M.A. Padilla

I think about him a lot, the red dog. He came from nowhere and left to the same place. Before I knew not to pet strange dogs, he approached me from the woods without a collar. He was afraid, and for one of the few times in my life, I wasn’t. I crouched down, and he stood in front of me. I gave him pets and he closed his eyes. My hands brushed over the lumpy scars on his head. Large gashes and little nicks. 

They threw rocks at him, the older boys. Red Dog wanted to come to me so I could pet him, but he was afraid of them. I told their mother, and they left him alone. At least, while I was around. I only knew him for half an hour, but I really loved him. I wanted to take him with me, to keep him. But I knew Mom would say no, and she did.

I felt his desperation. I feel it today. When I had to leave, he chased the car. He wasn’t fast enough, and I cried because I knew what it felt like to want the fleeting kindness to stay. We drove on like he wasn’t there, and I lost sight of him. I hope he did not wait for me.