Pet for Christmas (Holiday Family Story)

by Ayala, Rachelle

  He clung to the side of the rubble pile and willed his legs to launch him higher, to leap and grab at the ledge he’d been able to push Arman over. One. Two. Three.

  He heaved and lunged, reaching up. His hand grasped at the dirt above, but it crumbled and he tumbled back down into the pit. The crack of his skull hammered him into darkness.

  Woof. Woof. Woof.

  “Race you down.” Tyler lay on the sled, face down, and pushed off the ledge. “Wooohooo!”

  Brownie, his Chocolate Lab Rottweiler mix, barked and threw himself down the snowy slope. Tyler flattened himself and steered around and over the bumpy snow with the wind stinging his face. Excitement soared in his bloodstream as the sled swooshed in the white powder, shaking at the high speed.

  A tree loomed, and he leaned to steer around it. Too late. He flew and tumbled from his sled, rolling head over heels—out of control. Laughter ripped from his throat, and he was falling and spinning in a world of white.

  He slid to a stop and the brown mess of fur was on top of him. A hot, sloppy tongue slathered over his face, and steamy breath fogged up his goggles. Tyler reached up and hugged his Brownie boy. Everything was all right in the world as long as he had his dog.

  Woof. Woof. Woof.

  Tyler groaned and swiped his hand across his face. Instead of snow, there was dust everywhere. He coughed and hacked, tasting blood in his throat and over his cracked lips. A blinding light pierced his sore and gritty eyes. He winced as every muscle and bone of his body blazed with stabbing pain. Dirt, rubble, rocks, and debris scattered with every movement.

  Woof. Woof.

  There was a dog. But where? Tyler was still in the pit. Alone, and he hadn’t eaten or drank since shortly before the explosion. How many days ago was that?

  Tyler’s head spun, and his pulse sloshed in his ears. His tongue hung heavy in his mouth. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the top of the rubble. A brown shadow peered at him, its tongue lolling.

  Brownie? What was he doing here? Tyler slapped the side of his head, wondering if he was hallucinating—close to death. Brownie had died when he was thirteen, a ripe old age for a dog.

  He stared dumbly at the apparition as a straw-colored length of rope dropped in front of him.

  “I told you I’d get a rope,” Arman said, his white teeth flashing a smile. “I tied it around a tree. Climb up.”

  “Arman?” Tyler’s lips were thick, and his voice barely croaked from his throat.

  Instinct took over, and Tyler grabbed the rope, pulling himself up and over the ledge and out of the hole. The sunlight stung his eyes, and he was one ball of pain, but thank God! He was alive.

  “I thought I told you to go home,” Tyler mumbled as he grabbed the canteen Arman offered.

  “Sorry sir, but I’m Pashtun, and it is not honorable for me to abandon my guest.”

  The cool water in the canteen was too refreshing for Tyler to argue. In the light of day, his wounds weren’t too serious. All ten fingers were caked with dried blood, and he had a few bruises and scrapes, but no broken bones or wounds requiring stitches. Who knew how long he could have held out inside the pit if Arman hadn’t come back with the rope?

  “Thanks for coming back, but you’re not safe with me,” Tyler said, wiping his parched lips.

  “You’re a soldier and you know how to fight.” Arman’s eyes widened and his head bobbed as if he’d made an important observation.

  The dog nosed at the canteen, licking the water that dripped down the side. It was a furry fellow with floppy long ears, a broad chest, and a tail curling up over his back like a husky’s.

  Tyler held the canteen for him as he lapped at the opening.

  “No, no, dog mouths are dirty.” Arman grabbed the canteen.

  “Whose dog is he?” Tyler couldn’t help petting the little guy. He was fairly large for a puppy. Judging from the types of dogs wandering around the Afghan hillside, he would grow to be a large dog, possibly the size of a collie or German shepherd.

  “I don’t know. I think he’s wild.” Arman shooed the puppy away from a burlap sack. “I got food, too.”

  “I hope you didn’t steal anything,” Tyler warned. The last thing they needed was trouble, especially since the Taliban were strict with sharia law.

  “No worries, sir. I stayed over there and they gave me everything.” He looked over his shoulder at a small squat house standing behind a broken wall. “I got you clothes, too. You can’t be going around wearing American clothes.”

  Tyler shook out the traditional salwar kameez, an outfit consisting of a long shirt over pajama-like trousers. “I’m not wearing this.”

  “You want to be shot?” Arman pointed at Tyler’s torn camouflage pants and ribbed sweater. “The Taliban are looking for you. Some think you’re dead, but until they see the body, they don’t believe it.”

  “Fine, but I’m not wearing the pants.” Tyler pulled the shirt over his clothes. He still had on his Oakley desert boots, the knife strapped to his lower leg, and a belt of ammunition, although he’d lost his AK-47 and backpacks in the cave-in.

  “We better get going.” Arman untied a checkered scarf from his neck and wrapped it around Tyler’s head. “If we meet anyone, you’re a fighter from Chechnya. They have blue eyes.”

  Tyler let it be. After all, he needed head covering to prevent sunburn, and his short-cropped military haircut would draw unwanted attention. If he were to get back to the compound and find survivors, he needed to blend in.

  Arman offered Tyler a piece of naan, a fluffy flatbread which was a staple in Afghanistan. He brought out a pomegranate from his pocket. “I was in my bedroom hiding this when the truck blew up.”

  “Thanks.” Tyler chewed on the bread and picked at the juicy bits of tart fruit, grateful for Arman’s resourcefulness. He was certainly a smart kid, and in the twenty-four hours since the explosion, he had become confident to the point of giving Tyler directions and expecting him to comply. Of course, Afghanistan was his land and his country, and Tyler was the foreigner.

  The puppy rubbed up against Tyler’s thigh, so he let him have a few pieces of bread. His ribs were clearly delineated even through his long, furry coat. Arman, meanwhile, glared at the puppy as if he were a pest.

  Now that Tyler had time to study his surroundings, he could clearly see the charred remains of the compound. A crowd of people gathered around it, including the ubiquitous bright blue lumps of cloth-covered women who sat silent as sentinels on the dusty roadside.

  Fortunately, the location of the cave-in was hidden by a pile of rocks and spindly trees with more dried branches than leaves. These eastern mountains used to be covered with lush forests, but the constant wars and troops of soldiers, insurgents, and refugees as well as illegal logging had left the hillsides devoid of cover.

  “Who are those people over there?” Tyler asked.

  “Relatives. They’re still digging people out.”

  “We have to go help.” Tyler stood, brushing the crumbs from his shirt.

  “We can’t,” Arman said. “The Taliban are in charge. See that white flag?”

  How dare the insurgents raise their white flag of conquest? Where the hell were the Afghan National Army and their American advisors?

  Tyler ground his teeth. The war would never be over. Ever. He’d spent almost his entire adult life fighting jihadists, and what had he accomplished?

  “Then I must get back to Kabul and report this.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Arman said. “They’re celebrating, but also mourning their dead. You killed a bunch yesterday.”

  Tyler’s stomach turned. “How many of our people died? How many kids?”

  “They say you rigged the bomb and killed the kids. I heard the janitor survived. He’s telling everyone you did it. You were a crazy American soldier, and you killed the delivery men and blew up the truck. They’re filing a complaint with the government.”

  Tyler’s veins froze, and his heart plunged into a
river of ice. He couldn’t show his face now. Not if the mob was incited to blame him for the deaths. Not if the US Government also believed he was the culprit.

  Life as he knew it was over. A warm, wet tongue licked at his hand. Tyler wrapped the puppy into his arms and hugged him tight.

  Chapter Six

  ~ Kelly ~

  “Can we call Papa?” Bree pops her thumb from her mouth while my sister, Ella, helps her take off her jacket and shoes. “I can show him the pictures I took of the dogs at the pound.”

  “Let’s eat dinner first. Come on, wash your hands.” I lead Bree to the bathroom at my mom’s place. It’s still the holiday weekend, and I’m not looking forward to being alone in my apartment without Tyler. He hasn’t returned any of my calls and texts, but with cell reception and electricity being sporadic over there, I’m trying to stay positive.

  Bree sticks her hands under the water. She’s been good today after Ella and I explained to her how the dogs ended up in the pound. They might have been birthday presents or Christmas presents, but the person who got them was not ready to take care of them.

  “Mama?” She wipes her hands with a towel. “I feel bad for all the dogs without a boy or a girl to love them. Just like Barney Beagle. He was left in the pet store.”

  “I do too, sweetie, but we can’t take every one of them home. We need to make sure we can take care of a dog. With our apartment, we should get a tiny one.” I pick her up and give her a kiss while looking in the mirror. The baby nudges her from underneath, and she giggles.

  “Maybe my brother wants to pick a dog, too.”

  I grab at the opportunity she handed me. “You know what? We should wait and ask him. After all, he’ll want to play with the dog, too.”

  “Let’s call him after we call Papa.” She hugs me so sweetly that an ache catches my throat. Somehow, I can’t shake the nightmare I had last night—the one where Tyler’s hands and feet were cut off and he was left in the desert to die, scorched by the sun and picked on by carrion birds.

  A shiver jiggles down my spine, and I hug Bree a minute longer. “I love you, little Bree. We’ll know when the right puppy comes along.”

  “We will, Mama.” She slobbers a kiss on my cheek.

  “Let’s eat.” I set her down, and we take our places at the kitchen table.

  It’s my turn to say grace. I blink and bow my head so no one can see the worry in my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I pray, “God, Our Father and Jesus, Our Saviour, bless us with your love and favor. Keep those we love from harm or danger. We give thanks for this food and drink and all the care you grant us daily. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  Please bring Tyler home safely, and heal his wounds both in mind and spirit. Make me strong to love him and be a comfort to him. And please, if he could love me as much, let me know, or make me strong enough to let him go. Amen.

  “Kelly? Is everything okay?” my mother asks as she passes me the turkey casserole. “You seem pale and shaky.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night.” I spoon a portion onto Bree’s plate and take a knife and fork to cut any meat chunks into tiny bite-sized pieces.

  “Bree, you want to sleep with Nana tonight and let your mother have the guest bed?” My mother’s quick to come to my rescue, as always.

  “Maybe we should go home,” I say. “We’ll be more comfortable in our own beds.”

  My insides shake, and nausea clenches my stomach. Home to an empty apartment with all of Tyler’s things, not that he has much, but it would be hard not to sit in front of the computer and watch if he comes online. Maybe I had been too needy when I woke him with my call. Men don’t want needy women who cling to them. I’d falsely advertised to the world how independent I was, and he’d believed me. That had to be the only reason he agreed to a relationship with me. I can’t be seen as weak and backpedaling now.

  “Mama, the pieces are teeny tiny,” Bree complains while staring at the bits of turkey. She’s holding her fork still, because I taught her not to start eating until I’m done cutting her meat.

  “I don’t want you to choke.”

  Ugh, such fallback phrases. I’m starting to sound like a nagging mother.

  “I’m not choking.” Bree stabs a piece of meat the size of a peanut. “Besides, dogs wolf down their food. They don’t chew at all. They swallow. That’s what they told us at the pound. That they can’t eat carrots.”

  I rub her shoulder. “You’re not a dog. You’re a little girl.”

  “Hey, Bree,” my sister cuts in from across the table. “Maybe you should get a rabbit. Then you can feed him a carrot.”

  “A bunny might be easier,” I agree. “You can still pet him and brush him, but you won’t have to take him for a walk.”

  “I want to walk my dog,” Bree says. “Every girl should have her very own dog to walk.”

  I don’t know where she got that line from, but at least the educational portion of our visit to the pound was very informative. We had watched videos on pet care and also on the importance of being sure the pet would fit with our lifestyles before adopting.

  “Dogs are a lot of work,” my mother says.

  “They’re also fun,” Bree insists. “Babies are a lot of work too. You said they were, remember Nana?”

  Uh oh. Bree must have overheard my mother lecturing me on my accidental pregnancy.

  “Yes, they are, but babies are worth it,” my mother replies. “I never minded feeding and cleaning my little babies.”

  She looks at us with that sappy affectionate, nostalgic look, not at all the worry wart face I remember her sporting while we were growing up, when she constantly feared one disaster or the next.

  I give Bree a pat on the back. “You’re worth it, sweetie.”

  “But what if my baby brother’s too much work?” She chews with her mouth open. “Will we take him to the pound and let someone else adopt him for Black Friday next year?”

  “Oh, no. We definitely won’t,” my mother answers for me. “Your mother and Tyler will do everything they can to take care of him.”

  “But what about me?” Bree’s eyes get big and teary. “My real papa didn’t want me, and Tyler won’t want me when my baby brother gets here.”

  “Of course he wants you.” I gather her into my arms. “He loves you because he’s adopting you. Just like when you adopt your puppy, you’ll love him, too. Would you ever give him back to the pound?”

  “Never. I’ll love him until I die.” Bree crosses her arms and stiffens her back. “But my real papa didn’t love me. He gave the sperm and left.”

  Oh, goodness. Where did she hear about this?

  I look at my mother, who glances at my sister, who shrugs and then they all stare at me. This is way too early. I hadn’t thought I would need to talk about artificial insemination until she was at least in middle school where they learn about these things.

  “Sweetheart.” I stroke her silky blond hair. “Your father agreed with me that he would give the sperm and leave. He doesn’t even know you were born. He helped me because I wanted you so badly that I asked him to give it to me.”

  Her lower lip starts to tremble and tears pool in her eyes. “If he doesn’t know about me, he’ll never come back.”

  “Tyler’s coming back,” my mother says. “He knows about you, and he wants you.”

  “Even after my baby brother comes?” Bree wipes her eyes.

  “Of course he will.” I pick her up and place her in my lap. “We’ll call him after dinner and you can show him all the pictures of the puppies and ask him which one he likes.”

  My answer satisfies Bree, and we finish dinner without any more emotional scenes. I stamp back my anxiety over Tyler not texting me and reassure myself that he’s busy. The supply truck must have arrived, and he’s probably working late to ensure everything is accounted for.

  Still, I can’t help but sneak a peek at my phone while my sister serves dessert—Bree’s favorite chocolate brownie again, this time with vanilla ic
e cream.

  ~ Tyler ~

  “Sir, sir, someone’s coming.” Arman jiggled Tyler’s arm and he raised his head from hugging the puppy.

  What was he doing? Acting like a city boy in the woods? How could he need a boy to alert him?

  Two Taliban insurgents holding assault rifles were scouting the area. Their clipped voices could be heard, carried by the breeze, and they were clearly looking for something.

  Even the puppy was on alert, his ears standing straight and his nose busy.

  The tree Arman had tied the rope to had little in terms of foliage, and even though they were at a slight incline up from the two men, it was a matter of time before they would be sighted. There was no cover anywhere, as the road leading over the ridge was barren and dusty.

  “You must get away,” Tyler said to Arman. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

  “There’s no cover. They’ll see me.”

  “It’s okay. You’re a boy. If they bother you, I’ll cause a distraction, then you can run.”

  “Which direction should I go?” Arman wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Since they’ll see you, go toward the compound. Say your brother lived there and you’re looking for him. They won’t harm you if they think you’re with one of those women over there.”

  “I can’t leave you. It’s my honor to work for you as a translator.”

  “You’re only a boy. You need to go home.”

  “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” Arman stood up straighter.

  Woof. Woof. The puppy barked and growled at the encroaching soldiers.

  The men shouted as they spotted Arman and Tyler.

  “Run, run!” Tyler pushed Arman, and the boy took off across the dusty field toward the ridgeline away from the compound.

  One of the soldiers ran to cut him off, but the other one spotted Tyler and yelled something. He raised his gun and fired. A bullet whizzed over Tyler’s head and lodged into the tree trunk.

  Tyler ducked and rolled, then grabbed the rope and scurried into the pit. His only chance would be to fight in the confines underground. They’d seen him, and they would be coming down the rope, giving him an opportunity to use his knife.