The Rabid Dog

The first time the rabid dog attacked me I was nine years old. I was left alone under his care. He was old enough and mature enough it should have been no problem. How does one explain the sickness of another's mind when they don't truly understand it themselves? The question will plague me for life, a most permanent stain in my memory, the backs of my eyelids, and here where I write today. The wet t-shirt clung to my clammy skin, post water fight, one water bottle against the other. The laughter had faded, the bottles now empty in our hands. "I'm gonna go get changed" my squeaky voice rang. Turning down the hall the dog followed, "Hey, wait, I have a question." a hand stopped the door from closing. I turned to face him, to see the yellowed teeth, fluffy hair, pale skin. "Can I see your boobs?" the dog breathed out. Confusion evident on my face and my mouth spit out the words "What? No" I pushed the door but the dog pushed back. I pushed back harder. "Why not?" he questioned as he pushed back against the door, almost making it into the room. "Go ask someone else! I'm not doing it." The struggle proceeded back and forth, the hand reached inside the door grabbing for me, it was then I had the upper hand, the door smacked against his forearm, "Owe!" he shouted before recoiling his hand, the door bumping his wrist on the way out. That was the first time I locked my bedroom door. I broke a carnal rule of my household. At nine years old I broke my first rule.

Obviously the rabid dogs' first attack ruined the rest of the day. I had no idea what to think. Sure the dog had snarled and snapped and bared his teeth plenty of times in my life. I was used to it by now. But this was different, this felt sinister. I, at nine years old, had only just received "The Care And Keeping of You" book from my mother along with my first set of bras, of which I threw a tantrum over wearing, for I was not ready to grow up, especially before all of my friends. I still hadn't accepted the fact that there were small lumps of tissue growing on my chest, that they meant I was growing up and meant I was in danger more so than I already knew.

Still I put on dry clothes and after a long wait I exited my room into the unsettling tension of the house, nothing but silence and video game playing till my parents got home. It wasn't until that night when I requested my mom come to my room to tuck me in, that I decided to tell her. I mentioned I wanted to talk to her, not fully understanding yet how hard the words would be to say.

I stood on the bed and gave her a bear hug as I did every night. I plopped down against the springy mattress and asked for her to sit. A long pause passed before I found the strength to open my mouth. I didn't beat around the bush, the lump in my throat wouldn't let me. "Wyatt asked to see my breasts." I blurted out tears taking over as soon as I finished speaking. The comforting words of my mother are lost in my memory under the pool of tears I shed that night.

The rabid dogs' second attack came much later, Nine years later at eighteen I watched the dog enter the house on Christmas eve. The hunt he was on began simply and without much vigor. But slowly as the dog's frustration built ugly accusatory words and harsh statements began flying from his lips, directed at everyone but himself. By this time I hated the dog deeply and was tired of his attacks. I raised my voice to match his only for his words to become like glass shards on thin skin. Still I persisted. I was going to win. I was going to put the dog in his place. I followed the dog to his room much like he had done to me nine years earlier. The door slammed in my face with a boom, I was not deterred still. My fists began beating against the solid wood door. The words spewing from my mouth a desperate attempt to cut him deeper than he had me with the word "Cunt".

Without warning the door flew open and my shoulders met the wall behind me, the picture frames dug into my back from the eczema ridden hands that assaulted me were then shoving me to the ground. I pushed against the force and found my footing, I ran down the hallway and only turned to look back once I made it to the kitchen. When I looked back into the dark hallway the dog had already retreated to his sanctuary. It's strange looking back on this exact moment; I see it in third person, an out of body experience every time these memories invade my mind. My dad scolded me for enticing the rabid dog. I argue back."I'm just supposed to let him treat me like shit?" After a meaningless exchange of words I found myself in my room, then in my bathroom, pressing my ear to the door. listening for the rabid dog, trying to decipher what would happen next. What I heard were cries. "Please don't, please stop, don't do this, why,?" The girlfriend's words struck a new wave of fear in me. I went to my dad. "You have to do something. I think he's beating her there." my dad didn't respond. "You have to do something," I pressed.

My dad was very much himself about taking his time strolling to the door that led to the rabid dogs den. He knocked softly and requested the door to be opened. To my surprise the door opened and my dad was allowed to step inside. Only what he saw was not what was expected, but quite the opposite, the girlfriend opened the door to reveal the dog on the floor, pressing a gun under his chin, tears rolling down his face, threatening, quivering words, coming out in choppy sentences. This was a sight no father wanted to see and the effects of the image are unknown to this day. Still the dog was talked off the ledge and the door was closed back until my mom arrived home. Everyone but the dog had awaited her arrival, her wealth of knowledge must help us in this situation, it was the only hope.

My anger built again, when her soft knock hit the door, her sweet voice spoke his name and requested to talk and his response was threat of death, the gun at the door, waiting to fire. Many more threats were uttered that night. I heard them through the walls. "I'll fucking kill that cunt" "I'll slash her fucking tires". Christmas morning came and not much else did of the previous night's events. Although I did sleep with my door locked and rushed out in the morning to make sure my tires hadn't been slashed on my car. What caused this you may ask? Yes, that's right, I never got around to explaining what caused the rabid dogs to attack this time. A missing Christmas present, worth ten dollars. A ten dollar Funko Pop figure for the rabid dogs girlfriend; this item still has not been found to this day.

The rabid dog soon moved out but his episodes still remained a common thread in the house. Like in 2019 when Alabama lost to Auburn in the iron bowl. I stayed in my room the entire day to avoid the rabid dog. I starved and stayed quiet trying my best to go unnoticed. I didn't come out of my room till the rabid dog snarled and showed his teeth with ugly words and a storm out the door. He left the house, left his girlfriend at the house too, he texted while he drove and said he was going to kill himself. Problem was he had done this so many times it was hard to believe it. Though I did hope every time the threat was spoken that that time would be the time. The time everyone would be put out of their misery for once and for all. To no avail this was not the time. My parents and his girlfriend chased him to Pensacola and begged and pleaded for him not to do the one thing I believed he never really planned to do. And the next day; we all went on like none of it ever happened.

Yes every time the rabid dog attacks there is never any punishment, or retribution, not even a scolding "bad dog!" No it is simply swept under the rug and forgotten about like a hazardous dust bunny. Every time something happens that causes the rabid dog to fly off the handle and he says "I'm going to kill myself!" He is treated like a newborn baby. Oh how I wish I could get the same attention from such an empty threat.