Addy Mahaffey

Woolly Dog

 Last night she dreamed of playing in the woods with her dog. Her great big woolly dog—loping wild across the earth, vaulting over fallen tree trunks, sprawled woody in the dirt.

She, her mother, and her sister found the dog after a wildfire ate up half the state like a plague, and everyone wandered around the scalded landscape muzzled by respirators.

Her mother was bitter because she remembered before—before the hot sea lapped up the land like a creature dying of thirst; before electricity became a fresh myth; before the neighborhood dogs were found dead and draped like blankets across molten rooftops; before, before, before.

Her dog wasn’t found on a roof. Her dog was found in a ditch on the side of the road, rooting around in the hollowing bowels of an upturned armadillo.

The dog had raised its head when they passed. Beneath the respirator, her sister screamed at the bloodied crown around its mouth. The dog wagged its tail. Her mother made a knotted leash of old American flag neckties, the polyester shimmering around its neck.

Her mother sliced off knots of matted fur with a rust-tinged surgical scalpel and the dog looked up at them with shining eyes.

Despite everything, her mother still made them learn how to read. She carved sentences with the scalpel and made them read the words to the dog. My dog can dig. My dog is good. My dog eats men.

Then they found a place with seasons, and the dog loved fall. The dog raced through piles of burnt leaves, sending them spiraling, and she and her sister laughed and laughed.

She’d almost lost the dog at the singed edge of a city. The dog saw a squirrel or maybe a rat perched on a windowsill, and the dog ran and ran and ran, neckties ribboning behind it.

Her sister’s scream muffled beneath the respirator, her mother’s hand clawing into her collarbone.

The dog trotted back to them at dusk, tongue pink and lolled, followed by three masked children, loosely grasping the neckties and each other's hands. A dog-led chain of paper dolls.

Her mother handed them each a stick before leading the dog-led chain up a hillside and back into the woods.

At first light, her mother wrote words in a soft patch of dirt with their scalpel and made the new children copy with their sticks. The dog digs. The dog is good. The dog eats men.

The dog chewed up one of the children’s sticks. They laughed. Her mother rolled her eyes.

Her sister gave the dog its own stick, larger than all the rest. Her mother's eyes roved over the woods.

Men? she asked her mother.

More children, her mother said, and more sticks. And the sticks became fences, became structures.

H-O-M-E, her sister wrote in the dirt for a group of young children.

S-C-H-O-O-L, she wrote in the dirt for a group of old children.

Our dog is good! The children screamed, chased the dog around the yard. The dog circled around the children—legs flying, fur blurring, tongue lolling. The dog collapsed in the dirt. The children petted the dog and rubbed its stomach.

At night, the dog let her sister knot her hands around its woolly neck. She watched the dog and her sister sleep. They breathed, and she breathed, and nights passed.

The dog’s woolly fur grew gray at the edges. Her mother’s hair grew gray all over, and her mother died first. The dog dug the grave. The children sang and the dog bayed, and more children came from the singing and the baying. She handed them each a set of sticks.

The dog breathed more, and then less, and then not at all. The dog gently died. Her sister cried. She dug a grave for the dog, and the children sang. More children came from the singing, and she gave them each a set of sticks.

There were many children now, and they were loud. They screamed and sang and ran and laughed.

D-O-G, they each wrote in the dirt.

Gone, she told them.

No, her sister said.

Dog, one of them said.

Where, she said.

There, her sister said.

A dog ran into the yard. A small dog with slick fur and shining eyes. Not her dog, but a dog. The children tied a piece of picnic cloth around its neck and chased the dog around the yard. The dog ran and ran and ran, gingham rippling.

She doesn’t remember when she first dreamed of her dog again. But last night she dreamed of playing in the woods with her dog.

Her dog, her great big woolly dog—loping wild across the dirt, vaulting over fallen tree trunks, sprawled woody in the dirt. My dog can dig. My dog is good. My dog eats men.

Addy Mahaffey  is a writer and nonprofit grants consultant based in Fayetteville, Arkansas, where she lives with her cat. She holds a degree in English from the University of Arkansas. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in Third Coast, Cotton Xenomorph, Kitchen Table Quarterly, and elsewhere. Find more of her work at addymahaffey.com.