A Tail Told by Shiroi

Her moment had arrived. For a long time since the baby first came on the scene, she’d been pushed to the side in her family’s actions. Her existence had become an afterthought: fed, watered, emptied, barked at, rejected -- that was all. She was dangerous to the baby. That’s what the mother said. Everyone agreed. She was forbidden to be in the baby’s presence. To enforce that, the mother had erected a fence barring her entrance at any time.

Well, that would change, and quickly.

The fence was no problem. She could not leap it without alarming the baby but she could climb, and so she did. She climbed inexorably, the pain of the wire digging into her soft midpads merely intensifying her resolve to put an end to this. Now inside the perimeter, she rested, the baby still oblivious to her presence. Adrenaline beginning to make her head buzz, she inched stealthily forward. She must be cautious; there would be only this single opportunity. There were still no other sounds, no footsteps. Perfect. Closer. Closer. She sensed the baby’s aroma. Felt the baby’s aroma in her very pores. The baby was about to move; she knew it. She had to strike now! Fast as a rattlesnake, her neck hyperextended and her round teeth sank in without tearing. Now the baby shrieked and jumped! Her back claws rent great gouges as she scrabbled to drag the screaming baby. Now feet pounded the treads towards the upstairs bedroom, sounding in concert to the blood pounding through her arteries. Hurry!

The mother burst into the bedroom. "Mother of God!" she cried, seeing the dog’s back end frantically pulling. Seeing the baby on the window ledge. Seeing the dog’s teeth sunk into the baby’s frayed clothing; seeing the clothing coming apart at the seams. She ran to the dog and the baby. Reached across the dog’s back and muzzle to grasp the baby firmly to her bossom. The dog, exhausted, collapsed to the linoleum.

The mother approached her while she dreamt fitfully in the waning sunlight. "Povrecito, mi escusa. The mother’s voice was husky with relief and with grief. "So caught up was I in the new life of my daughter, so desperate to keep her from any harm, I mistook your desire to be with her, to nurture her, for jealousy. Suavecito. Corazon de mi alma, forgive me."

She found chicken in her bowl when she awoke in moonlight. She mounted the stairs to take her second-class station outside the bedroom. There, she discovered the fence was missing. Quietly, she skulked towards the little bed from which came the sound of the soft, quick breathing of her baby girl. A hand touched the nape of her neck, startling her. "Bienvenidos a su casa nueva, Mami Calle Ocho, the mother whispered gently. "Here you will stay always. Bendicion." And so she did, always by the daughter’s side but never upon the bed.

Time passed. One evening, the mother came home to find her daughter abed, the dog beside her. Angry welts -- deep claw scratches -- blossomed on her face, arms, legs. The mother’s deepest fears rose phoenix-like within her heart. Much to her relief, her daughter raised her head, tears spilling from her full eyes. Calle Ocho, sensing her time, had for the first and last time struggled onto her daughter’s bed whereupon she suffered a massive seizure. As her daughter tried vainly to control her flailing limbs, she died. The mother felt ashamed, for she had doubted Calle Ocho’s virtue while her daughter never had.

* * * * *

She hummed softly. I knew the tune, an adaptation of "Twa Korbie:"

. . . God grant every gentle man Fine hawks, fine hounds, and such A loved one . . .

As a bartender, I hear a lot of stories as closing time slinks up. There was the crystal *ting* of truth in hers. For the first time, I notice the faint pink line on her cheek as she drained her glass. My eyebrow formed the question.

"No, thank you." A shrug and a wry grin. "I’ve had more than my share." Another shrug. "It happens."

"Call you a car?"

She shook her head softly. "My lover is coming for me right now. She knows where I am." The young woman gracefully slid from her stool and walked towards the entrance. The house mutt lifted his head, wagging hopefully at her approach. He offered his belly to be scrooched and, that accepted, sighed contentedly.

"What’s his name?" she asked.

"Bleu,"I replied. "Cordon Bleu. He was here one evening scavenging garbage, then began begging from table to table. It’s a joke -- he’s no gourmet, just an old chow-hound."

She chuckled, turned, and was gone. In fine script, the back of her tee-shirt declared, Integrity is the best revenge.

Copyright © 1999, 2001 by Shiroi Doma. Reprinted with permission of the author.