I angle my head to the side when I try to puzzle out what Mom is saying.  Despite what you might think, I know quite a few words.  My favorite word, of course, is walk.  Mom takes me out on the wooded path every day and I trot alongside her.  Sometimes we go to the creek where I fish for minnows in the shallows.  I won’t go in above my ankles because I do not like to swim.  Mom tells me this is silly, because I am half-Labrador and labs are water dogs, she says, sighing.  She throws a stick into the water for me to fetch and I turn and give her a level look.

I came to live with Mom and the girls after living three other places.  I was born in a backyard, landed in a shelter, and then lived in a college dorm, where I stayed precisely three days.  A woman took me away from all the chaos and set about trying to find a home for me.  I lay on her kitchen floor listening to both sides of a phone conversation (I have excellent hearing).  I heard the woman on the other end of the phone say, “But I’m not really a dog person.  We were only toying with the idea of adopting a dog, maybe.  But a pitbull?”

“Pits are the most devoted dogs.  They’re only aggressive if people abuse them.  He’s a pit-lab mix, with brindle shoulders, velvet ears, a handsome blaze on his chest, and chestnut eyes.  A sweetie.  You could try him for a weekend.  Just a weekend.”

The woman got off the phone, patted my head, and said: “I think we’ve found you a home.”

A little later a mini-van pulled up.  Two girls jumped out, ran over to me, and hugged my neck tightly.  Their mother stooped down, looked into my eyes, and stroked my ears.

The woman who had taken care of me handed the leash over to the mother. “Thank you for this. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

I hopped in the back of the van, lay down, and dozed while the girls petted me.

I walked into the house, and sniffed here and there while the mother tucked a dog bed in a corner, put out bowls of food and water, and hung my leash on a hook by the front door.  Fastening a new red collar around my neck, she ran her hand along my back and said, “Let’s see how this works out.”

I looked up at her from where I lay.  She laughed.

That was five years ago, and I’ve been here since.  I have a self-appointed job: I take care of my family and watch over them.  It’s what I do.

When I sleep I keep one ear attuned to what’s around me.  I like it best when my family is with me and I can keep an eye on them.  I worry about them and wait by the window when they’re not at home.  When they return I wag wildly, welcoming them as if I haven’t seen them in weeks.

They love me.  I love them.

—About UntoldAnimalStories.org—We tell animals’ stories from their perspectives.  Gentle in our approach rather than shocking, we seek to invite connection, compassion and, from that, action.  In addition, we provide tips on what you can do to help animals, and we seek new action ideas, as well as animal and rescue stories, from you.

They thought it was funny, naming me Mouse, but I didn’t mind.  Trevor held me up, my oversized paws and ears dangling.  I tried to lick his face and he laughed.  He turned to the girl and said: Mouse…I’ll name the puppy Mouse.  The girl laughed and laughed then slid a piece of paper across the coffee table toward Trevor with a tidy white line on it.  Trevor put me down, patted my head, and turned away.

Trevor and I lived in a second-story room in Austin.  People came and went.  They sprawled on the couch and loud music played late into the night.  The girl came there often, stooping down to pet me, talking to me in a funny little voice, and picking up my front paws and dancing around with me.  I didn’t mind.

What I did mind was that on occasion I was hungry.  Then I paced and whimpered and nosed Trevor’s hand.  He’d say, I’m sorry girl, I’ll deal with it later, and stroke my head.  So I would flop down and sleep to pass the time.

One winter night Trevor and his friends went out, merry and loud.  Trevor left the window open to clear out the smoke.  Then there were colored explosions in the sky, sparkles raining down, and people in the streets dancing and laughing.  I licked my lips and panted and paced, but nothing helped.  Another thunderous clap came.  I leapt through open window and into the sky.  It was a long way down.  For a moment I was held aloft by the air then met the pavement, hard.

Sometime later I felt myself being lifted by someone whose scent I did not know.  I rested my head against his heartbeating chest.  I awoke again later to the chaos of light, unfamiliar smells, and someone gently moving me and binding my leg.

Trevor came for me.  I licked his hands in gratitude.  He took me home and helped care for me, along with some people I had not known.  These people came from time to time, delivering bags of dog food and talking gently to me, and taking me on car rides to the vet’s office. They always delivered me back to Trevor.

The girl was there sometimes, the one who spoke to me in a funny voice.  One day she and Trevor argued loudly.  It hurt my ears and I got as far away as I could.  Trevor left, slamming the door.  The girl walked back and forth quickly, gathering her things and stuffing them into her bag.  Then she looped my leash around my neck and we left.  We never came back.

—

FriendsofMrsP.org funded Mouse’s surgery and provided food and rides to the vet for follow-up care until Mouse disappeared with Trevor’s former girlfriend.  Trevor searched for Mouse but never found her.  FriendsofMrs.P.org is a non-profit organization with 100% of funds going directly to the animals’ care and rescue.

Four winters.  That’s how long I was here. I remember each icy blast, each deep snow, and the mice far beneath, tucked into burrows I could not hope to reach.  I slept beneath the bramble and awakened with snow perched on branch and fur.

On the days when the creek’s ice cracked along the edges and snow melted in rivulets toward the pond, I knew I would not go hungry.

Four summers.  That’s how long I was here.  Other cats came and went from this place, and I fought often and hard for hunting rights, for the right to walk this piece of borrowed earth for a time.

You saw me one summer’s day, skirting along the edge of the forest.  I saw in your eyes compassion and distress at my gristly body.  You turned and disappeared inside, then returned with two small, circular objects, one with silvery water, the other with luscious scents.  You placed them at the garden’s edge and spoke softly to me:  “This is for you.”  I blinked slowly at you, acknowledging.

The scent of food brought back fragments of memory:  an old woman, a petting hand, a warm house.

I ate and drank my fill, then slipped off into the forest.  You watched.

Four days.  That’s how long you fed me.  On the fifth day, you placed a steel box on the ground with food and water inside.  I walked around it, wary, sniffing.  It smelled of other animals, and I sensed that you meant to trap me.  What I did not know then was that you would have taken me in and cared for me.

You dreamed about me that night—do you remember?  You stood on the back porch as I walked away, leaning into the wind.  I turned back toward you, my face round and scarred, my eyes telling you wordlessly: I will not return.  Did you remember every detail of the dream as you awoke, as if it were real?

Four days.  That’s how long you continued to set the trap with food and water.  On the fifth day you peered for a long time at the place where you had seen me in the dream.  Then you put away the trap and scattered the food in the forest for other animals to find.