by S. Bennett
It was the same on the north end of town where Camp Lejeune borders the stretch of Highway 24—also a multi-lane thoroughfare that was studded with all kinds of business that would provide mischief and mayhem to young marines recently graduated from Camp Geiger and moving over to the big base.
As the owner of the bar I currently work at tends to lament to me on a nightly basis, that all changed when the drinking age was raised. Highway 17 started to dry up and one by one, the businesses started going under. Those that hang on do so out of a sense of nostalgia and mostly because the bar owners have strong social ties to what few customers are left.
Plus, they like to drink a lot.
I walk south toward the 7-Eleven, rubbing my bare arms against the chilly morning air. The weather has been weird lately. We’re four days into spring, but it’s hardly breaking the forties in the early morning hours, which is definitely not typical of eastern North Carolina. I’d been so focused on getting out of Chuck’s notice that I forgot my jacket.
Not a biggie.
The 7-Eleven would be warm, and I could enjoy a cup of coffee there while shooting the shit with whoever is on duty. I’m a frequent customer there to buy cigs and/or beer. If I wait it out for at least half an hour, Chuck would be gone to work by the time I got back.
As I walk past a large culvert a quarter filled with rainwater and months of accumulated trash, a barely perceptible sound reaches my ears through the early rush-hour traffic. On weekday mornings, there’s a steady flow of cars filled with young jarheads heading to the Marine Corps Air Station. It’s home to the loud helicopters and Ospreys that fly over Onslow County daily, and it’s where most of my current bar patrons work since it takes up much of the southern part of Jacksonville.
My thoughts turning me away from whatever sound I thought I’d heard, I almost make it past the wide ditch before I hear it again. A tiny yip.
Completely different from Chuck’s orgasmic coyote sounds, and far more pitiful.
I stop, leaning over the edge of the culvert that’s probably a good three feet in depth and twice as wide. The wet bottom is lush with a weedy type of foliage, green grasses, and proud standing cattails, interspersed with empty McDonald’s bags, cigarette butts, discarded lumber, and beer bottles.
Something moves among the greenery, and the slimy water ripples. I take a step back, because in my experience, I’m the type of down-and-out person who would get bit by a poisonous snake.
Another yip and my brain finally recognize it as distinctly canine.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I start a careful descent down toward the water, holding my arms out wide for balance. It only takes two steps before I go down onto one knee, the soft dirt and long blades of dewy grass causing my foot to slip out from under me.
“Shit,” I curse, and get two resounding little barks back.
Keening, pleading cries for me to come even closer to take a look.
Resigned to the large, muddy wet spot on one knee and realizing I stand a good chance of toppling head-first into the brackish water if I continue down, I move closer to where I hear more whimpers.
Using my hands to peel back a curtain of long grass, I see the source of distress.
It’s a puppy of indeterminate breed and color. It’s covered in the blackish muck and struggling against a tangle of barbed wire wrapped around the lower half of its body that’s nailed to a splintered piece of two-by-four. It looks like the puppy tried to squirm through a loop or something and got caught up.
Or even worse, someone intentionally wrapped that poor thing up like that and threw it in the ditch to die.
Despite its precarious situation, the little mud-slicked tail wags furiously for a moment as its head swings to me, fully revealing that the dog has one brown eye and one blue eye. That one crystal eye stands stark against the mud, almost colorless closer to the pupil and darkening to a faded denim on the outer edge. I wonder if it’s blind in that eye as it seems rounder and wider than the other.
Perhaps it’s just fear making it stand out that way, but it looks wild and desperate as well as insanely happy that someone has answered its calls for aid.
My entire body shivers, partly from the cold but partly from recognizing the terrible predicament this little creature is in. When my husband kicked me out of the house three months ago, I spent a few brutal nights freezing my ass off in my car because I had nowhere to go and no one to help me. It was a mere four days before Christmas.
I’d swallowed my pride, and begged Charmin for a spot on her couch. My car has since broken down and I can’t afford to get it fixed, so I walk where I need to go. I muddle through my life working the measly hours I’m allotted at the bar because the owner doesn’t want any of his bartenders getting close to a forty-hour workweek and God forbid asking him for overtime.
And so far… I’ve survived.
Twisting my neck, I tear my gaze away from the dog and glance back out to the edge of the culvert. Just a mere thirty yards away from a hot cup of coffee and a relaxing cigarette.
A deep shudder ripples up my spine, reminding me that my life is shit. I have no business helping this dog. Even if I free it, the damn thing will probably wander out onto the service road. If it doesn’t get squashed by a lone car zooming by on this dead road, it’ll most definitely be killed quickly once it ventures onto Highway 17. I’d be dooming it to certain death, whereas if I just leave it alone, it might work its way free of the wire and I can forget about it.
Heck… someone else might even come along at any minute to help the stupid thing.
Or… it could die from the elements, which would probably take a few days and promises to be an unbearably cruel and painful end to its life.
“Damn it,” I mutter as I reach for the puppy. I’ll get it loose from the wire, after which it can take its chances on the highway. At least if it gets hit by a car, it will be a quick death.
An easy end to its suffering.
It’s the most I can do for the little pup.
CHAPTER 2
Atticus
It was sweet and utter relief when the woman freed me from that pokey-wire I’d gotten tangled up in. It had been many days since I’d left my brothers and sisters, in search of the smoky meat food. I never found it.
I did find that ditch, though, and my nose told me there was food down in there. It was way far down and there was water there, which I don’t mind but it didn’t look nice. Not like the clear water in our bathtubs with the sweet-smelling soap.
I found no food down there.
I have no clue how I’d gotten tangled up in that wire, but the more I tried to escape, the tighter it grabbed onto me.
When the woman appeared, I thought I would just die from pure happiness that someone had found me. She looked nice, although she smelled a little stale.
She also smelled… unhappy.
All I know is she had me out of that ditch and in her arms, walking down and eventually across a big scary road with lots of loud cars roaring by. I had ducked my head, pushing it into her armpit so I didn’t have to look.
Now we’re just sitting here in front of a building, and I’m so tired.
The woman has me on her lap, and she tries to blow warm air onto me. It feels good, but it doesn’t last. I can’t stop from shaking. My stomach makes rumbly noises and I close my eyes, thinking I’ll dream of food and warm baths and chewing on my siblings’ ears if I ever make it back to them. I haven’t eaten since I left except for some grass I tried to chew, but it was yucky.
“It’s okay, puppy,” the woman says softly as she spreads her palms over me, ever so gently. It feels a bit warmer. I’m so tired I can barely open my eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Hazel
I grew up on the north side of Jacksonville—the complete opposite end of the city where I’ve made my current stomping grounds. My dad was stationed at Camp Lejeune in heavy motor transport and my mom was a salesclerk at Belk’s, which was considered the cream of ups
cale shopping there. My upbringing was fairly normal except for the fact we moved around a lot because my dad was a marine. Sometimes he had to leave for extended periods of time when he was deployed to some far-flung corner of the world but the last seven years of his service were at Camp Lejeune. That meant Jacksonville became the place we lived together the longest as a family.
Just nine days after I turned eighteen, and three months shy of graduating from high school, I left home. I reasoned I was an adult who could make that important decision without my parents telling me how stupid it was.
Which they did.
Repetitively.
But what did they really know? I was in love with a marine who looked gorgeous in his uniform. He was two years older than me and had baby blue eyes that made me absolutely silly over the moon for him. I had absolutely no problem giving up my virginity.
It was true love.
Well, at least for a few months anyway.
Then I got pregnant, and he got twitchy.
It was a relatively peaceful time for the Marine Corp on the heels of the Gulf War ending but before 9/11 occurred, so I guess being married to a pregnant eighteen-year-old wasn’t exciting enough for him. He broke up with me on the morning he left for a six-month med cruise, which isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It basically means he’s stuck on an aircraft carrier cutting squares in the middle of the ocean for weeks and weeks on end.
Still, he wasn’t afraid of the loneliness, nor did he need my letters of love, support, and encouragement. He didn’t need me the way I needed him.
Perhaps he knew the future or perhaps he was just an asshole, but I miscarried less than a week after he left. I was too embarrassed to go home with my tail tucked between my legs, and thus started my career in bartending. It’s funny, but I don’t remember much about my first love. I believe I must have blocked out one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. It was a whirlwind romance that ended so badly for me that it helped create the loser of a woman I am today. I do remember his name was Chris—the man who impregnated me and then broke my heart—but for the life of me, I can’t remember his last name.
I just know my failure with him is part of what landed me where I am today.
My ass is falling asleep, and I adjust my weight to lean on my left cheek. The concrete stoop in front of Onslow Veterinary Hospital is freezing cold, and the wet pile of mud-soaked, bloody dog I’m holding on my lap isn’t helping matters much. I’m shivering nearly as violently as the puppy.
Pulling my hand out from under the painfully gaunt animal, I’m dismayed to see more bright red on my palm. It was a lot harder to get the dog free of the barbed wire than I originally anticipated, since a few prongs were embedded pretty deep.
When I saw the blood, I knew I couldn’t leave the dog to fend for itself. For some reason, seeing the puppy’s life force all over my hands made me a bit more committed to its welfare.
Worse than the blood, its pitiful mewling and incessant shivering about tore my heart in two. We never had pets growing up, and I don’t have much experience with them, but this wretched creature that’s starved, broken, and bleeding speaks to me in a way that not much in life has before.
My game plan is thin on deep thought and motivated pretty much by emotion at this point.
I knew there was a small veterinary clinic about half a mile north, but on the other side of Highway 17. The half-mile walk wasn’t daunting to me. I’d lived on the south side of Jacksonville for the last fourteen years of my life, and a small two mile stretch of this busy highway has been the center of my universe the entire time. Plenty of bars to work at, even if the good ones had all closed down, and I could walk wherever I needed which was beneficial in these carless times.
But getting to that vet clinic required crossing three southbound lanes of 17 during rush-hour traffic followed by a guardrail surrounding a wide, grass median, and then three north-bound lanes. Not impossible by any means, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant while I was freezing and carrying a bloody, dying puppy in my arms.
It took me almost half an hour to get here, and I was dismayed to find the clinic closed. It’s a small, square building of white-painted cinder block and a low-pitched tin roof reddened by rust. There’s a thick glass door and two square windows to either side, which are darkened because no interior lights are on. I’ve passed by this building on several occasions over the years, but never gave it any thought.
Now I’m thinking I wish this vet would hurry up and open the damn door.
I have no clue what time it is since I don’t have a cell phone or watch. I didn’t bother looking at the clock on my quick exodus from the apartment today. By my hungover estimate, it’s anywhere between eight and nine, although it could be earlier or it could be later. I try to ignore the fact the front door is stenciled with the hours of operation.
Monday-Thursday, Ten AM to four PM.
What kind of business has hours like that?
Especially when there are dying animals to treat?
My head tips down and I stare at the wet, cold mess in my lap. The mud is so thick and pervasive throughout the fur I can’t tell what type of dog it is other than it’s a long-haired breed. The dual-colored eyes suggest a mutt to me, but what do I know about dogs? Perhaps it’s a trendy “thing” or maybe it’s a mutant thing.
It shivers hard, and its breathing seems more labored. It hasn’t opened its eyes since it settled wearily onto my lap once I sat down on the stoop. I can’t even pet the damn thing because it’s nothing but slime and mud, but I keep my palms spread across its sides to try to give it some measure of warmth.
Hunching my shoulders and leaning over the puppy, I bring my mouth closer to its head. I blow hot breath onto it, not even knowing if it’s a boy or a girl at this point. It gives out a labored chuff as if it appreciates my efforts, but it seems entirely futile.
I blow on the dog again, but it doesn’t move.
My heart sinks, and a cold hopelessness seeps into my veins.
The sound of tires crunching on the asphalt parking lot strewn with loose highway gravel has my head lifting, and I see an old car pulling in. It’s one of those long ones that seem to take up a city block, and it’s an olive green that’s not used on new cars these days. It comes to a stop in front of the clinic and to my right, taking the one parking spot that has a handicapped logo in faded paint. The word Impala is on the side. There’s an elderly man behind the wheel. He’s staring at me from under bushy white eyebrows, but I don’t see a handicapped sticker.
Probably the first scheduled appointment of the day and it gives me hope the doors will be opening soon.
I stare down at the puppy, thinking it certainly constitutes an emergency, and then back up to the old man sitting behind the wheel. He just stares at me with his lips pressed into a grim, flat line. Perhaps he’s thinking I might ruin his schedule by preempting his time slot with my emergency.
With a slight shake of his head that seems more resignation than anything, he turns the car off and opens the driver’s door. He rocks in his seat slightly as if he needs momentum to get out, one aged hand covered in brown spots grabbing onto the “oh shit” handle above the window. That’s what my dad used to call them when we were little and he’d take a curve too fast.
“Grab hold of the ‘oh shit’ handles, kids, because the faster you go, the better you adhere to the road,” he’d always yell out to me and my younger sister, Liz. “And I have a need for speed.”
Liz and I would cackle, each grabbing onto the handles while Mom would shoot him disapproving glares from the front seat. It’s one of the faint memories of my childhood that can make me smile, and then make me unbearably sad.
The old man is finally able to pull himself out of the car, only to shuffle around and lean back inside for something. It’s only after he straightens and closes the door that I see he’s leaning heavily on a cane. It’s wooden and knobby, but befitting him for some reason. He wouldn’t look right with one of tho
se modern-day aluminum canes in pink or blue.
He has no cat, dog, lizard, or fish bowl with him so perhaps he’s here to pick up his pet.
The man bends at the waist slightly, peering at the limp pile of misery I’m holding as if it’s a specimen on a glass slide. Stabbing the end of his cane toward the puppy, he asks, “What do you have there?”
The man has a distinctive southern accent, so I peg him as a local.
“An injured dog,” I answer, placing one palm on the concrete to help push myself to a standing position. I’m blocking the front door, which I assume will now be opening soon. My other hand goes under the cold belly, and I’m worried over how limp the animal has gone. “If you don’t mind, I was hoping the vet could take a quick look at it when they open. It’s kind of an emergency.”
“I’ll decide what’s an emergency,” the old man snaps with his thick, bush-like eyebrows drawn inward. His entire demeanor screams disapproval at me.
I’m all for respecting elders and stuff, but once people dispose of common courtesy to me, I’m pretty much done with them regardless of the age. “I think I’ll leave that up to the vet to determine,” I inform him prissily.
“I am the damn vet,” he growls, hobbling toward the door. I’m forced to scramble out of the way before he runs me over. He moves awfully quick for a man with a cane and a pronounced limp.
I watch mutely as he loops the end of his cane over his forearm so he can unlock the front door. He sways back and forth unsteadily without the support, and if he goes down, I can’t help. Not going to drop the puppy to help this jerk.
He doesn’t say a word to me as he pushes his way inside the heavy swinging glass door, immediately using his cane to supplement his gait. The door whispers shut behind him, and I’m left standing beside the low stoop.
