by Joe Meno
“No!” I shouted. The shepherd pulled itself free and backed away a little, circling as it moved. The dust in the air began to cloud my eyes and throat. I felt like I couldn’t hardly breathe at all. Tiny droplets of blood broke from the shepherd’s bare neck. The torn fur there was dark and shiny. Blood gathered in a clot at the base of its neck.
“Kill! Shilo, kill!” Mr. Freeman shouted again, shaking the fence. The shepherd’s owner, Mr. Deegan, was silent. He stood straight-faced and stern at the opposite side of the ring, holding the wire fence.
The pit bull and shepherd were circling each other. Their teeth were full of blood and spit. Their eyes were black, blacker than black, almost empty. They moved close to the dirty ground, tensed and mean and snarling. I looked up and saw my older brother gripping the wire fence too. His face was pale. His eyes were bright and fixed as he mumbled something to himself like a prayer. French’s face was the same way, all tensed and staring straight ahead, as the dogs stopped circling and locked eyes once more.
“Kill!”
The dust and smoke in the barn seemed to rise. That voice rang out loud and clear and I thought it was Mr. Freeman again, but it wasn’t, it was sharp and stern and orderly—Mr. Deegan was shouting now. His face was solemn as he let out the command. His shepherd obeyed, lunging forward, catching its teeth on the side of the pit bull’s short white face, digging its incisors square through the flesh and into the dog’s dark black eye.
“Goddamn!” the man beside me shouted, peeking through his folded hand.
The pit bull howled, rolling into the dirt, as the shepherd bit down hard on the other dog’s muzzle, tearing the eye from its socket in a mess of thick blood. I squinted, shaking my head, and French squeezed my shoulder. French’s face was all tensed around his eyes, like he was having problems stomaching it all. But my brother didn’t move. He just stared ahead, dumbfounded, I guess, holding the fence tight as it held him up too.
“No!” Mr. Freeman shouted, tossing his red hunting cap to the dirt by his feet. “No!”
The pit bull rolled in the dirt, clawing at its empty eye socket. The eye had disappeared in the blood and dirt and mud, as the shepherd lunged again, gripping the soft fleshy meat under the pit bull’s throat. It dug its teeth into the skin, pulling a clump of fur and flesh free, snarling in the blood and drool as the big white pit bull laid on its side, still and as good as dead.
My mouth was dry. My heart was pounding in my chest so hard that I could feel my blood beating in my ears. The shepherd sniffed around the other animal a few times, then lifted its ears, confused, whining a little. Mr. Deegan clapped his hands and the shepherd bolted back to him. Carefully, he fit the muzzle over the shepherd’s jaws, opening a black valise to tend to its wounds. French let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly.
My brother’s face was bright red. His knuckles were cold and white as he still gripped the fence. “Now what?!” he shouted at French.
French took a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders a little.
“Now I guess they shoot the poor thing.”
My brother turned back to face the ring.
“They can’t shoot that thing,” Pill muttered. French laid his hand on my brother’s shoulder. Some of the men milled around, settling bets, trading soft wads of cash from hand to hand, smiling and spitting in the dirt. Other men just stood there, sharing sips from a bottle or a flask. The barn began to empty out. Slowly, the stink of cigars and the gray cloud of dust settled around us as my brother held the fence, shaking his head.
“C’mon, boys, we better get on home. Your mother probably already called the state police on us.” French patted my head and smiled. My brother didn’t move.
“Let’s go, Pill, ’fore it gets too late.”
The pit bull laid in the dirt, its thick white sides still rising and falling.
“This is it?” Pill muttered. “This is it?” His eyes were red like he was about to cry. He kept holding the fence, gritting his teeth to keep the tears down inside. I knew exactly how he felt. I wished I had never seen it; I wished we had never come. French stood still and stared at my brother’s face without saying a word, then walked slowly toward the center of the ring, where the white dog was whining. Pill and I followed, unsure of what to say or do. Mr. Freeman was standing over his poor animal, and Mr. Deegan stared at it sadly too.
“Whatever you want to do,” Mr. Freeman was saying. He handed a huge fold of cash to Mr. Deegan. “I mean, it’s your dog now. You want me to shoot it?”
Mr. Deegan stared down at the white dog. “Let’s have a look.” He squatted beside the dog’s square head, then ran his palm over its side.
“Didn’t fight very well, did it?” Mr. Deegan asked with a frown.
“No, it did not, and I wouldn’t like talking about it now if you don’t mind.”
“I could patch up his eye and paw and neck all right, but I’m just wondering if it’s worth it.”
“I’d just the same shoot it as waste the time,” Mr. Freeman grunted, digging his hands into his pants pockets. Mr. Deegan stood and stared down at the dog and shrugged his shoulders.
French glanced down at me, then my brother, and frowned. “Go ahead and wait in the car. I need to talk to someone from the plant.” He raised his voice just a little, staring down into the dirt. “Go on,” he repeated when we didn’t move, and he began to walk toward Mr. Deegan.
I pulled on my brother’s shirt. He shook his head, cussed a little, then turned and headed out of the barn. I followed, not saying a word, just watching how he kicked the dirt with his shoes, then punched the side of my mother’s rusted-out car. The line of big trucks and stock cars began to file out, their headlights flashing on, then their engines, before disappearing into the dark. The night sky hung right over our heads, lit up with the stars and the moon. The air was cool and dusty and blew against our backs. Pill-Bug punched the car once more and stared back at the barn.
“I hate him,” he muttered, digging his fists into his pockets.
“I do. Thinks he can tell me what to do. I’ll cut his throat in his sleep.”
The red barn door swung open after a few minutes and French and Mr. Deegan stepped out, carrying something between the two of them. They walked up to us and the car, kicking up dust, as the broken light from the stars and the barn flashed across our faces.
There was the pit bull, all bandaged up and quiet, wrapped in a thin blue blanket, resting in their arms.
“Don’t say a word,” French mumbled, breathing hard.
My brother shook his head. His face went all red and tense. “What the hell’s that?”
“I said, don’t say a word.” French frowned, unlocking the blue hatchback. Mr. Deegan and French gently slid the big white dog inside.
“You can’t bring that on home,” Pill muttered. “What are you doing?”
“Keep quiet,” French whispered, slowly closing the hatch-back. French wiped some sweat from his forehead and dug in his back pocket. He pulled out his brown leather wallet, the same wallet me and my older brother had stolen from so many times, and fished out two crisp twenty-dollar bills and planted them in Mr. Deegan’s soft white palm.
“There you go, Mr. Deegan.” French smiled, shoving his wallet into his back pocket. Mr. Deegan shook his head, folding the cash up. He looked down through the back window at the slumbering animal inside.
“Now, I can’t guarantee that that animal will live for long,” he said. “He’s on a sedative right now, so he should be all right for the night. But if he gets wild on you or you notice the wounds not healing right, give me a call. You should bring him by the office in the next few days and I’ll change the dressing and give you some more medication.”
French nodded and shook hands with him.
My older brother was dumbfounded. I couldn’t help smiling, shaking my head at the crazy thought of it all, grinning as we piled into the blue car.
“Mom’s never gonna stand for it,” Pill grunted, slamming th
e car door shut.
“She will if we tell her we found the dog on the side of the road and we brought it home to keep it from dying all alone out there.”
“She ain’t ever gonna believe that.” Pill stared straight ahead with a mean, sour look, crossing his arms across his chest. “Who asked you to get that damn dog anyway?”
“No one. I did it for myself. I need a bird dog for the winter.”
“Bird dog? That ain’t a bird dog. That dog can’t even see. It’s missing a goddamn eye. I ain’t gonna lie to my mother.”
“Enough already. You tell your mother what you want, Pill. I ain’t asking you to lie to her. But on account of that poor animal lying back there, you might just wanna keep your mouth shut so as not to ruin our chances here.”
He sounded like one of us now. He stared at the open black road, gripping the wheel tightly. He checked in the rearview mirror every couple of seconds, watching as the dark blue blanket rose and fell with the dog’s breath.
Before long, we were home, and Pill shot out of the car and into the trailer before the car’s engine even died.
“Give me a hand with him, pal?” French asked, unlocking the hatchback. The door rose and squeaked as French leaned over and rubbed the dog’s side.
“How come you did it, French?” I asked, peering up into his long white face. He rubbed the sweat between his glasses and the bridge of his nose and then let out a sigh.
“I don’t know, kiddo, I thought it was the right thing to do. Your brother’s been in a kinda mood since we moved here and he seemed pretty upset by that dog getting hurt, and so I thought maybe I could, you know, make him feel better about things, but I guess it didn’t work out so well, huh?”
“Guess not.”
“Can’t get rid of the poor thing now, can we?” He seemed to answer himself with a shrug of his shoulders. “You gonna stick to the story?” he asked, leaning over the car. His face was shiny with sweat and his eyes were dark behind his glasses.
“I guess so. Long as I don’t get in trouble for lying.”
“You won’t. Here, now give his legs a little lift.”
I dug my hands under the blue blanket. The dog stirred a little as we made our way up the front steps. The screen door clanged open and my mother shot up from the couch, raising her thin black eyebrows.
“What is this?” she asked, covering her mouth in surprise. French and I laid the dog down on the sofa and frowned.
“Found him … on the side of the road,” French grunted. “Brought him to Mr. Deegan.” French couldn’t even look at my mother as he lied. He just stared down at the animal as it dug its face into the cushions of the couch. Pill was nowhere to be found. He had gone off to our bedroom to pout.
“But why didn’t you leave it with Mr. Deegan?” my mother asked.
“Oh, he was gonna put it to sleep and the boys took a liking to it so …”
“It’s huge,” my mother said. “See how big its paw is? We can’t keep that thing in here.” Her eyes went big as she looked over the animal’s body. “What happened to its eye? Oh, and its other paw.”
“Must’ve been hit by a car or something,” French replied. He stared at me and gave a little nod with his head.
“Can we keep it, Mom?” I asked on cue. “It won’t bother no one, I promise. And I’ll take care of it. Pill will help too.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, staring at the pit bull’s square jaws. She bit her bottom lip, thinking hard. “Where’s it gonna sleep?”
“It can sleep out here,” I answered.
“What about shots and rabies and all that?”
“We got that taken care of,” French said.
“I dunno …”
“Thanks, Mom!” I gave her a good hug around her waist and stared down at that big white dog. It laid still, wrapped in the blue blanket, burying its face back under the sofa cushions. I glanced up at French and nodded. He was smiling nervously, running his hand along the dog’s side, patting it gently. I guess right then I started to wonder how much longer he’d stick around before he finally had enough of us all—between my mother, who was prone to fits of crying in the middle of the night, and me and my brother running wild all around the goddamn trailer park. I stared at his long white face and nodded to myself. Sure, one morning we’d wake up and French would be gone, maybe the big black Impala would still be on the blocks out front, maybe some of his clothes would still be in my mother’s closet, but like all the men in my mother’s life, he would disappear without a right word or reason. Maybe my mother would pack up all of his things in a brown cardboard box and send it off to him, maybe he’d come by the trailer to pick it up when no one was around, but eventually he’d be gone and less than a blurry photo in my own mind. I thought I could be decent to him until then, because I knew it wouldn’t be very long.
The big dog rolled on its other side, yelping a little.
“Somebody should stay out here with it tonight,” French offered, rubbing its soft fur with his fingers. I nodded, stroking its white belly.
“Well, you’ve got school tomorrow, pal,” my mother said with a frown in my direction.
“I’ll do it, I guess,” French mumbled.
“Did you guys already come up with a name for it?” my mother asked.
“Shilo,” French said with a nod.
“Shilo? What kind of name is that?” She smiled, rubbing its side. “What about Spot or Pluto or something nice like that?”
“No, Shilo’s good,” I said, nodding too.
“All right then, I better pick up some dog food on the way home from work,” my mother said. She rubbed the dog’s sore white belly. “Good grief. Looks like it’s some kind of monster.”
After that, the dumb dog became the biggest baby I’d ever seen. My mother didn’t seem to pay too much attention to it during the first few weeks; but she ended up being the one who fed it every day and gave it its medicine. After a while, it seemed like the dog had always been there, like it was just one other dirty mouth to feed. The dog would just lie around with its ugly head drooling in your lap as you watched TV, or it would beg for scraps at the table, staring at you with the poorest single black eye you’d ever seen. Once all its wounds healed, its empty eye was a hard gray-and-black cavern that had to be sealed up with stitches. Its one leg that had lost a paw became hard and black too, a thick bumpy wound that ended just below its joint. Its neck healed fine, but left three or four huge pink scars. That dog would hop around on its three legs and rub its muzzle against your thigh or leap up and lick your face or come and lay right on top of you.
French was the worst for babying it; the two of them would just sit on the couch for hours. French would let the animal take licks from his beer can and rub its ugly one-eyed face in front of the TV. Of course, if the dog knocked over one of my mother’s flowerpots or ate a whole plate of fried chicken, French would holler, “Dough, take care of your dog here.” I guess Pill and that dog never much got along. Maybe it had been like the whole world had let him down again when Shilo lost that fight. Once, I saw my brother give that dog a kick, and because of its missing paw, it rolled right onto its side, but that’s all it did, just laid there like it had wanted to rest right there in that exact spot in the first place. Me, I tried like hell to take care of that miserable animal, but it had been an old dog to begin with and wouldn’t run or fetch or roll over or do any dog trick you could think of except sic, which didn’t do much good, because that damn dog couldn’t move after anything fast enough to catch it. So the dog would end up clamping its teeth down on your pant leg or shirttail and would refuse to let go until it got tired of playing or tore a hole in your clothes or until you finally gave in and took off your shirt and left it your clothes to chew on. It was a good dog, but for a ten-year-old, not much fun to play with. I guess I got used to taking it out for a walk twice a day in the field behind the trailer park so it could do its business. I’d watch it hop on home and return to its couch to watch whatever
was on television, sitting there beside the rest of us.
At night it would crowd me in my own bed. I would never admit it, but I was happy when it did that. Its awful breath would be warm against my face. Its white muzzle would be buried beneath the blankets beside my neck, snoring loudly. I would lie there and stare up at the strange shapes of the wood grain of the top bunk above my head, seeing in the dark rounded lines only skulls and Devil faces and knives, images from slasher movies my brother had forced me to watch, afraid to admit I was scared of the dark. I would lie there, wishing Pill had said goodnight to me or that there was a nightlight of some kind. The sounds of the trailer would echo like fangs in the darkness. I would lie there, secretly happy that Shilo was the last thing I would see before I fell asleep. The footsteps of the slashers suddenly fell away. I would stop worrying that a ghost was going to come in and cut my throat.
the devil in his place
Almost every day for a week, Lottie, that loony girl, followed me home from school. I couldn’t understand why she thought we were friends again. I would glance over my shoulder and try to ignore her, but she’d always be behind me, singing to herself, skipping along the culvert. She would try to talk to me, hurrying to catch, up, talking all kinds of nonsense, like how her old man had cut his thumb off and ran two miles to get it sewn back on. I did not like her and I tried to make that clear.
One Wednesday afternoon after school, I was watching cartoons on TV, enjoying having the sofa to myself, when I heard a knock at the screen door, and there she was, waving at me. What she asked me just then made about as much sense as anything else she ever said: “Do you wanna go see the hanging ghost?”
“What?” I muttered, not stepping too close to the door. Like always, her hair was twisted up in four or five pigtails, pulling her pale skin taut around her eyebrows. She had on a dirty gray dress and big brown boots that must have belonged to her older brother.
“Do you wanna go to the Furnhams’ farm? It’s not too far a walk from here.” She was picking something from her tiny ear and staring back at me with her small, brownish-gray eyes.
