Your Dog Killed My Dog

For the entire time I lived at home with my parents, one of the Things My Dad Would Do ™ was find homeless or lost dogs in the streets, coerce them into his green Astro van, then bring them home. He’d spend about four minutes trying to find its owner. By the next day, it was our dog.

As a result, I had a lot of dogs growing up. 30+ dogs in 25 years. Some dogs that howled, and dogs that licked. Dogs that barked through the night, and dogs that bit. But there was one dog in particular who haunted my nights and plagued my days.

Dad: “Is good for the family, we need this perro. Pure amor! We need mas amor in this house!”

Mom: “She looks espooky! We have three dogs! We don’t need this perro!”

I named her after my mischievous soccer star cousin. Nikki. My dad fought me endlessly on the name.

“Nikki? What da hell es Nikki? Why no “Nena”? Or “Normita”? Joo mama cannot eben pronounce Nikki!”

Nikki she remained. Orange like the flames of hell, with a heart as cold as a Siberian wind. More wolf than dog, she’d spend her days evading me as I desperately sought her love, staring aloofly – even disgusted - from the distance. Every night I lied awake (this messed with my 6th grade grades), a crazed insomniac, hyper alert to any noise or movement from the backyard. I lived terrorized that Nikki was plotting her escape – as she did, most nights. 

One night, at 3:17am, a light shuffling sound ripped me from Hypnos’s arms. I lied motionless so I can hear what was going on. Seconds later, I heard nails clicking against a distant ground. “NIKKI!” I screamed, as I bolted out back, only to find a ditch and a pile of dirt by the side fence. My heart sank.

She had escaped. I sprinted to the front and saw her emerging at full speed from the neighbor’s yard. I ran as fast as I could for four miles, wearing only Family Guy boxers, never getting close enough to tackle her. Eventually, the adrenaline faded and my legs gave out. I fell, landing directly on a curb and shattering my left collar bone. I stayed on the ground, crying. It was then that Nikki decided to come to me. I picked her up and limped back home, each step a torment.

My dad found a new owner for Nikki the very next morning. The new owner, Diego, came to pick her up that evening. I was sad, but I knew it was for the best.

After my first good night’s sleep in months, I awoke to the phone ringing.

“Hola Diego, como estas?”

I jogged out to listen. Because my dad is 75% deaf, every call is on full blast speaker phone.

“Tu %$#@* perro killed my chihuahua. I’m bringing your %$#@* perro back.”

Dad: “Diego, listen to me. Your %$#@* perro killed your chihuahua. No returns.”