Shorty

A brief story about a boy and his dog.

It was a day in 1968 or ’69.  I remember it almost like it were yesterday. We lived on my grandpa's farm just outside of Wallace, Nebraska.  My brother, sister and I boarded the school bus that morning just as we did every school day morning.  There was a long half mile lane between the main county road and our actual farmyard and the bus driver came all the way in every day to pick us up.  We went to school that day like any other day.  When the school bus dropped us off that afternoon, my mom was standing in the doorway of the farm house, waiting for us.  The look on her face told us she had bad news.  She was looking toward me more than anyone.  I remember being a little scared.  I approached her with caution.  What could it be?  Was dad hurt?  Our grandpa?  

I didn't expect and was not at all prepared for what she told me in a soft and whispered voice.  Tragedy had visited our farm that day.  Apparently, as the school bus we were on that morning pulled away, my dog Shorty had been run over by it.  She was dead.  I looked toward the yard area where the bus we’d just gotten off began to pull away.  I had been on the very bus that ran her over that morning and had no idea it had even happened.  I remember crying and screaming Shorty's name as I tried to understand.  I was eight.  I asked where she was and was told she scrambled over by some grain bins after it happened.  Dad had gone to see about her and it was over by those grain bins that she actually died.  I went looking for her.  It was winter and was bitter cold.  I found her on top of some old boards and junk farm equipment stuff that was laying by the granary.  She was black with white around her collar.  

Shorty looked like she was asleep, but her body was sort of twisted.  The shock of how she looked held me there, unable to move.  Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was partially open.  Her tongue hung down between a couple of boards.  I stood in that spot, staring, for a long time.  I was still crying, but no noise was coming out of me.  I think I was kind of in a state of shock as I look back on it.  I stood there, and thought about her life.  I'd known Shorty since the day she was born.  

Her mother, Fannie, had given birth to three puppies a few years earlier.  Just a few days after the pups were born, Fannie and the puppies’ dad, Shep, found some coyote poison, ate it, and both of them died the same day.  My grandpa had a number of sheep in those days and Fannie and Shep were his working sheep dogs.  After they died, the puppies were left motherless.  My brother, sister and I fed those puppies formula milk from coke bottles with n*****s before their eyes were even open.  We were with them for hours everyday as they grew, learned to walk, and then to run.  As I said before, there were three puppies.  There were also three of us.  My older brother picked Sport to be his dog, my younger sister picked Blaze.  Shorty was mine.  I named her for the way she looked while standing with the other puppies.  She was their same size, but she was just much shorter.  They were Australian Shepherds.  

Shorty became my dog and followed me everywhere.  When I would get home from school, she would come running.  She would get to me and jump up, put her paws on my chest and lick my face.  Then she would drop down, do the little Aussie dance where she would shake her rear end around for a while, then jump back up for more licks. Aussies are naturally friendly like that, but Shorty would only do this little routine with me.  She knew she was my dog.  I loved Shorty. Wherever I went on that farm, walking, running, riding my bike or even a horse, she was right there with me, running alongside. 

The realization of what life was going to be like without her was hitting me as I stood there looking at her lifeless body.  After some time, I was able to go over to her and found a way to get in close and sit on all of the junk piled up around her.  I touched her back and felt that her body was stiff and cold.  It began to snow and I worried that the snow would cover her up. I was so sorry that she died alone.  I remember hugging her nearly frozen body and crying for her for a very long time.  My heart just ached.  Finally, I found a piece of plywood or something and pulled it over her to shield her from the snow that was beginning to pile up.  I have never forgotten Shorty and know that I never will.  We buried her the next day under some trees by my grandpa's shop.  To this day I have had a difficult time getting too close to any dogs we've had.  My mind became sort of conditioned the day Shorty died.  That hurt was life long hurt and it really stuck with me.  I know I'm not alone.  Many of us have a story like this one.  Many have had a dog like Shorty.

Author's Note

Please review my story. Thank you for reading.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This is a powerful bit of well-made writing which, as you suggested, may trigger memories and grief in others for the loss of their own much loved pets. For me, it certainly does. It's a sad tale, but I'm glad I read it.

[ToddK]

Thank you Samuel. Your review was very helpful. I am so glad you were able to connect with it.