The Doggie Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door!

Beyond that, the little boy can do as he pleases.

That only ever means pacing or chewing.

Sometimes he gets lost in thought and imagines voices— other children— right outside the door: whispering that everything will be alright.

But no.

His world is gray concrete, interrupted only by visits from the woman.

She tells him to call her momma.

He hears the kids on the other side begging him to just say it.

And he does, because she has trained him well.

…. He doesn’t want to lick his food off the cold floor anymore.

He likes the metal bowls, for his water and kibble.

Sometimes she scratches behind his ears and gives him some rawhide or a bone to chew.

But other times she whips him.

Sometimes he understands why… usually he has no clue, so he retreats into his memories.

He had a real momma once. He can hardly picture her face anymore, but he still remembers feeling safe.

The other kids promise: his real momma still loves him and he will see her again.

But he will not try the door, because he knows what happens to little doggies who make the big no-no.

He has seen the pictures, which the woman keeps so proudly.

Boys like him, with their eyes caved in, their faces bruised and leaking.

… When she showed him, he whimpered and promised to be good.

Then one day: the woman drops buckets of water and slop in his corner.

She locks the door, tests it twice.

Later the boy sees little shadows outside the door. He hears their voices: “now’s the time— don’t be afraid!”

Then the lock clicks and the door creaks open and all is silent, except for his heart.