The Dog

What I Was Told

When I was old enough to understand, my parents had decided to tell me the truth as to where I came from. If only I hadn't got in trouble that day then maybe the conversation could had been avoided. I was always a problem child, constantly getting in fights and somehow finding ways to hurt myself and those around me even when I had the best intentions. Nonetheless I still ended creating all sorts of messes. After throwing a tantrum during my seemingly daily scoldings, my father grabbed me by the arm and looked at me with a firm yet sympathetic expression. He told me to take a seat and listen well to what he and my mother were to say.

As I sat on the edge of the chair, I began to grow concerned. I was only eight at the time and hadn't quite grasped the knowledge of right and wrong. Still in my gut I was sure something serious was to occur. My father was always a stern man. He had a rather chiseled face and his facial hair complimented that attribute. His light brown hair and calm green eyes always assured everyone he was a man to be trusted. He began to share with me a tale of when I was just an infant. Believing he was going to inform me of some embarrassing act I had committed while a baby, I started to second guess my concerns. Perhaps I was just overreacting.

"Braun," he speaks with a concerned tone, "you are not of our blood, son. Do not fret. This does not mean you are not our child."

Immediately I catch on, "are you saying I'm adopted?"

"No, my child. If I am going to be honest with you today I must tell you that you are not adopted." My father sat down beside me, taking my small hand in his. "The day you came into our world was our most blessed day."

I catch the glint of remembrance in his far away gaze as he recalls the events that had occurred years prior. With a sigh, Father continues, "Your ma and I were coming back from Sherann through the back roads of the Trank Forest, hoping to avoid confrontation with the bandits. During our journey we were greeted by the cries of a baby deep in the woods. Your mother insisted we investigate despite my concerns to return home quickly and safely."

I interrupt his confession with a small shout of protest. "You found me in the forest! Is this suppose to be some kind of joke, Father?" Offended by the root of my origin, I take my frustrations out on him in the form of tantrums I've thrown many times before. "I'm just a throw away child!"

My father silences my cries with a gentle grip of my shoulder. "No, my boy," he explains, "you are so much more than that. When we found you were bundled in the finest fabric we had ever witnessed. There was also there some men he laid next to you covered in blood, it looked like he died trying to protect your from someone or something. All the information we found from him was a parchment with what looked like a dog drawn on it. You were just a poor child who needed care. Your ma worried for your safety as you were covered in dirt and blood, we couldn't leave you alone in the forest"

He let out a heavy sigh as if the story was nowhere near its end. "That evening after we had arrived home, we further inspected you to make sure everything with you was well," with a troubled look he continues, "as we removed the wrappings we immediately noticed what appeared to be a horrifying disease. We became very concerned, noticing how it had consumed your right hand completely leading to a small part of your chest. Every vein from that part of your body was even darker than the wrappings we found you in."

Desperate for this nightmare to end, I demanded answers, "Please just tell me, am I sick? Or am I some kind of monster?" I looked down at my hand before continuing, "and why isn't my hand as you said it was now?"

"My boy," my father says, taking my mother's hand and drawing my attention to her. She was very quiet the whole time as she was never one to speak much. She usually allowed her hazel eyes to talk for her. Those beautiful eyes would reflect on her kind soul, instantly granting you knowledge of her intentions. "At the time those thoughts did cross our minds," he said, "and we were sure that keeping you would have sent us to the stake. But these doubts soon came to ease as we both looked down on you. We know not where you hailed from nor who your birth parents were. What we do know is you would not have survived a second time alone in the world. From that day on we chose to keep you as our kin."

He looked up at me, his eyes soft and mirroring the expression of my mother's. If his words did not convey how they truly felt then certainly their loving gaze did. After a moment of silence, my father spoke again.

"No matter what may occur you will always be our son."