Girl in the Dark

Girl in the Dark

This story is based on my experiences with my beloved pug Tres.  

I think I've captured the essence of pugs in this story.  Enjoy!

 

          I remember the last time I saw her.  I had carried my last bag to the car, and Dad was waiting in the driver’s seat.  I could see by his stare and the deep wrinkles on his forehead that he was getting impatient.  Zoe came running up to me and smacked her butt down on my shoe.  I attempted to lift my foot, but she held her legs protectively over it.  I kneeled in front of her.

            “I’ll be back to visit on Thanksgiving, Zoe,” I told her, “And I’ll bring you something nice.  I promise.”

            Zoe looked up at me with sad eyes.  I felt my throat tightening and tried to swallow.  Zoe might not have minded my being an emotional wreck, but it would annoy Dad.  He was not the type to tolerate anything getting in the way of his routine.

            I lifted Zoe off my shoe and scratched her favorite spot on her belly, between her fifth and sixth teats, kissing her head.  “I know you’ve never been apart for me for more than four days,” I whispered.  She cocked her head and made a whining sound.  I stood up and edged backward towards the front door.  Zoe flopped on her back and shone her wide brown eyes in my direction.  Fighting all my instincts, I slammed the front door and turned away, hurrying to the garage to join Dad.

            “Great, let’s go,” he grunted, turning on the ignition.

            I sat beside him and began lecturing him as he backed out of the driveway.  “…Remember that she really needs eye drops once a day; otherwise she gets all this goop under her eyes.  And since you hate vacuuming, you should try to comb her daily too… her hairs attach to everything if you don’t…”

            “I can handle a dog.  I had three before you were born,” Dad snapped.  I thought he would cry as we left the house, but his eyes were dry.  He knew that my toughest goodbye had already occurred.

            I fell silent, and neither of us spoke the rest of the way to college.

            I called home twice during orientation week, and everything was fine.  Zoe was perturbed, of course.  Each time my name was mentioned, she began crying, running in circles, and standing watch at the doorway.  Dad said she refused to eat for a day, but she gave in when he offered her a piece of cheese.  She curled up on my bed every night and could not be pulled out.  Dad asked me questions, like how was my roommate, and did I think the food was as lousy as my advisor said.  I told him each superficial detail, envisioning Zoe listening, as she always did.  I knew that Dad would neglect to clean her wrinkles and walk her a quarter mile a day; I could not really blame him.  He worked nights and supported me alone. 

            Then I called Friday evening, after the first week of classes.  Dad answered the phone on the third ring, and his “Hello?” sounded a bit frazzled.

            “Hey Dad, it’s me.”

            “Oh.  I can’t talk now, I’m busy with… things.  Want to call me tomorrow?”

            “Uh… sure.”  I hung up and stared at the phone, puzzled.  Dad was always willing to talk, even if he was on his way out the door.

            He called me two hours later, at ten o’ clock.  “Hey, Lizzie.  I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you earlier.  “I didn’t want to give you bad news before I was sure.  But now… I’m pretty sure.”  I felt a buzzing in my head.  “Honey… Zoe’s gone.”

            I did not want to hear the rest, but Dad went on, “I was watching the video of your high school graduation on my computer.  Zoe heard your voice and came running.  She was really upset when she couldn’t find you.  For the rest of the day, she lay on the carpet, looking depressed.  When I took her out that evening, she just ran off into the woods.  It was starting to get dark, so I looked for her right away instead of giving her time to play.  But she didn’t answer me.  I never saw or heard her again… she just disappeared.  I just came in from looking for her.  I just… she’s been… I’m sorry, Lizzie.”

            My voice cracked, but I ignored it.  “Are you going to leave the door open for her, in case?”

            “Sure, I’ll leave the garage open.  But Lizzie… I just don’t want you to let this distract you from your classes.  I told you because you’ve never let things affect your work before.  Like when Mom passed away…”

            “This isn’t a death, Dad!” I yelled at the phone.  “Just leave the door open for her and look more when you have time!  I trusted you!”

            Slamming the phone down, I got into bed.  The pillow muffled my sobs, but my roommate sensed the unusual silence when she came in an hour later.  “Is everything okay?” she asked, and I replied with a grunt.

            We got Zoe three years ago, when Mom was sick.  Dad intended to keep her as a companion for Mom, to keep her happy.  He wanted to pick out a flawless, well-bred French bulldog from his friend’s pug’s litter, but Mom insisted that we go to the county pound.

            We walked by an energetic beagle, who hopped several feet in the air as we passed.  The next cage was a dachshund with droopy ears and a tail that wagged pathetically.  Mom stopped to coo at him, and I kept moving forward.  After passing a woolly golden retriever mix, a ratty looking chihuahua mix, and a cocker spaniel, I stopped at the last cage in the hallway. 

            A fat pug as black as coal and plump as a ripe grape perked up when I arrived.  She gazed at me sadly, and I had the strongest urge ever to break open the cage and let her out.  As I watched her, she stood up and waddled to the cage bars, leaping up with surprising agility for her size.  I stuck a hand through the bars and she rested her chin on my fingers.  I got up close to her so I could see her face, which was shadowy in the dark.

            Her forehead had deep wrinkles that seemed to form the letter Z.  Her nose was smooshed up like someone had punched it into her eyes.  Her little red tongue poked out of her mouth, and she had a golden stripe that began between her velvet ears and extended to her curly little tail.  I knew I was in love.

            “Mom!  Dad!” I called, not moving from the spot.  “I’ve found a really nice one!”

            Dad arrived first, telling Mom how the dachshund might have been a mutt, and glared at the pug.  “I don’t think so, Lizzie.  Mom doesn’t want a pug.  Her friend told her they’re unhealthy, shed a lot, and get fat easily…”

            “Let’s see,” Mom said, walking up to the cage.  She smiled at the sight of the pug leaning against the bars, trying to poke me with her paw.  “I don’t know, Rob.  This dog seems really friendly.  She likes Lizzie, anyway.”  She put her hand in front of the pug’s face.  The pug sniffed it eagerly, but then edged towards me.

            Mom laughed.  “I don’t think we can tell Lizzie no, Rob.  She and this pug look completely fixated.  There are no French bulldogs here anyway.”

            Dad sputtered, “But my friend…”

            “Your friend doesn’t treat his dogs well, and I’m not paying him hundreds of dollars for a dog just because its parents are supposedly attractive for that breed!  No, this pug seems really nice.  Let’s take it to the playroom and make sure.”

            As if to spite Dad’s protests, the pug approached him in the playroom and sat on his lap.  Dad patted her head, which made her close her eyes and look content.  After a moment, she strolled over to Mom and flopped on her back.  Mom giggled and scratched her, and the pug’s eyes rolled back so only the whites showed.  “She looks like a zombie,” Dad commented.

            Finally, I snatched the pug and put her on my lap.  She snuggled against my belly and was snoring within fifteen seconds.  Mom gazed at her dreamily, and Dad nodded his consent.  I smiled and scratched the pug’s chin.  She was ours!  As Dad stood up to fill out the paperwork, the pug began making squeaking sounds, and her belly began literally popping like popcorn in a microwave.  Mom and I stared at each other in puzzlement, but when the noises stopped, she shrugged and got up to join Dad. 

            Because of the Z on her forehead, I announced on the car ride home that she should be called Zoe, after my favorite fat cartoon character.  My parents agreed, and Zoe stood up on my lap, digging her claws into my legs out of nervousness.  She stood on guard all the way home.

            I know I am rash.  But Dad cannot expect any other reaction from me.  Zoe is my baby.  I love her.  So of course I will search for her until I find her.

            On my way home (by taxi—another reason Dad will be more than angry), I stop at the pound we bought her from.  I slip a quick note under the door: Zoe the pug is lost.  She’s wearing identification and is micro-chipped.  If anyone brings her in, please let us know as soon as possible!  Lizzie Kalev.

            I do not bother going inside when I get home.  I brought a flashlight, and that is all I will need.  A cell phone will only enable Dad to annoy me.  I am used to walking in the woods at night; the animal cries and darkness do not bother me.  Tonight though, I feel my legs shaking.  I feel like every cry could be a predator pursuing Zoe, who can sprint but not run far.  Every movement in the dark could be Zoe, mortally wounded and searching desperately for me.

            Marching purposefully into the thick brush, I scream her name into the icy cold night.  “Zoe!  Zoe, come out!”  I hear nothing but crickets and night birds responding.  I move faster, knowing that Dad probably heard and will follow me.  I do not want him involved; he can sleep after a hard week at work.  This is my affair.

            My flashlight dimly shines on lumpy tree roots and tall grass.  Zoe could be lying anywhere, and I could miss her.  I shout again.  “Zoe!”

            I see a light flick on behind me at the edge of the woods.  Dad must be coming out.  My fingers are going numb fast; it is a frosty cold night.  I begin to run deeper into the woods, knowing that Zoe could be more than a mile deep by now.  “Zoe!  Zoe!”

            I can vaguely hear Dad’s voice hollering my name in back of me.  I charge deeper into the woods, thinking of her sweet wide eyes and rotten fish kisses.  I do not know why I left her in Dad’s care when he always detested her.  “Zoe!”

            I hear a brushing noise to my left and change direction.  My left hand holding the flashlight is growing cold, so I switch to my right, placing my left in my coat pocket.  I flick my arm around, shining the flashlight towards the noise.  I see nothing but grass and dead leaves, but make sure to light up every inch of the ground. 

            Zoe is my inspiration.  I knew that living at college was a bad idea.  It is only a half hour drive, and I told Dad I would live at home.  He told me that immersion would help me adjust to living away from home eventually.  Immersion into what?  All I could think of was home!

            I feel out of breath; the icy air feels like it is freezing my upper nose shut.  Nothing clogs the nostril openings, but I cannot breathe through them.  I think I hear footsteps tromping leaves behind me, but maybe it is in my head.

            I continue calling her name, my voice shrieking at a pitch it never has reached.  I hear a strange echo and follow the sound.  There is a small cave ahead.  Shining my flashlight in, I call, “Zoe?”  The response is abrupt: a loud groaning sound that could only come from my worst fear in these woods: a bear.

            I turn around sharply and clumsily, bashing the flashlight against a tree.  It snaps off and flies out of my hands like a grasshopper, landing with a soft crunch in some wet leaves.  The groaning sound echoes from the cave again, and I sprint away blindly.

            I can only slightly make out the silhouettes of trees as I run back the direction I came from.  Zoe is probably facing the same cold and beasts as I am, and that does not make me feel any better.  My foot suddenly sloshes through a gloppy puddle.  There was no water or mud on the way out here.  My feet splash through a few inches of liquid.

            I continue running, only slightly aware of the splashes growing increasingly loud.  My shoes suddenly soak through and become icy weights.  I feel the veins in my head throbbing; I am not used to running like this. 

            I stop to get my bearings.  I no longer hear any chirping or groaning—just the rush of water running over my feet and tickling my ankles.  I glance around.  Nothing but trees surrounds me.  Thickening clouds are blocking out any starlight, and real fear suddenly clenches my stomach and sparks a wave of nausea.  I am lost in the dark.

            I spin around wildly.  The absence of friendly sounds makes my ears ring eerily.  The cold wind swirling around me gives the sensation of being sucked into a black hole.  I decide to change my direction by ninety degrees. 

            As I wade through the water, my brain tells me I am wrong before my legs act.  Suddenly, I am waist-deep in a strong current!  I scream and grab in the air feebly, but my numb fingers feel nothing but space.  I feel myself being sucked at high speed towards deeper water, or perhaps a waterfall.  I kick out hard and try to grab lower.

            This time I snatch a thick, low-reaching tree branch.  The water angrily yanks me feet forward, but I cling on grimly.  Slowly, I pull myself upwards.  Every muscle in my body is either throbbing in pain or numb from the cold.  But I know I have to pull out of the grip of the water.  My knees are out; now my feet are out.  I feel my pants dripping water into the current, a tiny trickle.  I thrash my legs around, trying to find dry land to rest them.  When I feel none, I yank myself onto the tree limb.  I feel a jab against my eyes, and a throbbing in my head.  I tumble back and nearly fall off the tree limb.  Holding a hand to my face, I feel wetness on my cheeks.  Trying to ignore it, I stretch my feet down towards the ground.  Again I lose my balance and tumble down a couple feet, but I hit slightly damp grass.  I lie on my back and think about Zoe.  My eyes, arms, and legs’ stinging feels unimportant.

            I try to stay awake, but every muscle is weak.  I need to rest before I can venture out again.  Perhaps I should wait until morning when it is light.  I lie still for a bit, struggling to stay awake, somewhere in the state of half-consciousness.

            After what seems like an hour, I think I hear a human voice calling from a distance.  I yell feebly.  I know that Dad is the only one who could be out looking for me, but for some reason, I holler my pug’s name.  “Zoe!”

            “Lizzie!” 

I hear footsteps crunching and splashing, and shriek, “Don’t step in the water, it’s too deep!”  Only then do I allow myself to give in: the sounds of water slowly fade.

           

            Aching.  Warm fluff.  Something tight wrapped around my head.  I moan as these sensations bring me into consciousness.  I cannot see.  At least I am warm.

            “Dad?” I ask. 

            I hear his voice from just above me; the comforting ring makes the room feel warmer.  “Lizzie, can you hear me?”

            “Yeah, but I can’t see you.”

            “I know.”  Dad is silent.  I hear the heater.

            “Dad, where are we?”

            “You’re in bed in your room, honey.”

            “I couldn’t find Zoe.”

            Dad says, “That… that dog’s all you care about?”

            “Well, she’s why I came back.”

            “Your eyes, Lizzie.  Aren’t you concerned about your eyes?”

            “What about them?”

            “They’re a mess, Lizzie!  I called an ambulance.  They’re on their way.  I had to wrap a cloth around your head to keep your eyes in your head!”  He is yelling.

            “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

            “Why are you apologizing to me?  They’re your eyes!”

            “I know I shouldn’t have come.  I was just worried.”

            Dad makes a strange noise with his teeth.  “I know.”  He seems to be considering something.  “I guess I might as well make you feel better.  You can’t bring her to the hospital, though.”  I hear him open the door, and swift little footsteps patter across the floor!

            I hear the clinking of her tags and her tiny crying sounds as she leaps onto the bed.  “Zoe!”  I hug her tight and smell her rancid breath.  I can feel her smooshy mask and soft fur; she seems to be unharmed.  “Where’d you find her?”

            “She must have wandered back inside while I was looking for her.  She was under your bed,” Dad says slowly.

            “Well, that’s great!  Was there anything wrong with her?”

            “Nothing.”  I can hear the irony dripping from Dad’s tone.

            “Well, now we’re all together again.  The way it was,” I say.

            Dad mutters, “For a bit.  After they have a look at your eyes, you should head back to school.  Even if… there’s permanent damage.  There are ways to function nowadays.”

            I laugh.  “Don’t be silly, Dad.  I can’t go back to school now.”  Zoe tries to walk towards my feet, but I pull her back. 

“Lizzie…” Dad starts to say something, but then stops.  Then he stomps out of the room and slams the door behind him. 

            A few seconds later, I hear the wail of a siren approaching.  Holding Zoe in the corner of my arm, I push myself up and out of bed.  It is not difficult to find the door and open it.  As I walk down the hallway, Zoe squeaks in alarm.  I bump a small table and it tips over, slamming and shattering an object on top of it.  Zoe leaps out of my hands and skitters away.  After feeling around for a full minute, I reach the front door.  “Lizzie!” Dad calls from the kitchen.

            “I’m fine, Dad!” I call.  And I am.  I open the door and step boldly outside to meet the waiting ambulance.