Tilly
Six years after her death, I still mourn my dog.
When my family first saw her, Tilly was a quivering ball of matted black fur huddled in the back of the Humane Society cage. I should amend that statement – I didn’t see her. I was eight years old and my young eyes only saw the playful balls of puppy-fluff bouncing around at the front of the pen. It was my mother who noticed Tilly and my mother who vetoed my demands for something tiny and cute in favor of the broken animal that had to dragged out to greet us.
Tilly whimpered the whole car ride home. Whimpered more as we washed the dirt and dried scabs out of her fur. Whimpered in her sleep as she cowered behind the couch. Whimpering was the only sound she would make; she wouldn’t bark at anything. I had wanted a dog for years and this creature didn’t live up to my vast expectations at all. Tilly wouldn’t come when called, couldn’t tolerate being touched even for a second, could barely stand being in the same room with my father when he was in his army BDUs. I complained constantly, “Mommy, can’t we take her back and get a real dog? Why is she like this?”
The Humane Society couldn’t tell us much about Tilly. She was found wandering on the streets and dropped off at the shelter. She had been at the Humane Society for months and the entire staff was positive that they would have to put her down. She wouldn’t socialize, not with the other dogs or any of the workers there. She didn’t eat much. Refused to play. The staff assumed she was destined to be one of those nameless, faceless abandoned animals, euthanized quickly and without anyone shedding a tear. Her time was almost up when my family came along.
My mother believes she can save the world. She is a true Earth Mother, taking in strays of the animal and human variety and making them loved and welcomed. She turned her magic on Tilly. She was endlessly patient, talking to her and petting her as much as Tilly would allow.
One day, it paid off. The mailman came to the door and in response to the bell, the family was surprised to hear a hoarse, muffled “yarp!” No one seemed more surprised than Tilly herself. She gave it another shot: yarp! Yarp! YARP!! It was the first time we had ever heard her voice. The mailman had never seen a family so happy to have their dinner interrupted by a barking dog.
Her recovery came quickly after that. It wasn’t long before she was my constant nighttime companion, a fiercely loyal protector of the house, and my mother’s perpetual shadow as she moved around the house.
Tilly lived a long life with us. Through many years and many moves. And she was a good dog through it all, always sweet tempered and always faithful. Eternally grateful that the cage and the quivering dog hiding in it were long gone.
She was a resolute omnivore, often eschewing her meaty dog food in favor of raw vegetables. In the summer, she would sneak into the backyard garden and we would later find proof of her visits: half-chewed cucumbers, still on the vine. Halloween was always the best time of the year for Tilly, because it meant raw pumpkin for her to snack on.
Family photos always included Tilly, usually dead center, always being hugged by my mother or sister or me. Flipping though the photo album shows the changes in our family from year to year. Briana and I growing taller, my dad suddenly disappearing from the snapshots, and Tilly getting grayer and grayer and grayer.
In the end, there was one move Tilly couldn’t make with the family: from Montana to New York City. She loved running around outside. She loved her leash-free walks. She was getting older and arthritis was eating at her joints. After agonizing debates, Tilly was left in the care of my grandparents.
Less then a year later, she was gone.
I have a cat now, a spoiled lump of fuzz that I love dearly. Another animal rescued from a cage in a shelter. My boyfriend wants a dog, has made a detailed list of the type of dogs he would love to have and that would fit into our lifestyle. And I agree, the thought of a dog sounds nice. But my heart is not there. Even after six years, the thought of a new dog replacing my Tilly – the broken, dirty dog that I once was dying to trade in – is still too painful.
I’m still mourning my dog.
Bryce Weinert
Bryce is a screenwriter, playwright, sketch comedienne, and constant commentator on the world around her. Her work has been seen most recently in the Six Figures New Artist Festival Play Festival. Her most recent script is eagerly awaiting the attentions of an agent, producer, or generous multi-billionaire with a will to write.
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