I yearned again for the power of speech. I wanted to tell Emily of my beginnings; I wanted to show her my birthplace, to confide in her that Wispy (I will never call her Sal) was not just a look-alike mongrel with a bent tail but in fact my full-blooded sister, companion of my heart.
How I wished, turning a familiar corner, that I could point out sadly the spot where I had so often sat with Jack, cajoling passersby to drop coins into his cupped hands so that we could survive another day.
"Is this a good restaurant?" I heard Emily's mother ask the photographer casually, pausing as we passed the carved door of Toujours Cuisine. He nodded.
"Not bad," he told her. "When you have more time someday, we can go there for dinner."
"When we don't have the dogs along." She laughed.
Ah, if only she knew! Wispy (I will never call her Sal) glanced at me and we smiled. The memories of French food!
"Selle d'agneau roti," I murmured to my sister.
"Ragouts de veau," she replied knowingly.
What a pleasant afternoon it was, combining as it did the smells and sounds of the city, the contentment of good human company, the rapture of my sister by my side, and the happy memories of earlier days.
Then something evil intruded. Nose, ears, eyes came into play in the correct order. I smelled Scar first: the acrid, unwashed scent of enemy. Then my ears perceived his low, menacing growl. I stood still, on full alert.
Finally I spotted him. Across the street, next to a newspaper rack, I saw his flattened, hostile face, his grime-streaked neckless body, the thick legs and ugly tail stump. He had not changed. And I could tell, from the look and smell of him, and from his throaty growl, that he recognized me. His desire to destroy me had obviously been rekindled.
Emily's mother and the photographer were still reading the menu displayed in front of the restaurant. Emily, my leash loose in her relaxed hand, had leaned down and was patting Wispy (never Sal), talking to her in a quiet, loving voice. No one but I had noticed the threat.
My original promise, my pledge to defeat Scar someday, surfaced in my memory. I had, over the intervening months, written better verse because I had matured as a poet. But this one, recalled now, still seemed my most valiant, most heroic effort. I repeated it to myself now. I vow this, Scar, with all my might!
Someday I'll beat you in a fight!
We were separated by the width of the street, and he was watching me malevolently. I was no longer a cringing, intimidated puppy pleading for breakfast. I was no longer an adolescent itching for a nighttime brawl. Now I was a splendid full-grown dog with teeth (I exposed them to him) like carved granite, an unwavering growl (I gave him only a low hint of its magnitude), and a massive, fully muscled body ornamented at its end with a tail of unequaled grandeur.
Demanding homage, and willing to battle for it, I pulled my leash loose from Emilys grasp and inched forward, waiting for the right moment. Then the unthinkable happened. Oblivious to traffic or to onlookers, the hideous dog gathered himself and charged, exploding from his stance and thundering across the street with his teeth bared.
But he was charging for Emily.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
With no other thought than to save my beloved human child, I leapt toward Scar and intercepted him, grabbing his throat with my teeth tight around his repulsive flesh. He snarled in hatred and we locked in mortal combat, aware that only one of us would emerge alive. From what seemed a far distance, I heard Emily and her mother both scream.
Then I heard the roaring sound of a truck approaching at full speed; there was the sudden screech of brakes, a thud, and I felt Scar torn from my grip and saw him disappear under the massive wheels. I felt no pain, but had an awareness that I, too, was hit and caught by the huge undercarriage of the vehicle. The noise was terrible: ripping, rattling sounds, human shouts, and a piercing shriek that may even have been my own. I no longer knew. By then everything was chaotic and confused; a second later, it simply turned to black silence and oblivion.
I surfaced to consciousness and pain several times in the next few days, then drifted again into merciful sleep. When, finally, I was more alert and able to keep my eyes open, I could see that I was once again in the familiar office of the veterinarian. They had me housed in a comfortable pen, with a bowl of water near my head and a clean blanket folded beneath my bruised, aching body.
The veterinarian, the very one who had identified me less than a week before, entered the pen when he saw that I was awake. He felt my pulse, looked at my eyes carefully, and talked to me in a comforting voice.
"Is it Pal?" he asked, and when I sighed, he tried again. "Keeper?"
At the sound of my true name, Keeper, I blinked and tried to lift my head. The doctor stroked my fur gently. "You got pretty badly banged up," he told me. The information was unnecessary. I could feel it. It was excruciatingly painful just to move.
"But you're going to be okay," he said, still stroking my neck. "You're going to heal. And," he added, "you're a hero. You saved the little girl. You saved Emily."
At the sound of that precious name, I lifted my head high, despite the pain. The doctor smiled. "She's in the other room, waiting to see you," he said. "They all are. Your whole family, even that female who looks so much like you. What's her name? Sal?"
I whimpered a bit and rested my head on the blanket again. I would never call her Sal. But I guessed all humans would, and I would have to accept that.
I hoped my family hadn't brought Bert and Ernie with them. I needed commiseration, but not the land of saccharine faux sympathy I knew the cats would delight in providing.
"Okay, Keeper," the doctor went on, "I'm going to let them come in for a little visit. You take it easy, though. Don't try to stand up. You're going to have a tough time balancing for a while. But you'll adjust. It won't take long. Before you know it, you'll be home again and as good as new."
Then he hesitated. "Well, maybe not as good as new, Keeper. You'll be different. But you're still a healthy, heroic dog. I want you to remember that."
Then, as he paused before getting to his feet, he explained the specific nature of my terrible injury. The shock was almost overwhelming. My thoughts were confused, and I began to take deep breaths, trying to control myself and get my bearings again.
A poem, I thought. I must write a poem now, to help me through this.
But it was impossible. Even poetry was gone from me now. I lay there suffering, not from my wounds but from the terrible new knowledge of my loss, and heard him tell my family to come in.
I had been brave in the presence of the doctor, I think; and in the embrace of my human family, who had not brought the cats, I continued to maintain an admirably proud and stoic pose. I accepted their pats and kisses and their sympathy with dignity and affection.
But finally, in the privacy of my visit with my sister (for my human family had nudged her into my pen and then tactfully retreated, leaving us alone together), I broke down. At first, holding my head erect to look at the loving, sympathetic gaze of my homely but faithful sibling, I tried to maintain a devil-may-care attitude.
"Forward my feet!" I declaimed. "Upright my—"
But I lost control then, and howled with grief.
"Wispy," I wailed, "I have lost my glorious tail!"
She nuzzled my neck and licked my chin for comfort.
"You still have a glorious tale," she reminded me gently. "Why don't you tell it?"
And so I have.
