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Storyteller's Cabin |
Written by Craig Dominey
You see, my father loved his dog more than anything else in the world, including his own family. Or at least that's the way it appeared to me. There were no pictures of my mother and I in his wallet, only that big, sloppy, clumsy dog. He took his dog everywhere he went - on family vacations, out in the fields, even to bed at night! He showered every ounce of love he had on that dog, and it made my blood boil.
Back then, I was an only child growing up in a farmhouse deep in the South Georgia countryside. The wooden house sat at the edge of a thick forest that stretched on for miles. It was a drafty old place with high ceilings, cavernous hallways and dark hardwood floors that creaked loudly with each footstep.
My father was an ex-army colonel, and a strict disciplinarian. He had a cold and stiff demeanor, as if some army trainer along the line had squeezed every ounce of emotion out of him. As the years passed, I grew more and more distant from my father. In fact, sometimes I was downright scared of him. And I paid little attention to any awkward attempts he made to show his affections.
But every human being needs an outlet for their emotions, so my father got something that wouldn't talk back or challenge him - a dog. As if by divine intervention, a stray black lab came bounding onto our property one day, wet and starving. After some half-hearted attempts to locate the original owners, my father named him "Mac" and welcomed him with open arms into our home.
Mac constantly tried to play with me - jumping up on my lap, nudging me with a dirty tennis ball in its mouth, licking my face. But I shoved him away each time, sending him running back to my father. Over the years, Mac never seemed to get the message that I wanted no part of his affection. I even shut the door to my room to keep him out.
When I was about 13 years old, Mac grew sick with cancer. My father watched in horror as his dog deteriorated before his eyes. Mac spent his days lying in the middle of the family room, panting and unable to eat, his sharply defined ribs heaving with each pained breath. When my father would reach down to pet him, a joyous recognition would flash in his eye, only to be extinguished by his agony.
We had no choice - my father made the hardest decision of his life and had Mac put to sleep. After it was done, he wept and spent many hours alone. Each part of his daily routine - driving to the store, walking around the property, reading the paper in the morning - seemed empty without Mac around. But to be honest, I felt no sadness. Deep inside, I felt like we could now be a normal family with Mac out of the picture.
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