He walked past the dog everyday. It was a reddish brown; the kind of fur that would glint in the sun had it been washed and brushed. Now, it was matted and dingy. His skin looked tight across his bones. The boy could count each rib, as easily as he could count the fingers on his hand. The dog wore a faded red collar tied with a piece of splintering twine to a metal post in the middle of the dirt yard. He didn't move much; he was always lying in the beating sun when the boy walked past. He would raise his head to gaze through the chainlink fence and beat his tail against the ground once, sending a cloud of dust in the air only to settle back onto his already dirty fur. Maybe he looks forward to seeing me too, the boy thought.
“Ma, I’m back,” he called, setting his backpack on the two person table with four chairs crammed around it. He went to check on his mother.
“Ma, I’m back home,” he called again, this time directly into her doorway. He couldn’t see much; the curtains were always drawn, and the smoke created a hazy atmosphere.
“I heard ya, Jesus Christ,” came the response. “Why’re ya always yellin? I need quiet. Git to your chores. Your stepfather will be home at 6 and I don’t want him comin’ home to this mess. And stay outta his way this time, will ya?” He saw her head flop back to the pillow.
He mopped the kitchen, washed the dishes, and emptied the rotting food from the fridge. Before 6, he had retreated to his bedroom with his school books. Satisfied he had escaped, he settled in at his desk. But when he heard the car door slam outside his muscles still tensed.
The loud, drunken voice echoed around the house. He could hear him complaining about work, about his wife, and about him.
“Where the hell is my sandwich from the deli? I saved that goddamn sandwich for dinner, and what does that boy do? Throws it away. He is so goddamn stupid, I swear to god I’ll kill him. Where is he?”
He heard his mothers feeble attempts to calm him down. He knew he was walking down the hall now. In seconds, his door would slam–
“You think yer smart, boy? Throwin’ away MY sandwich? You think you're betta than me or sumtin? Where the hell do you get off, throwin’ out my stuff?
The strike was hard and quick. They both knew it would leave a bruise, and they both knew that the boy would tell his teacher he got struck with a baseball during practice. He knew better than to cry.
When the drunk had passed out on the couch, and the boy lay in bed, the tears silently slipped down his cheeks. As usual he thought about the dog, which he began to think of as his. He wanted to lay next to him in his dusty yard, and never have to come home. And for the first time, he wished he was that dog.