a couple times. Her tail started thumping. Slow at first, then faster.
            When I opened the door, she stepped in gingerly. "Did the pavement shred your paw pads?" I asked, only a little bit mean.
            I leaned over the baby gate that kept the dogs in the kitchen at night.

            "Kids!" I said, loud enough to reach the third floor. "The other prodigal pup has returned."
            The kids thundered down two flights of stairs, making the artwork on the walls tremble. They flopped on Daisy as they had sprawled on Little Paint the day before. Daisy didn't look quite as bad. I figured she was only five pounds lighter.
            Little Paint glared at the welcome home party from across the kitchen. Seemed she kind of liked being an only dog. A few minutes later though, she made her way to the blanket. She growled at Daisy for a bit before I gave her the evil eye and told her to hush.
            I poured a splash of my good olive oil into a small bowl and handed it to the kids. 
            "Rub this on their paw pads,” I said. I didn't miss the snide look little Miss Drama Girl gave me beneath her substantial lashes.

            Both dogs rolled onto their backs, their legs stiff in the air, as if to offer their paws for pampering.
            My son laid his head on Little Paint's ribcage like it was a pillow.
            "You were right, Mommy."
            "'Bout what, sweetie?"
             "They came back. Just like you said they would."
             "Yep," I said. "They always do. They're like cats, these two. They seem to have nine lives. I'm just worried one of these days their lives are gonna run out."

                                  

*Fast Dogs* Part II

My son was a mucous mess when he crawled upstairs to inform me the long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy sister hounds had run away. Again. I drew him onto my lap and used my shirt sleeve to dab at the snot beneath his nose.
            "They'll come back, honey," I said into his damp curls. "They always do."
            "I hope so, Mommy. 'Cause I don't want 'em to get smooshed by a car and have to be scraped off the street with a splatula."
            I cupped his chin and rotated his face. "What in the world are you talking about?"         

            "That's what Daddy said would happen someday."
            "Did he really? Well, why don't you pray right now the dogs will come home by supper?"
            My little guy bowed his head and clenched his hands together.

            "Dear God," he said.
            I peeked through my lashes. His eyes were squinched shut and his little boy forehead was lined with effort. I felt like a bike tire pump was attached to my heart, swelling it with little gusts of honeysuckle-scented air.
            "Please bring Daisy and Little Paint home sooner than now. And please don't let them get squished by a car. I think if I had to look at their blood and guts on the road where they got killed, it'd make me barf every time until the rain washed it away."
            I bit my lip.
            "We love them so much, God. They're so soft and nice. They let me lay on them like a couch. Please bring 'em home soon. Please? Thank you. Hey-men."

            "That was quite a prayer, sweetie," I said. "I bet the dogs are on their way home right now. Let's go down and see."
             In the foyer we opened the front door. No dogs. On the back porch we whistled and promised treats. Nothing.
            That night, I peeked out at the porches one more time before I went to bed. Nada. They weren't there in the morning either.

At lunch I spoke into my yogurt cup. “They’ve never been gone longer than a few hours. Maybe they’re not coming back this time.”

            I glanced up at the ceiling. And waited. To see if my heart would feel happy or sad.

            When our middle child came home from school that afternoon, she flung her jean jacket to one side of the foyer and her backpack to the other.

            "Are the dogs back? Did anyone call?”
            As I bent to pick up her scatterings, I told her no and no. She phoned the animal shelter and asked if they'd found a tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog and a white and tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog. Tears streaked her face as she nestled the phone back in its base.

            When she phoned the shelter the next day, the guy at the pound said, "Look, miss. Don't call us anymore. We'll call you. If we find them."
            Middle Child sprang up from the settee, her pointer finger in the air.

            “The mailman,” she said as she darted out the front door.

            Not a bad thought. Our mail carrier loved the dogs. Brought them Milk Bones every day. Called Daisy and Little Paint his girlfriends.

            “He promised he'd keep an eye out for them,” Middle Child said when she returned.
            At supper, the kids prayed for the dogs to come home. At bedtime, they beseeched God yet again.

The next day, the kids created fliers and posted them on every telephone pole within a mile of our house. They organized a search party with neighborhood kids.
            "I'll give whoever finds them, two dollars," Middle Child said. "One for each dog."

On the fifth day, all three kids cornered me. "Do something, Mommy!”
            "Like what?"
            They crowded into my personal space bubble, eyes huge and shiny, hands flailing.     

            "Like . . . something!"
            I phoned the newspaper and placed a missing dogs ad in the Saturday and Sunday papers.

            “No charge,” the lady said. “And don't worry. This’ll work. I got my cat back the day I ran an ad.”
            She was wrong. No one called. Days number six and seven came and went.
            "Do you think they'll ever come back?" I asked my husband as I pasted my toothbrush that night.
            He shrugged. "I seriously doubt it. They've never been gone this long," he said. "As fast as they run, they're probably in another state by now.  And if that's the case, I don't know if they can find their way back."
            I sipped water and swished and spat. Then sighed. "You're probably right. No one's called from the paper. I bet they lost their collars. Or their i.d. tags fell off."

The next day I phoned the vet and cancelled the dogs' upcoming check-up. When the gal asked why, I confessed the dogs had skipped town.
            "Daisy and Little Paint? No way!" the clinic receptionist said. "Bring us a flier and we'll hang it up on our bulletin board. We’ll get your doggy daughters back."
            My husband grumbled when I handed him a sign to deliver to the vet's office.

            "You know I don't want them back, don't you?”

            I nodded. I knew.

*Fast Dogs*

 (Part I)

When our long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy sister hounds run away, my husband always says a prayer. "I pray they never come back."
            I'm telling you what, they were so cute when we got them at the Manteo Island Animal Shelter thirteen years ago. I loved the way their silky ears were bigger than their heads. I stuck my nose in their mouths to sniff their milky baby breath. Thing is, puppies are like kids. They almost always outgrow their initial cuteness.
            No one at the shelter knew the pups' birth date so I decided it would be April Fool's Day. It seems I was waxing prophetic. Only question was, who was the fool? Us or the dogs?
            It was Friday of our vacation week and it was raining to beat all. At the beach. It'd poured more days than not that week. We'd done all the indoor things that could be done—the lame mall, the Rugrats Movie, the sea shell shops.
            We weren't in the market for a pet right then. In fact, we were on the tail end of the mourning period for our seven year-old pure-bred Beagle. Lacy June Bug Lulu Bell, daughter of Happy Time Barbie and Happy Time Ken, had succombed to an overdose of feminine protection products. Man, was the house quiet without her strident hunting howl. Boy, did I miss the way she'd sneak one paw, then another, then all of her, into my lap while I was watching ER.
            The plan had been to spend the rainy morning at the animal shelter, petting puppies and kittens. An hour after arriving though, I was writing a check and signing a paper. Swearing we'd be awesome animal owners when we returned to West Virginia. The shelter staff even phoned our vet back home, Dr. Doom. He testified that we were excellent pet owners and promised the pups would get shot and spayed at the appropriate times.

The invisible fence that worked most of the time for Lacy worked none of the time for Daisy and Little Paint. That's what I named them. Actually, that's what I renamed them. I refused to step out on our back porch and yell, "Here, Sea Shell. Here, Suntan Lotion.” Those were the girls' names for the pups.
            "Nuh-unh," I said. "This one'll be Daisy, 'cause she's white and yellow. That one'll be Little Paint, 'cause it looks like someone dipped her tail in a bucket of black paint."
            At first it was like a game, them running over the buried shock wire. When they were real small, they'd let out a pitiful yelp as the black box with shiny spikes punished their tender throats. Pretty soon though, they seemed to figure out the pain was lessened, or shortened at least, with speed. They'd fold their long, young legs under their deep ribcages and explode. Zero to fifteen miles per hour, just like that.
            My husband fixed them. He and his dad built a 5' x 40' dog run on one side of our property. Attached it to the neighbors' chain link fence. For a week or two, the girl pups seem to have been divested of their joie de vivre. Whenever my daughters called me outside to push them on the swings, the dogs'd stare at me through the fence with their big, Milk Dud-looking eyes. I wasn't a dog whisperer, but I was pretty sure I knew what they were thinking. Just like Cindy Lou Who in Dr. Suess's, The Grinch, they were begging to know one thing—why?
            Wasn't long before Daisy and Little Paint fixed us. They started climbing over, digging under, or chewing through their dog run. If they were in the kitchen and the back door was ajar, they knew it and carpe diemed. If there was nothing but a toddler between them and a screen door, the child was sacrificed for the greater good—the wild blue yonder.

            Scrapes, contusions and high-pitched wails of "No, doggies! No!" were ignored. Sometimes the dogs'd stop smack dab in the middle of the street and glance back at us. Daring us to try to catch them. Their blue-black, rick rack gums flapped. Their tongues hung to one side like strips of warm, strawberry taffy. Their eyes seemed to smile. Seemed to say, "Looky! Looky! Look at me! I'm a doggy that's now free!"

The same scene stuttered the same way, over and over. Never changing. Once a week for months it seemed. Then once a month for years. Wore me out. Wore me down.
            I'd have an hour or two before the phone rang. "Is this Daisy and Little Paint's mom?" 

            I perceived a serrated tone in every caller's voice. I pictured one hand on   his or her hip, the pointer finger on their other hand wagging. 

            "I have your dogs. Can you come and get them please? Like, right now 'cause I'm fixin’ to go to the mall any minute. And another thing, you shouldn't . . .” Fuss. Fuss. Fuss.
            I never defended myself. Never blamed my kids or the dogs. I'd just drive down the hill, or one neighborhood over, and say, "Thank you so much! I was very worried. I've been driving around for an hour.” Even if I wasn't. Even if I hadn't been. Even if I'd been praying that prayer of my husband's.

Fast Dogs--Part II

My son was crying when he came upstairs to tell me the long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy, sister hounds had run away.  Again.  I pulled him onto my lap and used my shirt sleeve to wipe the snot from under his nose.

"They'll come back, honey," I said, into his hair.  "They always do."

"I hope so, Mommy.  'Cause I don't want 'em to get hit by a car and have to be scraped off the street with a splatula."

I turned his face around so I could look in his eyes.  "What in the world are you talking about?"

"That's what Daddy said would happen to 'em someday."

"Did he really?  Well, why don't you pray right now that the dogs will come home by supper?"

My little guy bowed his head and clasped his hands.  "Dear God," he said. 

I peeked at him through my lashes.  His eyes were squinched shut and his little boy forehead was wrinkled with effort.  I felt like a bike tire pump was attached to my heart, swelling it with little gusts of air.

"Please bring Daisy and Little Paint  home, sooner than now.  Please don't let them get squished by a car.  I think if I had to look at the blood and guts spot on the road where they got killed, it'd make me barf every time until the rain washed it away."

I bit my lip.

"We love 'em so much, God.  They're so soft and nice.  They let me lay on them like they're a couch.  Please bring 'em home soon.  Thank you, God.  Hey-men."

"That was quite a prayer, sweetie," I said.  "I bet the dogs are on their way home right now.  Let's go down and see."

We went downstairs and opened the back door.  No dogs.  We whistled and promised treats.  Nothin.' 

That night, I looked on the front and back porches before I went to bed.  Nada.  They weren't there in the morning either.  Uh oh.


This time it looked like they weren't coming back.  They'd never been gone this long.  One night came and went.  Then two. 

Each day, our middle child came home from school and asked, "Did the dogs come back?  Did anyone call?" 

I'd tell her no and no.  She'd call the animal shelter and ask if they'd picked up a tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged dog and a white and tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged dog.  It got to the point where the guy at the pound said, "Look, kid.  Don't call us.  We'll call you."

The kids talked to the mailman.  He loved the dogs.  Brought 'em Milk Bones every day.  He said  he'd keep an eye out for 'em.


The dogs had been gone three days now.  At dinner time, the kids prayed for the dogs to come home.  At bedtime, they prayed again. 

The next day, they made fliers and posted 'em on just about every telephone pole within a mile of our house.  They organized a search party with neighborhood kids. 

"I'll give whoever finds 'em, two dollars," Middle Child said.  "One for each dog."

On the fifth day, all three kids cornered me.  "Do something, Mommy!" 

"Like what?"

They stepped into my personal space bubble.  "Like . . . something!"

I called the newspaper and put a missing dogs ad in the Saturday and Sunday papers.  The Dominion Post is real nice.  They'll run a missing pet ad for a few days, for free. 

Even so, no one called.  Night number six and night number seven came and went.

"Do you think they'll come back?" I asked my husband on the seventh night.

He shrugged.  "I seriously doubt it.  They've never been gone this long," he said.  "As fast as they run, they're probably in another state by now.  And if that's the case, I don't know that they can find their way back."

I pulled the covers up to my chin and sighed.  "You're probably right.  No one's called.  I bet they lost their collars.  Or their i.d. tags fell off."


I vented to a friend on email the next morning.  I'm so mad at those darn dogs!  We give 'em food.  We give 'em water.  We give 'em treats.  The kids love 'em.  I like 'em, most of the time.  We give 'em everything and this is how they repay us?  By running away?  They're sluts, I tell you!  I feel so betrayed.

My friend emailed me back.  Hmmmm . . . . maybe  you should rename them--Gomer number one and Gomer number two.

I had no idea what she was talking about.  What does Gomer Pyle have to do with our dogs?  Send.

From the Bible, my friend typed back.  Look it up.

I huffed as I got out my big study Bible.  I looked up Gomer in the concordance in the back.  Oh, that Gomer.  Gomer, the prostitute turned wife, who was always running away from her husband, Hosea, who was a real good man.  That girl didn't have a lick of sense.  Hosea, I feel your pain, man.

Later that day I called the vet and cancelled their well doggy visit.  Of course they asked why and I had to tell them that the  dang dogs had skipped town. 

"We love your dogs," the clinic receptionist said.  "Bring us a flier and we'll put it up."

My husband grumbled when I handed him a flier to take to the vet's office.  "You know I don't want them to come back, don't you?"  I nodded.  I know.

"Are you praying for them to come back, Daddy?" our middle child asked my husband at dinner that night.  He glared at her.  She turned to me.

"Are you praying for the dogs to come back, Mommy?"

I didn't look up from my pork chop.  "Sort of."

"Sort of?"   The kids echoed.

"What kind of answer is 'sort of''?" Middle Child said.

I took my time answering.  "You know how God knows everything?"

The kids nodded.

"Well, I reckon he knows that part of me is worn out.  Worn down. Doesn't necessarily wanna keep doing this forever.  If I pray for them to come back, it's kinda like a lie, so why bother?"

Middle Child's eyes were shiny, her voice all quivery.  "You really don't want 'em to come back?"

A tear dropped off one of her tarantula leg eyelashes.  "How can you say that?  What if they get hit by a car?  What if they get picked up by some weirdo, freaky animal testing lab that wants to try out hair dye on 'em?"

I huffed.  "Oh, the drama of it all!  I'm just bein' honest here!  You know what I'd like?  I'd like 'em to be found by someone with a big ole farm where they could run all day, every day.  That's what I'm thinking . . .  hoping."

Middle Child Drama Girl slapped the table with both her hands.  We all jumped. 

"I've got it!" she said.  She stabbed her chest with her pointer finger a couple of times.  "I'm going to fast!"

My mouth fell open.  My husband's too.  Drama Girl nodded, her eyes wide.  "Fasting is what people did in the Bible when they really wanted to get God's attention, so that's what I'm gonna do."

My husband's fork clanked as it hit the glass table top.  He picked it up and pointed at her with it.  "You, little missy, are too young and too small to fast.  Who knows how long they'll be gone?  What if they never come back?  You could starve."

Drama Girl crossed her arms and blew air out her nose.  "I'm not going to fast eating, Daddy," she said.  "I'm going to fast tv.  I'm not going to watch another show until the dogs come back.  So there."

That night she stayed in her room reading while the rest of us watched, "High School Musical" on the Disney channel.

I laid in bed that night, looking at the ceiling.  "God, you know my heart.  You know I'm so tired of those long-legged, Beagle howling, slut puppies and their gosh darn running away.  You are fully aware that I'd only be a little sad if I never saw them again."

I sighed before I went on.  "But the kids, God . . . The kids want them to come home.  For the kids' sake . . .  Please bring the doggies back.  Please?  Amen."


After school the next day, the kids and all their neighborhood buddies combed the nearby streets and yards.  They came home after an hour. 

"Any luck?" I said, as I put out a bowl of pretzels and cups of lemonade. 

They all shook their heads and looked at their laps.

A little while later, the kids were putting on their jackets to leave when one of the oldest kids looked out the kitchen door window.

"Hey!  Hey, you guys!  Little Paint's back!  She's on your back porch." 

I opened the back door and there she was.  What was left of her anyway.  The once stout and strong brown dog looked fifteen pounds less.  Her fur looked like someone had blown their nose in it.  She was panting, her tongue hanging out like a strip of raw bacon.  Her tail wagging made her body sway side to side. 

When I opened the screen door, she stumbled in.   When she plopped down on her blanket, she was instantly covered with almost a dozen kids.  A dog pile, for real.

"Careful," I said, wrinkling my nose.  "She might have rolled in cow poo."

They didn't care.  They petted and kissed and stroked every bit of her.

I called my husband at work.  "You're never gonna guess what just happened."
.
"They didn't."

"One of 'em did."

"No way."

"Way," I said.  "Guess Drama Girl's fasting got God's attention after all."

"Guess so."


The next morning, Daisy was on the back porch.  Curled in a tight ball, nose under her tail.  I drummed my fingers on the window.  She looked up at me and blinked real slow.  Her tail started thumping.  Slow at first, then faster.

When I opened the door, she stepped in gingerly.

"Did the pavement shred your paw pads?" I asked, only a little bit mean. 

I leaned over the baby gate that kept the dogs in the kitchen at night.  "Kids!" I said, loud enough to reach the third floor.  "The other prodigal pup has returned."

The kids thundered down flights of stairs, making the artwork on the walls tremble.  They flopped on Daisy, as they had sprawled on Little Paint the day before.  Daisy didn't look quite as bad.  I figured she was only five pounds lighter. 

Little Paint glared at the welcome home party from across the kitchen.  Seemed she kinda liked being an only dog.  A few minutes later though, she made her way to the blanket.  She growled at Daisy for a bit before I pointed a finger at her and told her to hush.

I poured a splash of my good olive oil into a small bowl and handed it to the kids.  "Rub this on their paw pads."   I didn't miss the snide look little Miss Drama Girl gave me 'neath her substantial lashes.

Both dogs rolled onto their backs, their legs stiff in the air, as if to offer their paws up for pampering.

My son put his head on Little Paint's ribcage, like it was a pillow.  "You were right, Mommy."

"'Bout what, sweetie?"

"They came back.  Just like you said they would."

"Yep," I said.  "Seems like they always do.  They're like cats, these two.  They seem to have nine lives.  I'm just worried that one of these days, they're gonna run out of lives."