Unconditionally

UNCONDITIONALLY

Growing up without any pets was difficult for us. My dad, a severe asthmatic, never entertained the idea. We had a budgie once, but I was much too young to remember. From what my mother told me, the feathers nearly killed him. Strange, he smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes a day and used his inhaler like a second lung, but in the end, that’s not what killed him. However, I must apologize … I’ve gotten off track here. Let me begin again, but properly this time...

~ * ~

It was a warm summer day in the playground when she found my twin sister and I. Black as freshly mined coal, she looked like a mixture of Labrador, German Shepard, and who knew what else. She had the largest, kindest, chocolate brown eyes I’d ever seen, like Hershey Kisses melting in the sun. I swung on that old, creaky swing when she came running full tilt toward me, her rough, dirty fur brushing against my hand so I would stop and pet her. Laying her head down upon my lap, she waited patiently and I ... I couldn’t resist. I scratched behind her ears, and ran my hand lovingly down her muzzle. Oh, then I did the unthinkable. Wrapping my tiny, scrawny arms around her large bristly body, caring not for the fleas she might have, I hugged her, feeling the skinny bones beneath taunt muscles.

I was seven years old the first time I fell in love.

She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Now, I adore all forms of animals, but as things would have it, I inherited my father’s allergies to animals. It made no difference to me then, sitting in the playground with her and my sister. All afternoon we played tag, tug-o-war and catch the stick. There seemed to be no end to this dog’s boundless energy.

Making our way home for dinner, my sister and I tried our best to come up with devious ways to keep her for our very own. We thought of stealing food and feeding her at the back door but no--mom would see. We thought about sneaking her into the basement--but dad would find out.

Too young to be truly devious and cunning, we were determined to think of a way to keep our newfound friend. As this black ball of matted fur faithfully trailed us home, my older brother whistled to us from the baseball diamond across the street. As we neared him, the dog sprinted into his open arms, almost as if she knew him. Bending down to pet her, I could hear my brother's whispered words of love and affection. My sister and I watched as this stray ball of fur reduced our mean, older brother to a snivelling wimp. We couldn’t have loved her more. Our brother then told us she had been playing baseball with him all morning. We didn’t think this weird; that she would first seek out our brother and then us. Our only thought was that it was too cool she sought us out at all.

Now, all three of us sat down to come up with some kind of plan to keep her. The only solution we reached was to confront dad. We would promise to keep her chained outside, and all of us would clean up after her. We would feed her, brush her, walk her--and most importantly--love her. A united front from all of us just might work.

Well, we begged, I cried, my brother pouted, and my sister threw a tantrum. What sealed the strange dog's fate that day was not any of our antics--no--it was our little brother. At only four years old, he was severely mentally retarded and our lives always followed behind his; we lived for him, through him and around him. All animals, large or small, scared him, making him scream in terror. We all watched in awe as this large, black, whiskered animal walked ever so slowly up to him. She cocked her head to the side as if trying to understand and then, gently licked his face. He didn't scream, as he usually did; instead, he giggled.

Maybe this was the reason dad allowed her stay in the basement for those few precious days we had her. He told us it was to help find her owners. I figured our dad sensed his children needed a pet.

~ * ~

As dysfunctional as our family was, today I find I must begrudgingly admit that he did attempt to do the right thing.

~ * ~

Absolutely overjoyed over dad's decision, we three kids rushed around, making room for our new family member, but foremost, we called her 'Queenie'. That night, dad put her in the basement because we had no chain or proper rope to tie her up outside. The shrill sounds of whining and howls, and the occasional scratching at the basement door interrupted our sleep. No one slept too much that night, but for us it was more excitement than annoyance.

The next morning, mom found all three of us playing in the backyard. Her face looked sad and I asked her why. She told me it was the first time she'd ever seen her three children playing nicely together. We brought out our little brother to share the experience, too. Life seemed better with Queenie in it.

Several days later, my dad announced we were going away on holidays for a few weeks to visit family who lived far away. As we packed up the car, all three of us secretly ensured a space was kept for Queenie. She followed doggedly at our heels, joyfully nipping, barking and running amuck between our legs. She, too, sensed the excitement of a trip. As we packed ourselves into the car, Queenie sat on the front step, looking puzzled, but patiently waiting. She was not the only one. I held my breath as dad moved behind the wheel of the car. I asked, in a scared, quiet voice that monumental question plaguing all of our thoughts. "What about Queenie?"

All three of us sat anxiously waiting for dad's answer.

"There’s no room for Queenie. She’ll just have to find her own way home."

The words from his mouth stung worse than a slap. All of us erupted into cries of protest, but to no avail. The car backed out of the driveway with Queenie’s mocha eyes following our every move. With my face glued to the car window, her eyes delved into my soul as we pulled away. I choked back sobs that I couldn't hide. As we drove out of sight, I vowed I would never to forget the look in Queenie's eyes--sadness, loneliness ... desertion.

We arrived back home two weeks later, and the car hadn’t even stopped before I jumped out and began frantically calling out her name. Queenie was gone and she never did come back.

~ * ~

I’ve often thought how sad it was to have a dad so callous and cruel, but there was always some hidden agenda with him, a hard knock lesson to life, so to speak. To this day, however, I find myself wondering what lesson I learned from my dad's act of desertion; but more importantly, what lesson did Queenie learn?

I loved my Dad ... unconditionally.