Magda's Boy by Matthew Ross
Magda's Chihuahua, Skipper, tries to defend his master when danger looms.
I'm dreaming that I'm napping in the yard, the late afternoon sun warm on my fur, when I'm ripped awake by the shattering of broken glass. It's dark, and the air is cool. For a moment, I think I'm back in the Other House, where breaking glass meant that Old Master had been drinking. I whimper involuntarily.
My ears prick up and I quiver, anticipating the harsh, ugly sound of angry voices. But all I hear is the slow, even ticking of the old grandfather clock that Magda winds every night before bedtime, humming to herself as she works. Even when Old Master wasn't drinking, the Other House was always filled with angry voices. Magda's house sounds of humming, and laughter, and gentle whispers that I'm a good boy.
The only angry voices at Magda's come from Those Damned Kids, and Magda would never allow them inside the house. They make bad noises and stink of beer-smell, just like Old Master. They rattle our windows and throw things at our door to scare us. Rocks or bottles, mostly. Sometimes eggs. When it's eggs, the house smells rotten for days afterwards. Magda tells us that we're not to mind them, but she still smells of fear until long after they've left.
I hate Those Damned Kids. But no matter how fiercely I bark at them, they always come back.
Rising from my puppy bed, I stretch and give the air a tentative sniff. I'm tense, half-expecting I'll hear the sound of angry voices or smell the sour stench of beer-smell again. But I'm met only by the familiar scents of my brothers and sisters, and the sound of Petey softly snoring.
Everything's okay. I'm still at home. Still safe.
I settle back into the cozy quilt that Magda knit to line my bed. I'm drifting on the edge of sleep when I hear the faint moan coming from downstairs. That's when I notice that Magda's scent isn't nearly as strong - or as close - as it should be.
I'm halfway down the stairs before I really know what I'm doing. I have no plan other than Find Magda.
Find Magda.
I find Magda in the kitchen. She's fallen down again, and the floor is strewn with shards of glass and little puddles of milk. An overturned plate lies next to her, covering some kind of smushed-up sandwich. I smell peanut butter, and my mouth floods with drool.
I love peanut butter.
But I love Magda more.
Ignoring the sandwich, I nose at Magda's face, licking insistently at her cheeks and eyes. Usually Magda laughs when I do this. Then she kisses me on the head and tells me I'm a good boy. This time, she just groans. I whine a little and lick even harder.
"Whu - what happened? Skipper, is that you?"
I let out a celebratory yip at the sound of my name. Magda reaches out to give me a pat, then shakily struggles to her feet. I turn a few circles, barking noisily to show her how happy I am that she's okay. Then I remember the peanut butter and dash for the overturned plate.
Magda scoops me up before I can reach the sandwich and plops me down outside the kitchen. My barking must have finally woken my brothers and sisters, as they choose that moment to rush down the stairs. They arrive in a great mass - snuffling and wagging, pacing and wiggling, as if they were one large dog rather than a dozen small ones. Magda quickly slams the kitchen door closed. Petey whines fearfully at the unexpected noise, but Magda laughs so we know that she's not angry with us.
"Ah-ah-ah, my darlings - doggies mustn't come in here yet! Not until the nasty glass is cleaned up and it's safe for little paws."
The kitchen is spotless when we're finally allowed back inside. Magda permits us a few minutes to sniff around before shooing us back to bed. But as the others begin to climb up the stairs, Magda picks me up and returns me to the kitchen.
"Shhhh," she says. "You must promise you won't tell the others."
Magda unscrews the Skippy jar and dips her hand in, emerging with the biggest scoop of peanut butter that I've ever seen. "That's a good boy, Skipper," she whispers as I lick every morsel of it from her fingers. "My little hero... my little hero boy..."
Magda's been falling a lot more lately, so I'm careful not to get underfoot. At least I try to be. When Magda gives us our pebbles, and the others are all jumping and wagging and barking, it's easy to get swept up in the excitement and forget that I shouldn't paw at Magda's legs.
I try hard to remember though. Not just for me, but so I can keep an eye on Petey. When he hears the sweet tinkling of pebbles pouring into a bowl, he tends to lose his mind a little and make straight for Magda's legs. She's almost tripped over him so many times now that I make sure to growl if he gets anywhere near her feet.
Magda always hushes me when I growl, though I've never really understood why. It's not like I'd ever growl without good reason.
Sometimes I feel like the more urgent a threat is, the less she wants to hear about it. I'm still her good boy though, so when I smell an intruder approaching, like the Mailman, or the Busybody From Social Services, or the Nice Young Man From The Wheels On Meals, I make sure to growl extra loud to alert Magda that danger's incoming. And if she lets them inside the perimeter, then I bare my teeth and raise my hackles to let them I mean business, so they'd better not make trouble.
"Come now, Skipper," Magda says, "you have to be nice. We don't want them to take you Away."
I don't know where Away is, but I wouldn't let them take me there. Not without Magda. I'd bite anyone who tried. Even if it made me a Bad Boy, I'd bite them anyways.
Magda doesn't like me to be Bad, so when she hushes me, I allow myself to be hushed. I can still guard Magda without making noise. I only growl as a courtesy, really, anyways.
I just don't want to be taken Away.
And for Magda to stop falling down.
Not all of the changes lately have been bad. For instance, Magda naps a lot more than she used to. I like when Magda naps because that's when we're allowed to cuddle with her on the people bed. I like my puppy bed well enough, but nothing is as comfy as the people bed. Especially when we all flop on top of each other in a big cozy pile, just like when we were puppies.
Sometimes we'll have an Extra Pebbles Day, when Magda will keep refilling our pebble bowls after we empty them. Of course, Magda sometimes forgets to give us our pebbles, and I'll have to bark extra long and extra loud to help her remember. Those days aren't as good.
Magda used to bring new siblings home to us all the time. Not anymore though. Petey was the last. Sometimes Magda gets confused and calls him by other names - Ringo or Rocket, Copper or Cheeto - but she never forgets my name. She's the one who gave it to me, and I'm her special boy.
I didn't have a name in the Other House. Not a real one, that is. Old Master called me 'Pendejo' sometimes, but he called everybody that. When he noticed you.
You didn't want him to notice you.
I spent most of my time at the Other House wondering whether I could squeeze through that little gap in the yard where the fence stopped short of the gate.
I could.
Sometimes it's nice to be small.
I'm not sure how long I was on my own before Magda found me. Long enough to get cold. And hungry.
Very hungry.
It must have been one of Molly's old bones that I smelled, buried somewhere deep beneath Magda's rose bushes. I'd been digging and digging - I knew that something was down there, even if I hadn't found it yet - and that's when I first heard her voice. It was a kind voice, speaking softly.
I growled at her and showed her my teeth. I even snapped at the air when she took a single, tentative step in my direction. I thought all people were like Old Master, and all houses like the Other House.
Magda showed me that they weren't.
She didn't raise her voice or get angry when I snapped at her, like Old Master would have. She just slowly turned and went back inside her house. When she returned a few minutes later, she brought the Skippy jar with her.
I'd never tasted peanut butter before. Before Magda, I wouldn't have dreamed the world could have anything as wonderful as peanut butter in it.
I remember how she laughed as I licked those first glorious globs of Skippy from her fingers, and how she scratched behind my ears after. "Looks like someone has a taste for the peanut butter," Magda said. "You're my good little boy, aren't you Skipper?"
I was. And I have been, ever since.
I'm dreaming that I'm bounding through tail-high grass, chasing the scent of a squirrel on the wind, when I'm ripped awake by the shattering of broken glass. It's dark, and the air is cool. I prick my ears and quiver, listening for the soft tread of Magda's slippers downstairs.
Only Magda isn't downstairs. She's right above me, sleeping in her people bed.
"Hermann? Hermann, bist du es?" she says sleepily.
I don't know who Hermann is. Ever since I came to live with Magda, she's been the only human in the house. Whoever he is, Magda talks to him a lot. Especially when she's tired.
I lay back down on my puppy bed and listen to the slow, even ticking of Magda's grandfather clock. My eyelids feel so heavy that it's hard to keep them open.
I hear more crashing sounds - louder, and closer - followed by muffled laughter. It's not at all like Magda's laughter - the kind that makes you feel warm and good, like a long scratch behind the ears.
This laughter feels harsh. And mean. It's the kind of laughter that raises your hackles and warns you not to let a human draw too close to you. The kind that comes after the beer-smell but before the voices turn angry. The kind that feels like terror, and helplessness, and bad things soon to come.
The kind that sounds like Old Master.
I'm on my feet and growling, teeth showing, without even thinking. I raise my nose and sniff the air, trying to sort the familiar smells of Magda and my siblings from any scents that don't belong.
I smell three scents that don't belong: two males and a female. One of the males smells filthy and unwashed. The other smells like old soup. The female reeks of nail polish, and perfume that stinks like rotting flowers. They're all part of the pack that Magda calls Those Damned Kids.
And they're inside the perimeter.
Now that I smell them, I can hear them as well. Stomping around downstairs, shushing each other and giggling as they make more broken-glass sounds. They stink of beer-smell, and cigarettes, and other scents I have no words for.
I leap onto the people bed and turn frantic circles atop it, barking as loudly as I can to raise the alert. But instead of getting up, Magda turns over and burrows deeper into her covers.
"Hush, Skipper," she mumbles groggily. "Mama's sleeping."
I don't hush. I take a breath and bark some more. Then I take the sleeve of Magda's nightgown between my teeth, dig my paws into the mattress, and tug at it with all my might. Still, it's only when she hears the distant clatter of her treasured china cabinet being overturned that Magda awakens with a start.
"Wh-what's that? Is someone there?"
My brothers and sisters mill about, wagging nervously as Magda pulls on her slippers and reaches for the flashlight by her bed. She clicks it on and shuffles uncertainly into the hallway, and I follow closely at her heels.
The flashlight beam swings right, then left, then stops, spotlighting two of the intruders near the top of the stairs. The female, the one whose perfume smells like rotting flowers, freezes. The unwashed male doesn't. He flips his long, greasy hair out of his eyes and smiles. He then approaches Magda with steady, unhurried steps, strolling cooly as if it was his house and not hers.
Magda curtly shushes my rising growl. "Not now, Skipper. Stay behind me. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
"Don't you know, lady?" he says. His smile sharpens. "I'm the devil... and I'm here to collect your soul!"
Greasy Hair springs forward, and Magda clutches at her chest. She makes a strangled sound - half-yelp, half-whine, like a dog startled by an unexpected slap. It rises in her throat, before abruptly cutting short.
Usually when Magda falls down, she makes a noise right after. Most of the time it's laughter. Or soft words, in soothing tones, telling us there's no reason to be frightened. The last few times she fell, she made groans, and other pain-noises. This time, the only sound she makes is a loud thud as she hits the floor.
"Holy shit, dude! What the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing! I just wanted to scare her!"
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck."
I ignore Those Damned Kids and race to help Magda. I nose at her face, licking insistently at her cheeks and eyes.
Usually when I do this, she laughs. Then she kisses me on the head and tells me I'm a good boy.
This time, she does nothing. She doesn't react at all.
I wag anxiously and lick even harder.
No laughter. No kisses. No good boy.
I lower my nose and bump my head against her cheek, though I already know it's no good. Magda doesn't smell like Magda anymore.
I throw back my head and howl. A moment later, Petey joins me. Then Molly, and Noodles, and the rest. I howl until my breath gives out. Then I fill my lungs and howl again.
I'm cut off mid-cry and sent tumbling backwards by a foot that touches gentler than a kick, but rougher than a shove. I scramble back to my feet and find that Greasy Hair has stolen my place by Magda's side. He kneels over her, pawing at her clothes as if searching for a Snausage treat.
"Ew!" Rotting Perfume says. "Are you feeling that old lady up?"
"Don't be stupid," says Greasy Hair. "I'm seeing if she's got anything on her. You know, like jewelry or shit."
Rotting Perfume rolls her eyes. "You don't seriously think she's hiding a gold Rolex under her nightgown, do you? Look around, Gary. This place is a dump. I told you she wouldn't have anything worth taking." She tugs at Greasy Hair's shoulder, but he shrugs her off.
"This is so fucked up, you guys. We need to get the fuck out of here, like, now."
"Shut up, Daryl," Greasy Hair snaps. "What's the rush? Not like the bitch is getting any deader." He reaches out to pat Magda on the head. "You don't mind if I check you over, do you Meemaw?"
I growl, deep in my throat.
"Damn, Gary," Rotting Perfume says. "I don't think that little chihuahua likes you touching his old lady."
Greasy Hair rises and stands over me. "Oh shit, you're right. What's up, little dude? You jealous?"
"I-I-I'm not sure you should tease him like that," says Soup-Stench. His big round face stares up at us from the foot of the stairs, flickering in the flame of the little box he uses to light his cigarette. His hands are trembling, so it takes him several tries to get it to work right.
"Why, what's he gonna do about it?" Greasy Hair says. "I've had taco shits bigger than this little turd."
He leans down and smiles at me, the same way he smiled at Magda. It's not a nice smile and I don't like it. When his hand reaches towards me, his face changes. He looks just like Old Master.
"Isn't that right, you little fucker? Can you say, 'Yo Quiero -'"
I sink my teeth into his hand and bite down. Hard.
I hear loud noises. Lots of them. Greasy Hair screaming, his friends shouting, Petey whimpering, and my brothers and sisters barking, all of them clamoring at once. But it all becomes background noise when I find myself lifted off the ground. My feet scrabble wildly as I'm swung through the air, and I realize that Greasy Hair is trying to shake me loose.
So, I clamp down even harder.
I see red. Then I taste red.
The world turns topsy-turvy. I bounce off something hard, then something soft, then something hard again. Then I'm lying on the cool linoleum floor, feeling dazed. I stand up and shake myself to clear my head. I look for Greasy Hair and find him lying at the foot of the stairs - we must have tumbled down them when the world turned red.
In two bounds, I reach his arm and latch onto it, tossing my head side to side and snorting as I worry at it. I don't notice that he isn't moving, or that his neck is twisted at a funny angle, until Rotting Perfume starts screaming. It's not long before Soup-Stench is screaming too.
Rotting Perfume hurtles down the stairs, her legs churning just like my siblings' do when we hear Magda rattling the bag of pebbles. Only she doesn't know to skip over the loose stair tread three steps up from the bottom. Her screaming gives way to a high-pitched squeal as she goes flying. A moment later, she crashes to the ground next to Greasy Hair.
Petey unleashes an earsplitting battle-howl from the top of the stairs, then charges. Molly and Noodles are right behind him, with the rest of our pack in close pursuit.
Rotting Perfume barely manages to scramble up before they swarm her. One of her legs nearly buckles when she puts weight on it, so she hops on one foot, cursing and swatting as she's harried. My brothers and sisters easily dodge her clumsy swipes as they circle her, darting in pitilessly to snap at her ankles.
Rotting Perfume grabs hold of Magda's old grandfather clock in a desperate bid to steady herself, letting loose a surprised little yip when it gives way. My brothers and sisters all scatter as both Rotting Perfume and the clock topple to the ground, and I hear something inside her snap when the big heavy clock crashes down atop her. Then she makes a new pain-sound, louder and shriller than before. A high, keening wail, almost like a dog whose heart has been broken.
Almost.
Rotting Perfume screams and screams as she struggles to lift the broken clock, but either it's too big, or she's too weak. A few of my braver siblings pad up to sniff at her, while others sit and watch warily as she grunts and heaves at it. Her eyes dart desperately until they land on Soup-Stench, who stands frozen outside the kitchen.
"H-h-help me," she croaks, her bloodied hand trembling as it reaches out for Soup-Stench. "Daryl, please... I-I'm trapped. You've got to help me."
"Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck." Soup-Stench's eyes are wide as saucers. His quivering mouth hangs open, cigarette still dangling at the corner.
Rotting Perfume coughs, splattering blood onto Magda's nice clean floor. "Daryl... Daryl please. Please don't leave me, Daryl."
Soup-Stench flinches, like a dog too used to being hit. Then he turns his back and runs for the front door.
He's surprisingly quick, for a human.
Of course, I'm far, far quicker. He only makes it a few steps before I overtake him and sink my teeth into his ankle. He spins around and stumbles, pinwheeling his arms as he fights to remain upright. He's trying so hard not to fall that he doesn't notice that his cigarette has gone flying.
It lands on top a big stack of newspapers. Magda keeps lots of them around the house, in case we need them for potties. Every time The Nice Young Man From The Wheels On Meals visits Magda, he tells her that She Really Ought To Get Rid Of Those Newspaper Piles Because They're Far Too Dangerous To Keep In The House, using the same tone that Magda uses when she scolds one of us for doing a Naughty.
I never liked him talking to Magda that way, but it looks like he was right. About the newspapers, and the big dead pine tree Magda strings colorful lights on that sheds fragrant brown needles all year long. It starts burning right after the newspapers blaze up, and the flames spread to the curtains from there.
As the living room quickly fills with smoke and heat, my brothers and sisters turn their backs on Rotting Perfume and run for safety. She lays behind them, still trapped beneath Magda's grandfather clock, like a forgotten squeaky toy. It's difficult to see through the thick black smoke, but luckily their noses know the way. There's not a dog among us who couldn't find our doggy door in their sleep, if they had to.
The same can't be said for Soup-Stench. He staggers blindly into their path, his outstretched arms groping the empty air in front of him, unable to see that every step he takes leads him further away from safety. Bent over by a loud, hacking cough, he's taken off guard when my brothers and sisters run right around him.
Some of them bump against him as they fly past. Others change course to avoid him at the last second. A few run right between his legs. Petey is one of them. I've warned him a thousand times not to get tangled up underfoot around Magda. Now, I'm glad he never listens.
Soup-Stench trips over Petey, and they both yelp when Soup-Stench hits the floor. Petey hops to his feet, shakes himself, and decides that he's alright. Soup-Stench doesn't. He doesn't make any pain-sounds, but he doesn't get up, either. He just lies where he's fallen, crying softly to himself.
I feel bad for him, for a second. Until I remember Magda. Then I don't feel bad anymore. I crane my neck, straining to get one last look at her, but there's too much smoke upstairs to see. Even though I've already lost her, I feel like I'm losing her all over again.
When Magda found me, she made a promise. She promised I could stay with her for as long as I wanted.
Since then, all I've ever wanted is to be with Magda. To never leave her side again, no matter what.
I approach the stairs, intending to do exactly that. Petey whines, and I hesitate. My paw hovers, frozen in mid-air above that first step. I know what I want. But what would Magda want for me?
The flames roar loudly, like the howl of a dog far bigger and fiercer than me. But I have pretty good ears, so I can still hear Soup-Stench's muffled sobbing as Petey and I trot together towards the doggy door, side by side.
Then we slip outside, and all I hear are crickets chirping in the cool night air, and the faint wail of far-off sirens.
For Wall-e. My boy - gone but not forgotten.
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My ears prick up and I quiver, anticipating the harsh, ugly sound of angry voices. But all I hear is the slow, even ticking of the old grandfather clock that Magda winds every night before bedtime, humming to herself as she works. Even when Old Master wasn't drinking, the Other House was always filled with angry voices. Magda's house sounds of humming, and laughter, and gentle whispers that I'm a good boy.
The only angry voices at Magda's come from Those Damned Kids, and Magda would never allow them inside the house. They make bad noises and stink of beer-smell, just like Old Master. They rattle our windows and throw things at our door to scare us. Rocks or bottles, mostly. Sometimes eggs. When it's eggs, the house smells rotten for days afterwards. Magda tells us that we're not to mind them, but she still smells of fear until long after they've left.
I hate Those Damned Kids. But no matter how fiercely I bark at them, they always come back.
Rising from my puppy bed, I stretch and give the air a tentative sniff. I'm tense, half-expecting I'll hear the sound of angry voices or smell the sour stench of beer-smell again. But I'm met only by the familiar scents of my brothers and sisters, and the sound of Petey softly snoring.
Everything's okay. I'm still at home. Still safe.
I settle back into the cozy quilt that Magda knit to line my bed. I'm drifting on the edge of sleep when I hear the faint moan coming from downstairs. That's when I notice that Magda's scent isn't nearly as strong - or as close - as it should be.
I'm halfway down the stairs before I really know what I'm doing. I have no plan other than Find Magda.
Find Magda.
I find Magda in the kitchen. She's fallen down again, and the floor is strewn with shards of glass and little puddles of milk. An overturned plate lies next to her, covering some kind of smushed-up sandwich. I smell peanut butter, and my mouth floods with drool.
I love peanut butter.
But I love Magda more.
Ignoring the sandwich, I nose at Magda's face, licking insistently at her cheeks and eyes. Usually Magda laughs when I do this. Then she kisses me on the head and tells me I'm a good boy. This time, she just groans. I whine a little and lick even harder.
"Whu - what happened? Skipper, is that you?"
I let out a celebratory yip at the sound of my name. Magda reaches out to give me a pat, then shakily struggles to her feet. I turn a few circles, barking noisily to show her how happy I am that she's okay. Then I remember the peanut butter and dash for the overturned plate.
Magda scoops me up before I can reach the sandwich and plops me down outside the kitchen. My barking must have finally woken my brothers and sisters, as they choose that moment to rush down the stairs. They arrive in a great mass - snuffling and wagging, pacing and wiggling, as if they were one large dog rather than a dozen small ones. Magda quickly slams the kitchen door closed. Petey whines fearfully at the unexpected noise, but Magda laughs so we know that she's not angry with us.
"Ah-ah-ah, my darlings - doggies mustn't come in here yet! Not until the nasty glass is cleaned up and it's safe for little paws."
The kitchen is spotless when we're finally allowed back inside. Magda permits us a few minutes to sniff around before shooing us back to bed. But as the others begin to climb up the stairs, Magda picks me up and returns me to the kitchen.
"Shhhh," she says. "You must promise you won't tell the others."
Magda unscrews the Skippy jar and dips her hand in, emerging with the biggest scoop of peanut butter that I've ever seen. "That's a good boy, Skipper," she whispers as I lick every morsel of it from her fingers. "My little hero... my little hero boy..."
Magda's been falling a lot more lately, so I'm careful not to get underfoot. At least I try to be. When Magda gives us our pebbles, and the others are all jumping and wagging and barking, it's easy to get swept up in the excitement and forget that I shouldn't paw at Magda's legs.
I try hard to remember though. Not just for me, but so I can keep an eye on Petey. When he hears the sweet tinkling of pebbles pouring into a bowl, he tends to lose his mind a little and make straight for Magda's legs. She's almost tripped over him so many times now that I make sure to growl if he gets anywhere near her feet.
Magda always hushes me when I growl, though I've never really understood why. It's not like I'd ever growl without good reason.
Sometimes I feel like the more urgent a threat is, the less she wants to hear about it. I'm still her good boy though, so when I smell an intruder approaching, like the Mailman, or the Busybody From Social Services, or the Nice Young Man From The Wheels On Meals, I make sure to growl extra loud to alert Magda that danger's incoming. And if she lets them inside the perimeter, then I bare my teeth and raise my hackles to let them I mean business, so they'd better not make trouble.
"Come now, Skipper," Magda says, "you have to be nice. We don't want them to take you Away."
I don't know where Away is, but I wouldn't let them take me there. Not without Magda. I'd bite anyone who tried. Even if it made me a Bad Boy, I'd bite them anyways.
Magda doesn't like me to be Bad, so when she hushes me, I allow myself to be hushed. I can still guard Magda without making noise. I only growl as a courtesy, really, anyways.
I just don't want to be taken Away.
And for Magda to stop falling down.
Not all of the changes lately have been bad. For instance, Magda naps a lot more than she used to. I like when Magda naps because that's when we're allowed to cuddle with her on the people bed. I like my puppy bed well enough, but nothing is as comfy as the people bed. Especially when we all flop on top of each other in a big cozy pile, just like when we were puppies.
Sometimes we'll have an Extra Pebbles Day, when Magda will keep refilling our pebble bowls after we empty them. Of course, Magda sometimes forgets to give us our pebbles, and I'll have to bark extra long and extra loud to help her remember. Those days aren't as good.
Magda used to bring new siblings home to us all the time. Not anymore though. Petey was the last. Sometimes Magda gets confused and calls him by other names - Ringo or Rocket, Copper or Cheeto - but she never forgets my name. She's the one who gave it to me, and I'm her special boy.
I didn't have a name in the Other House. Not a real one, that is. Old Master called me 'Pendejo' sometimes, but he called everybody that. When he noticed you.
You didn't want him to notice you.
I spent most of my time at the Other House wondering whether I could squeeze through that little gap in the yard where the fence stopped short of the gate.
I could.
Sometimes it's nice to be small.
I'm not sure how long I was on my own before Magda found me. Long enough to get cold. And hungry.
Very hungry.
It must have been one of Molly's old bones that I smelled, buried somewhere deep beneath Magda's rose bushes. I'd been digging and digging - I knew that something was down there, even if I hadn't found it yet - and that's when I first heard her voice. It was a kind voice, speaking softly.
I growled at her and showed her my teeth. I even snapped at the air when she took a single, tentative step in my direction. I thought all people were like Old Master, and all houses like the Other House.
Magda showed me that they weren't.
She didn't raise her voice or get angry when I snapped at her, like Old Master would have. She just slowly turned and went back inside her house. When she returned a few minutes later, she brought the Skippy jar with her.
I'd never tasted peanut butter before. Before Magda, I wouldn't have dreamed the world could have anything as wonderful as peanut butter in it.
I remember how she laughed as I licked those first glorious globs of Skippy from her fingers, and how she scratched behind my ears after. "Looks like someone has a taste for the peanut butter," Magda said. "You're my good little boy, aren't you Skipper?"
I was. And I have been, ever since.
I'm dreaming that I'm bounding through tail-high grass, chasing the scent of a squirrel on the wind, when I'm ripped awake by the shattering of broken glass. It's dark, and the air is cool. I prick my ears and quiver, listening for the soft tread of Magda's slippers downstairs.
Only Magda isn't downstairs. She's right above me, sleeping in her people bed.
"Hermann? Hermann, bist du es?" she says sleepily.
I don't know who Hermann is. Ever since I came to live with Magda, she's been the only human in the house. Whoever he is, Magda talks to him a lot. Especially when she's tired.
I lay back down on my puppy bed and listen to the slow, even ticking of Magda's grandfather clock. My eyelids feel so heavy that it's hard to keep them open.
I hear more crashing sounds - louder, and closer - followed by muffled laughter. It's not at all like Magda's laughter - the kind that makes you feel warm and good, like a long scratch behind the ears.
This laughter feels harsh. And mean. It's the kind of laughter that raises your hackles and warns you not to let a human draw too close to you. The kind that comes after the beer-smell but before the voices turn angry. The kind that feels like terror, and helplessness, and bad things soon to come.
The kind that sounds like Old Master.
I'm on my feet and growling, teeth showing, without even thinking. I raise my nose and sniff the air, trying to sort the familiar smells of Magda and my siblings from any scents that don't belong.
I smell three scents that don't belong: two males and a female. One of the males smells filthy and unwashed. The other smells like old soup. The female reeks of nail polish, and perfume that stinks like rotting flowers. They're all part of the pack that Magda calls Those Damned Kids.
And they're inside the perimeter.
Now that I smell them, I can hear them as well. Stomping around downstairs, shushing each other and giggling as they make more broken-glass sounds. They stink of beer-smell, and cigarettes, and other scents I have no words for.
I leap onto the people bed and turn frantic circles atop it, barking as loudly as I can to raise the alert. But instead of getting up, Magda turns over and burrows deeper into her covers.
"Hush, Skipper," she mumbles groggily. "Mama's sleeping."
I don't hush. I take a breath and bark some more. Then I take the sleeve of Magda's nightgown between my teeth, dig my paws into the mattress, and tug at it with all my might. Still, it's only when she hears the distant clatter of her treasured china cabinet being overturned that Magda awakens with a start.
"Wh-what's that? Is someone there?"
My brothers and sisters mill about, wagging nervously as Magda pulls on her slippers and reaches for the flashlight by her bed. She clicks it on and shuffles uncertainly into the hallway, and I follow closely at her heels.
The flashlight beam swings right, then left, then stops, spotlighting two of the intruders near the top of the stairs. The female, the one whose perfume smells like rotting flowers, freezes. The unwashed male doesn't. He flips his long, greasy hair out of his eyes and smiles. He then approaches Magda with steady, unhurried steps, strolling cooly as if it was his house and not hers.
Magda curtly shushes my rising growl. "Not now, Skipper. Stay behind me. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
"Don't you know, lady?" he says. His smile sharpens. "I'm the devil... and I'm here to collect your soul!"
Greasy Hair springs forward, and Magda clutches at her chest. She makes a strangled sound - half-yelp, half-whine, like a dog startled by an unexpected slap. It rises in her throat, before abruptly cutting short.
Usually when Magda falls down, she makes a noise right after. Most of the time it's laughter. Or soft words, in soothing tones, telling us there's no reason to be frightened. The last few times she fell, she made groans, and other pain-noises. This time, the only sound she makes is a loud thud as she hits the floor.
"Holy shit, dude! What the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing! I just wanted to scare her!"
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck."
I ignore Those Damned Kids and race to help Magda. I nose at her face, licking insistently at her cheeks and eyes.
Usually when I do this, she laughs. Then she kisses me on the head and tells me I'm a good boy.
This time, she does nothing. She doesn't react at all.
I wag anxiously and lick even harder.
No laughter. No kisses. No good boy.
I lower my nose and bump my head against her cheek, though I already know it's no good. Magda doesn't smell like Magda anymore.
I throw back my head and howl. A moment later, Petey joins me. Then Molly, and Noodles, and the rest. I howl until my breath gives out. Then I fill my lungs and howl again.
I'm cut off mid-cry and sent tumbling backwards by a foot that touches gentler than a kick, but rougher than a shove. I scramble back to my feet and find that Greasy Hair has stolen my place by Magda's side. He kneels over her, pawing at her clothes as if searching for a Snausage treat.
"Ew!" Rotting Perfume says. "Are you feeling that old lady up?"
"Don't be stupid," says Greasy Hair. "I'm seeing if she's got anything on her. You know, like jewelry or shit."
Rotting Perfume rolls her eyes. "You don't seriously think she's hiding a gold Rolex under her nightgown, do you? Look around, Gary. This place is a dump. I told you she wouldn't have anything worth taking." She tugs at Greasy Hair's shoulder, but he shrugs her off.
"This is so fucked up, you guys. We need to get the fuck out of here, like, now."
"Shut up, Daryl," Greasy Hair snaps. "What's the rush? Not like the bitch is getting any deader." He reaches out to pat Magda on the head. "You don't mind if I check you over, do you Meemaw?"
I growl, deep in my throat.
"Damn, Gary," Rotting Perfume says. "I don't think that little chihuahua likes you touching his old lady."
Greasy Hair rises and stands over me. "Oh shit, you're right. What's up, little dude? You jealous?"
"I-I-I'm not sure you should tease him like that," says Soup-Stench. His big round face stares up at us from the foot of the stairs, flickering in the flame of the little box he uses to light his cigarette. His hands are trembling, so it takes him several tries to get it to work right.
"Why, what's he gonna do about it?" Greasy Hair says. "I've had taco shits bigger than this little turd."
He leans down and smiles at me, the same way he smiled at Magda. It's not a nice smile and I don't like it. When his hand reaches towards me, his face changes. He looks just like Old Master.
"Isn't that right, you little fucker? Can you say, 'Yo Quiero -'"
I sink my teeth into his hand and bite down. Hard.
I hear loud noises. Lots of them. Greasy Hair screaming, his friends shouting, Petey whimpering, and my brothers and sisters barking, all of them clamoring at once. But it all becomes background noise when I find myself lifted off the ground. My feet scrabble wildly as I'm swung through the air, and I realize that Greasy Hair is trying to shake me loose.
So, I clamp down even harder.
I see red. Then I taste red.
The world turns topsy-turvy. I bounce off something hard, then something soft, then something hard again. Then I'm lying on the cool linoleum floor, feeling dazed. I stand up and shake myself to clear my head. I look for Greasy Hair and find him lying at the foot of the stairs - we must have tumbled down them when the world turned red.
In two bounds, I reach his arm and latch onto it, tossing my head side to side and snorting as I worry at it. I don't notice that he isn't moving, or that his neck is twisted at a funny angle, until Rotting Perfume starts screaming. It's not long before Soup-Stench is screaming too.
Rotting Perfume hurtles down the stairs, her legs churning just like my siblings' do when we hear Magda rattling the bag of pebbles. Only she doesn't know to skip over the loose stair tread three steps up from the bottom. Her screaming gives way to a high-pitched squeal as she goes flying. A moment later, she crashes to the ground next to Greasy Hair.
Petey unleashes an earsplitting battle-howl from the top of the stairs, then charges. Molly and Noodles are right behind him, with the rest of our pack in close pursuit.
Rotting Perfume barely manages to scramble up before they swarm her. One of her legs nearly buckles when she puts weight on it, so she hops on one foot, cursing and swatting as she's harried. My brothers and sisters easily dodge her clumsy swipes as they circle her, darting in pitilessly to snap at her ankles.
Rotting Perfume grabs hold of Magda's old grandfather clock in a desperate bid to steady herself, letting loose a surprised little yip when it gives way. My brothers and sisters all scatter as both Rotting Perfume and the clock topple to the ground, and I hear something inside her snap when the big heavy clock crashes down atop her. Then she makes a new pain-sound, louder and shriller than before. A high, keening wail, almost like a dog whose heart has been broken.
Almost.
Rotting Perfume screams and screams as she struggles to lift the broken clock, but either it's too big, or she's too weak. A few of my braver siblings pad up to sniff at her, while others sit and watch warily as she grunts and heaves at it. Her eyes dart desperately until they land on Soup-Stench, who stands frozen outside the kitchen.
"H-h-help me," she croaks, her bloodied hand trembling as it reaches out for Soup-Stench. "Daryl, please... I-I'm trapped. You've got to help me."
"Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck." Soup-Stench's eyes are wide as saucers. His quivering mouth hangs open, cigarette still dangling at the corner.
Rotting Perfume coughs, splattering blood onto Magda's nice clean floor. "Daryl... Daryl please. Please don't leave me, Daryl."
Soup-Stench flinches, like a dog too used to being hit. Then he turns his back and runs for the front door.
He's surprisingly quick, for a human.
Of course, I'm far, far quicker. He only makes it a few steps before I overtake him and sink my teeth into his ankle. He spins around and stumbles, pinwheeling his arms as he fights to remain upright. He's trying so hard not to fall that he doesn't notice that his cigarette has gone flying.
It lands on top a big stack of newspapers. Magda keeps lots of them around the house, in case we need them for potties. Every time The Nice Young Man From The Wheels On Meals visits Magda, he tells her that She Really Ought To Get Rid Of Those Newspaper Piles Because They're Far Too Dangerous To Keep In The House, using the same tone that Magda uses when she scolds one of us for doing a Naughty.
I never liked him talking to Magda that way, but it looks like he was right. About the newspapers, and the big dead pine tree Magda strings colorful lights on that sheds fragrant brown needles all year long. It starts burning right after the newspapers blaze up, and the flames spread to the curtains from there.
As the living room quickly fills with smoke and heat, my brothers and sisters turn their backs on Rotting Perfume and run for safety. She lays behind them, still trapped beneath Magda's grandfather clock, like a forgotten squeaky toy. It's difficult to see through the thick black smoke, but luckily their noses know the way. There's not a dog among us who couldn't find our doggy door in their sleep, if they had to.
The same can't be said for Soup-Stench. He staggers blindly into their path, his outstretched arms groping the empty air in front of him, unable to see that every step he takes leads him further away from safety. Bent over by a loud, hacking cough, he's taken off guard when my brothers and sisters run right around him.
Some of them bump against him as they fly past. Others change course to avoid him at the last second. A few run right between his legs. Petey is one of them. I've warned him a thousand times not to get tangled up underfoot around Magda. Now, I'm glad he never listens.
Soup-Stench trips over Petey, and they both yelp when Soup-Stench hits the floor. Petey hops to his feet, shakes himself, and decides that he's alright. Soup-Stench doesn't. He doesn't make any pain-sounds, but he doesn't get up, either. He just lies where he's fallen, crying softly to himself.
I feel bad for him, for a second. Until I remember Magda. Then I don't feel bad anymore. I crane my neck, straining to get one last look at her, but there's too much smoke upstairs to see. Even though I've already lost her, I feel like I'm losing her all over again.
When Magda found me, she made a promise. She promised I could stay with her for as long as I wanted.
Since then, all I've ever wanted is to be with Magda. To never leave her side again, no matter what.
I approach the stairs, intending to do exactly that. Petey whines, and I hesitate. My paw hovers, frozen in mid-air above that first step. I know what I want. But what would Magda want for me?
The flames roar loudly, like the howl of a dog far bigger and fiercer than me. But I have pretty good ears, so I can still hear Soup-Stench's muffled sobbing as Petey and I trot together towards the doggy door, side by side.
Then we slip outside, and all I hear are crickets chirping in the cool night air, and the faint wail of far-off sirens.
For Wall-e. My boy - gone but not forgotten.
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