And Then It Rained
Our family’s first dog was a black Labrador Retriever, and when we bought him, he was only a few months old. He was a dark color, charcoal, and small enough to hold with one arm. His eyes were the color of chocolate milk, and when I was younger, I used to think it was because he drank too much of it as a puppy. His top coat of fur was short and kempt which framed him well, and allowed him to stay warm through the winter.
We called him Chase. He loved to play more than he loved to eat, and though my mother—whose name is Mary-Lynn—was never fond of throwing a wet tennis ball, I enjoyed throwing the ball around and seeing his ears flop as he’d dash across the yard, stumbling when he tried to stop himself. After all, it was how he got his name.
“Chase, go chase!” I said.
I had wanted a dog since I was eight. I saw a Purina One commercial featuring a Golden Retriever plodding its way in front of a family that sat on a sofa watching television. The parents had large smiles, a young boy between them, and the pup lay down at their feet. They laughed as the remote was found under the boy’s cushion.
A dog, a young jubilant Golden Retriever—that I assumed would act the same as the dog on the television—would make me joyful just the same. It would remain peppy, innocent, and ignorant with a flapping, flicking tongue as it hung wet and stupid in the air.
Chase proved to be a far more problematic pet than I’d imagined though.
It began when I asked Lynn for a dog.
“Why not,” she said. “I’ll ask your father.”
David—who was not my father, but a man she met when I was five whom she liked to call my father—said no. A week passed, she asked David again.
Then, David said yes. In response, she stomped her feet, fell silent when he entered rooms, and rolled her eyes whenever he spoke that day. I envied David.
I asked it be a Golden retriever.
“We’ll take a look around and see what we can find,” Lynn said. David’s answer was yes, and he was ignored by my mother.
Two silent days passed of my mother’s brooding. David found me in my room writing an English essay and slipped his head between the door and its post. He remained there as he spoke—a bodyless fool.
“Hey, Millie, don’t want to bother you. Your mom and I found a black lab that’s more our vibe,” he said. “Door open or closed?”
“Closed.” I said, and then it was.
The next morning, Lynn made him coffee: two sugars, four creams, extra caramel. Extra sweet, just like you, she said to him.
In eight years, Chase tripled in size. The fur at the end of his snout had grown whiter, the whiskers on his muzzle were longer, and they were congregating closer toward the nose. He had gained quite a lot of muscle in his legs, though it was countered by a bad hip—not unusual for a dog of eight years. I also had a new half-sibling: five-year-old bouncing baby Joel. The mistake never corrected.
Lynn and David’s reckless behavior birthed the young blond boy who enjoyed screaming, pissing, and riding the tricycle – the last of which he was allowed to do freely as long as he stayed in his mother’s line of sight. He was the gift nobody needed, with a distinct and infallible no-return policy.
In those years, he had probably gained over fifty pounds (much like Chase) which had fitted him nicely, seeming only slightly overweight. Sometimes, however, it seemed David wanted to change that, as he often snuck pieces of fried-chicken and apple slices onto Joel’s plate and under the table for Chase.
“Keeps the boys fed,” David would say with a grin.
With Joel, though, came new and unwelcomed struggles. We fought over who would cut the grass, do the dishes, watch Joel, etc.
At the time, Lynn was returning from her work at Dinah’s Diner. Joel sat on the couch watching Looney Tunes with his chubby legs tucked under him, “crisscross apple sauce” as he was taught, and I lay on the tussock carpet below tugging at one end of a knotted rope which Chase clung to with his teeth. I shook it this way and that, his head following, the two moving as one. He was transfixed by its motion, but his attention was stolen as the front door flung open.
Lynn came in looking a little wiped. Her armpits were damp with the dark, sweaty circles of manual labor, her eyes were red and fatigued, and her hair was wiry from the steam that often flooded out the kitchen doors of the diner. She went to put her hair in a pony-tail as she stepped in, leaving her exhaustion at the door with a sigh.
Chase dropped the rope and I went searching for another toy to capture his interest. I grabbed the big green ring that rested off to my left, and squeaked it to tease him and get him to look at me again. It worked and he breathed heavily, smelling the new thing. Like the rope, I tugged and tugged, his teeth setting tightly around the curious noise-maker. All the while, I felt Lynn glaring at us from above.
“What about this one?” I said. “Come on. Want it?”
“Let Joel have a turn,” my mother said.
“He doesn’t want to. He’s watching something.”
“You didn’t ask him.”
I let the words pass as I went on tugging the toy, squeezing it and feeling Chase jerk himself backwards trying to break my grip.
“Millie!” She said. I said nothing.
She came over and took the toy. Lynn went over to Joel then, knelt down and spoke in a high, amiable tone to her son.
“Hey, buddy, want to have a go with him? Come on, take a turn. Isn’t he cute? He wants to play, Honey.”
Joel glanced over at the pup; his brows raised.
“Go on, take it.” She said.
Joel started to cry as he took hold of the green ring shoved in front of him, and Chase plodded his way over with a smile and a loose tongue, ready for another go. I swear he hadn’t a clue what was going on; he just wanted to play.
“Great, now look at what you did.”
“What do you mean?” I said, my face contorting with disbelief. “How the hell is that my fault?”
“Don’t use that language around Joel.”
“This is your fault, Lynn. He didn’t want to. He was watching a show.”
“I’ve had enough. Room, Amelia.”
I slammed the door to my room with a grunt, and clenched my teeth together; my eyes were welling up with the frustration I refused to vent. I flipped her off with both hands for twice the effect once the door was closed. Sometimes it was the small victories that mattered. But, even with the door closed, I could still hear Joel’s muffled sobs. He must have been one of the ugliest criers in the world. His snot was always dripping, slowly oozing its way down to his lip while the fatty bottom one quivered.
I never blamed Chase for any of it. Partly because he wouldn’t be able to defend himself if he wanted to. But I also couldn’t stay mad with him if I wanted to.
The fact is, I wasn’t a very happy kid either. I had to find small things to make me smile. The smell of gasoline before David put the nozzle back in its holster; the rustling of leaves as they flicker in the wind; the feeling of driving down a steep hill, when you sink a little. I could go on walks, even just down the street, and find a pebble on the road that sparkled and was smooth and not be afraid that someone would take it from me. It was mine and I would smile because I had put the pebble in my pocket; it was safe with me, at least until my mother saw the bulge in my pocket.
Chase made it even easier; he had a way of pulling a smile out of me. It was a sort of automatic reaction. When it was just him and me—napping with him, washing him in the bath, playing on the floor—those were the times that I felt my muscles ache from smiling. Whether Chase was a trouble-maker or not, it made no difference to me.
Though, my favorite times with him were probably whenever it rained. We liked how the rain pattered against the windows; the blackness of wet pavement beneath heavy shadows; the sound of sloshing puddles as cars sped past. He’d come to my room then, because everyone else was always too busy to pay him any mind, and so I could be alone with him; without being lonely.
We even liked to go on walks when the rain fell lightly enough, and I let Chase lick at a few pools gathering by the curb. Then, when we got home, he’d shake himself dry leaving an ungodly odor of sulfur, fruit and feces while his tongue would hang out as he waited for me to dry too. When the rain fell harshly, however, battering the house, we felt safe with one another; sometimes, it rained so hard we couldn’t hear anything outside my room and I could say anything to him then, because he was the only one who could hear and was incapable of judging me.
Two years later, though, Chase would die, and I would stop doing those things.
When it happened, the midday sky was a strong, deep, gray and was filled with many clouds clumped together, curtaining off so much light, and the clouds never broke. The air came with the soft, infrequent chirp of bluebirds and sparrows and there was a coolness too that needed no wind to spread it. I had woken with a sharp sting in my throat I thought might have been the beginning of a cold, and I was happy because the cold, dark weather carried promises of rain.
Chase was sprawled out somewhere on the kitchen floor, lifting his head to see a squirrel resting on a branch and nibbling on a nut. He tried to stand and jump and scare off the little animal, but I could hear his claws scratching against the wooded flooring for traction and failing to get it. It was a loud sound and I could hear it from my room. His bad hip had worsened, and had left him to strike his feet at the wood and tire himself out. It came more in the last couple of years, and it had made me sad because the effort in the sound was of old things trying to be young again. I left him to try for a while, hoping he’d find the strength to stand and helping him up once I knew he lost it.
After that, the whole family gathered around Chase to talk.
“I had to get him again.”
“Christ, seriously?” David said. “Little guy reached the end of the line.”
“Poor thing,” Lynn said. Chase wagged his tail and moved to sniff me while she went on. “He’s been a real trouble-maker, but I’m going to miss him.” She clicked her tongue; shot a look at us like we were the dried gum on the heel of her shoe. “Remember when Joel would play with him? How he’d tug his little tail and make him run all around the house?”
Over the next half hour, they shared stories about him and I knelt down to his smiling face and whispered to him. His tail wagged at the air excitedly, making me think he might’ve gotten a word or two.
“Hey, buddy. I’m sorry you’re hurting. It’ll stop soon, don’t worry. Just know that I love you—that I always have and always will.” I hugged him then, careful not to crush him too hard because he’d grown fragile over the years, and I gave him my love. Love like the kind a parent gives a child. David carried him gently to the car, Chase was stiff and whined a bit in his arms, and the rest of us went after them.
It didn’t take us very long to get there. David was a fast driver and didn’t mind speeding in residential areas, especially during emergencies. He placed Chase between Joel and I, his head in my lap, as Joel cried over him.
“I know, Honey. I’ll miss him so much,” Lynn said, watching the road.
Luckily, they were able to take us right away. The doctor visited swiftly and analyzed Chase’s hip with careful hands. He told us somberly and with his eyes fixed to the ground that Chase would likely need surgery, that it would likely do little good, and we’d likely have to do it all again. So, we chose to spare Chase the trouble and he left us to say our goodbyes.
For the millionth time that day, we told Chase that we loved him and wished him the best, and Joel tried to run and give him a hug but we pulled him away. Chase was hurt and wasn’t able to be loved so strongly then, and my mother didn’t want him to get the smell of him on his jacket. She thought it would make the grieving process too difficult; she took him to the car in order to spare any unnecessary tears. David and I chose to stay. We wanted to see him off. I cried quietly, petting Chase as they euthanized him. David said something in Chase’s ear and placed a hand on my shoulder. Chase’s eyes closed and David and I left together. I let him hold my hand on our way out.
As we started back home, Lynn sat in the back with Joel and I listened to the wheels on the road, churning the concrete, pushing us on. On and on. The birds flew overhead and trilled terribly on their way south, and in the back came the ugliest cry in the world.
“I want him back,” Joel said.
He cried and his tears made me grimace. I didn’t like his words; the Is and the Mys were wrong. Chase is happier, I wanted to say, that’s what matters. Not you today.
My mother wrapped her arm around Joel’s shoulder, held him tight, and took a finger to fix his crazed hair as she whispered to him. His tears were wetting her shoulder and he wheezed out his grief.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “How about we look into buying another one?”
I could hear the volume of her words rise and fall in step with the heaving of Joel’s chest.
Everything outside was blackened by clouds and on the windshield a couple of raindrops fell, a thousand more following their descent. Lynn went on holding Joel as he wept, telling him things she’d hoped would settle him. I couldn’t really hear them, though; I was listening to the rain prattling against the car, falling like pebbles all around me.
Joshua Gessner is a student at Southern New Hampshire University, an editor for Ghost City Press, and has received his associate degree in English from Manchester Community College as of 2021. He has been published in multiple Black Hare Press anthologies such as: Twenty Twenty, Oceans, Ancients and Year Two; his other works can be found in Manchester Community College’s Literary Magazine, The Queen City Review. Joshua often spends his free time reading the classics and honing his craft.