Mutt, A Cautionary Tale

A stray dog lived on the streets.  Like most strays, she was a mongrel – a little of this, a little of that, pale eyes from this breed, yellow fur from that one, smallish stature from yet another. Unremarkable by most standards, and yet her hearing was no less acute than any purebred dog’s, her nose just as keen, and her mind perhaps even sharper than most, unclouded by inbreeding and with instincts honed by the rough learning curve of surviving by her wits alone.

Most people passed her by, and while she had found that going by unobserved seemed to be preferential than the scorn that was usually cast upon her when she was noticed, she still longed for a family and a home.

Occasionally someone would stop and pet her as they went about their business.  Many times their hands would be gentle, even if their words were not – words like “broken” and “damaged” and “worthless.”  Though their words stung, the dog thought that maybe those ones who stopped to pet her often might eventually take her home, and that would be better than the cold loneliness of the street.  But invariably, those people who took the time to pet her eventually stopped turning up.  The dog wasn’t sure where they went, only that they were gone.  She felt like their disappearance was somehow related to those words they had used to describe her.  If only she could show them she was a good dog…  She didn’t understand what it was about her that made them say these things, except that she was a mutt and people didn’t seem to trust mutts. Despite the fact that she wagged her tail and never bit, people always seemed to have a hint of fear in their eyes when they saw her, never taking the time to see that she was more than that, that she was a good dog, a clever dog.

And then there were the hands that were not gentle, the hands that threw rocks, the fingers that yanked at her ears and tail.  Worst of all were the hands that seemed kind at first, only to get tangled up in her fur and yank and sting, instead of petting.

One day a man saw her, and looking up at him, the dog knew instinctually that he was different. His hands were strong, but kind and gentle when he stooped down to pet her.  His voice was obviously powerful, but not raised to hurt her sensitive hearing. He murmured sweet things to her as he stroked behind her ears and down her neck, telling her that she was beautiful, that she had clever eyes, that she was a good girl.  She nuzzled his palm and licked his fingers.

For many days this went on.  The dog would go about her business, always watching for the Kind Man.  And each day – not always at the same time, but never failing to seek her out – he would come.

“Hey, Pretty Girl,” the Kind Man would say with a smile when he saw her and the dog would wag excitedly.  Then she would sit and be still, like a good dog, while he petted her and told her nice things.  “How is my girl doing today?  Good? Such a pretty dog,” he would say and scratch under her chin.  “Look at this golden fur!  It’s so soft. Such a good dog, such a clever dog.” The dog closed her eyes and basked in his praise, in the sweetness of his words, the gentleness of his hands. And never in her life had she been so content than in those stolen moments with the Kind Man, where she felt safe and loved and special.

But those moments never lasted long enough. Please take me home, the dog would implore him with her eyes, gazing up at him adoringly.  

The Kind Man looked at her sadly, as if he understood what she was asking.  “I can’t take you home, girl.  I wish I could, but I can’t.  I’m sorry.”  Then he gave her one last, gentle pat on the top of her head and walked away.

The Kind Man already had a dog at home, a respectable, purebred dog of unquestionable, impeccable lineage.  She may have been a bit on the boring side, she might have been a bit less appreciative of the petting and attention that he seemed to yearn to heap on a companion, she may have even been a bit demanding as far as dogs go, but she was comfortable. No one asked in quiet, apprehensive tones if the purebred dog would bite.  No one raised their nose in the air, asking if he was worried that the purebred dog would destroy his nice furniture.  And certainly no one laughingly asked if the purebred dog was housebroken.  No, the purebred dog he had at home was safe. Even if the Kind Man knew that the street dog was a good dog, a clever dog, worthy of love and kindness and a safe, warm home, she was a mongrel and people would ask uncomfortable questions.

In the end, the Kind Man stopped coming to see the dog.  She continued to hope that he might come back, always keeping one eye open for him, even returning to those parts of the streets she had encountered him the most frequently.

One day, the dog saw the Kind Man again on the opposite side of the road.  He was walking his perfect, purebred dog, the leash in his hand taut as if the purebred dog herself was walking him down the street.  The dog whined, a pathetic little sound, but he did not stop.  The Kind Man did not even look up.  It was as if she did not exist at all to him, and what was left of her heart – cracked and broken from so many years of mistreatment – shattered into too many bits to ever be put right again.

And so the dog learned that it was not enough to be a good a dog.  Her life was already laid out for her, built on what she was outside – a stray dog, a mongrel, a mutt.  It didn’t matter how hard she tried to show that she was good and clever and deserving; her choices were irrelevant.  If people looked at her and expected viciousness, it was better, easier to simply show them that.  She found that if she snipped and growled and bared her teeth, no one ever stopped to pet her anymore, and it didn’t hurt so badly when they walked away because they had never truly been there to begin with.

The dog resigned herself to this existence and waited for the day that it was too cold to get up or the day she didn’t move out from in front of a car quite in time or the day that she was snatched up by people in uniforms and taken off to that place that other dogs seemed to go and didn’t come back.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.  That was her life.