"Brutus The Brute:"

I have a clear memory of my childhood pet that will stay with me always, etched on my heart, and forever endearing me to dogs, especially certain empathetic breeds. But, this particular day is even more memorable than the night he first arrived in our home and scared the bejeesus out of my little sister, me, and even my mom. All we noticed were his large size, sharp teeth, and ferocious bark; It was far too soon for us to know his golden heart, unbreakable loyalty, and gentle nature. Of course, had we bothered to notice his tail wagging the entire first meeting, we may have gleaned that we were safe with this stranger-canine, as my father continued to insist. But, instead, all we saw was danger when we looked at this dog, and hearing his name, Brutus, did not help matters one bit. My mother waited in the hallway, admonishing, “John, John,” as Dad fed “Brutus the Brute,” and my sister and I stood on our orange and yellow kitchen dinette, shrieking. But, that was the beginning, before we got to be such good friends.

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My bedroom door opened, although no one turned the knob. Suddenly, a dark blur streaked in, startling me out of my fugue. Through tear-stained eyes, I recognized my beloved black lab right before he jumped up to join me on the bed. He sat close by my thigh, whimpered quietly, and held out his paw as if on command. I wiped a tear, and, with a half-smile I could not hide, shook it like we were exchanging introductions.

“How do you do,” I joked half-heartedly.

He howled softly in response then dropped his paw to my thigh. I couldn’t help but melt inside when his head followed suit, resting on the upper part of my leg, as he looked up at me with those gentle brown eyes of his. It’s almost as if he knows, I muse, as Brutus goes back to making low, broken sounds.

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The walls around me at my Godmother’s house had been closing in on me. There was something in the air suffocating me, and I couldn’t—or possibly wouldn’t—put my finger on it. So instead, I cowered in my older cousin’s room, surrounded by pink wallpaper, Donny and Marie Osmond dolls, and the comfort of her oversized pillows on the bed upon which I sat in wait.

I didn’t have long—the soft knock on the door sounded like a crashing bang in my heart. I wanted to yell, “GO AWAY,” but I would never speak to my Godmother like that, not even at that moment. I wanted to let her in, if only for one of her hugs. I just didn’t want her to talk. Yet, talk she did. Sitting next to me on the bed, she didn’t miss a beat before saying softly, her arms wrapping around me before the words were out of her mouth,

“Baby Girl, your daddy is gone, sugar.”

I could not help myself—I dissolved into her arms as the tears cascaded down to both of our shoulders as I audibly wept. We knew this was coming--Daddy even knew—why are you carrying on like this? I admonished myself as Godmother stroked my back and crooned, “It’s okay, let it all out. You cry for your daddy, cry for yourself.”

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Holding Brutus, I shook my head as it were possible to jiggle the all-too-recent memory from my mind--If only! If only I had not heard those fateful words "your daddy is gone"... If only there were no such thing as colon cancer...If only Daddy were still here, making jokes and holding our family together. Brutus' cries distracted me a moment as I eased my embrace, fearing that I was hurting him. He moved closer to me on my lap and whined louder. Only then did I recognize the sobs coming from my own lips. We cuddled together in my childhood bed, crying and mourning together.