During my senior year of high school, I applied for a writing scholarship at the college I ended up not going to. For the scholarship, I had to submit three pieces of writing. One had to be an expository essay; the other two could be essays, short stories, poetry, whatever. I decided to submit an expository essay and a poem that I had already written, but I still needed a third piece, and I wanted it to be a short story, since fiction is what I do best (or at least what I would like to think I do best =P). Up until just a few days before it was time to submit the application and pieces, I had planned to take one of my Bsb short stories and re-write it to make it non-fanfic because I didn’t have any other short stories that I’d written recently, and I had no ideas for a new one. But then, just in time, I was hit with an idea for a new story, which turned out to be this story. (As a note, I got the scholarship, but ended up not using it, since I chose a different college.)

Adelaide

Adelaide was just a puppy when we brought her into our home. Newlywed and childless, my husband Jack and I thought a dog would make the perfect addition to our new little family, and Adelaide definitely did. A golden retriever, she quickly grew from a small, wiggly puppy to a large, beautiful dog. I would like to say she was the perfect pet, well-trained and always well-behaved. But the truth is, she was no Lassie. She wet on the floor, chewed up couch cushions, knocked over the kitchen garbage can… basically everything the average puppy does. And even when we had her trained, there was the occasional misbehavior. But despite the slip-ups here and there, Adelaide was a good dog. Friendly, affectionate, and loyal, she fit the “man’s best friend” description to a T.

Adelaide was three years old when our first child, Nathan, was born, and I have to admit, I was a little wary of the whole situation. A first-time mother, I was naturally overprotective of my newborn baby son and worried about every possible thing that could go wrong, including situations with the dog. Why, what if Adelaide knocked over Nathan’s crib while he was in it? Or, worse, what if she bit him? She was very much an adult dog, and her large, sharp teeth looked powerful enough to rip an infant’s arm off. So, for months, we made sure to keep Adelaide away from the baby. Whether anything actually would have happened in this first few months or not, I will never know. But eventually, we decided that dog and baby must become acquainted, and so, for the first time, Adelaide was allowed to meet her new “brother.”

I half-expected Nathan to cower when he saw the great beast that was Adelaide approach his infant seat that day. But the baby, too young to know fear, was delighted by Adelaide, who came up cautiously, sniffed him a bit, and perched on her hindquarters next to him, just staring at him in curiosity. It was the beginning of a bond that lasted ten more wonderful years, that time-honored relationship between a boy and his dog.

When our daughter Natalie came along four years later, Jack and I were less guarded when it came to Adelaide mixing with the baby. We had seen already that the dog had grown to love children; we never had a problem letting little Nathan play with her. She had never so much as bared her teeth at any of us. With baby Natalie, she was no different. She took to the new baby instantly, as she had done with Nathan, and whatever worries we still might have held on to were immediately eradicated.

For six more years, Adelaide was a part of our family. She was not just a dog, not just a pet, but a member of the family. To Jack and I, she was “our baby,” almost like another daughter. To Nate and Nattie, she a playmate, a friend. We all talked to her as if she were human and treated her like a queen, pampering her with table scraps and dog treats, in addition to her regular dog food, brushing and bathing her, taking her on long walks to the park, and playing with her frequently.

Adelaide’s favorite toy was a blue ball that squeaked when it was squeezed. It was the first toy we had bought for her as a puppy, and, worn, faded, and half-deflated from thirteen years of love, the last toy she ever played with. We taught her how to fetch with that ball, throwing it for her to chase in the park and coaxing her to bring it back to us with dog treats as her reward. When we were not around, she entertained herself with it, pushing it across the floor with her paws and chasing after it.

For most of her life, Adelaide was a happy, healthy, active dog, energetic even in her later years. But at age thirteen, we began to notice changes in her. She had always had a healthy appetite, but suddenly, her food dish would sit full for hours, sometimes even days. The once-lively animal began to sleep more and play less. When it became a chore just to get her to go for a walk, once her favorite activity, we knew something was wrong. At thirteen, we were all aware of the fact that Adelaide was getting on in years, but it seemed more than just old age setting in. We took her to the veterinarian, who confirmed our worst fears. There was indeed something very wrong with Adelaide. An examination revealed a hard lump in her stomach, and after further testing, Dr. Peterson, the vet, solemnly informed us that she had cancer. Of course, I quickly asked about treatment options, hoping to keep her with us as long as possible.

“Mrs. Marshall,” Dr. Peterson said in response to my question, “there are medications we could prescribe, but they are expensive, and there’s no guarantee they’ll even work. Your dog is getting old, and the truth of the matter is, even without the cancer, she would probably only live a few more years anyway.”

Despite my efforts to stay composed, tears filled my eyes. “So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do for her?” I asked. “She’s going to die?”

“Yes,” replied Dr. Peterson. “I’m sorry.”

“How long will it take?”

“That I cannot say. What I will tell you is that as the cancer progresses, Adelaide will be in pain. She will probably stop eating altogether and will not even want to move, let alone go out to use the bathroom. What I’m saying is, the longer you try to prolong her life, the more she will suffer.”

“So what are you suggesting?” I asked, knowing deep down exactly where he was leading.

“I know this is a hard thing to consider doing, but it would be a wise decision if you decided to just put her down now, before she has to suffer,” said the veterinarian gently.

Jack and I exchanged glances; I was shocked to see his eyes bright with tears as well. My husband was not a man who cried often. But then again, it should not have been surprising, for as I said earlier, Adelaide had been part of our family for thirteen years. He loved her as much as I did, maybe even more.

“I think he’s right,” Jack told me quietly. “I don’t want Addy to be in pain.”

Addy – that was her nickname. That is what was engraved on the little, silver, bone-shaped tag attached to her pink collar.

I sniffed. “Yeah, I suppose so,” I said, wiping my eyes. “But what will we tell the kids?” Nathan and Natalie were in school, luckily; we would not have wanted them to be there for this.

“The truth,” Jack replied simply. “It will be hard on them, I know, but I think seeing her in pain, seeing her suffer, would be worse.”

I nodded, sighing. “I agree.”

And so we made the decision to have Adelaide put to sleep the following day.

“Take her home, give your children one last night with her, and bring her back tomorrow morning,” advised Dr. Peterson. “We’ll give her an injection which will put her to sleep, and eventually, she will just stop breathing. It’s completely painless, and she won’t even know what is happening to her.”

We followed the doctor’s instructions and brought Adelaide home with us for the last time. Nathan and Natalie took it hard when we told them, especially Nathan, who had known Adelaide the longest and understood death far better than six-year-old Nattie. We spent most of the evening sitting together in the living room, Adelaide curled up on the rug at our feet. That night, Jack and I let her sleep on our waterbed, something she had not been allowed to do since she was a puppy. It was not the most comfortable, but then again, I could not sleep anyway, kept awake by the dread of what was to come in the morning.

I was elected to take Adelaide back to the vet’s office early the next morning; Jack had opted to stay at home with the kids, telling me he could not bear to watch “it” happen. Before I left, Nathan and Natalie both kissed Adelaide goodbye, crying as they did so, and then fled to their rooms in tears. Jack was more controlled, simply ruffling Adelaide’s soft head and whispering, “Goodbye, baby.”

On the drive to the vet and during the sit in the waiting room, I struggled to keep my emotions in check as I sat, gently stroking Adelaide to keep her calm. We did not have to wait long and were escorted into one of the examining rooms after only a few minutes.

The procedure Dr. Peters had described the day before was indeed simple. He lay Adelaide down on the table on her side, injected her with a needle, and stood back to wait. I positioned myself next to the table, petting Adelaide as the effects of the lethal medication set in. It did not take long. Adelaide fell asleep, just as Dr. Peters had promised. Her breathing grew slower and slower, and finally, it stopped altogether.

Dr. Peters asked if I wanted the veterinary clinic to “take care of her.” I told him no; we would bury her at home. And that is exactly what we did. We laid her to rest under the apple tree in the corner of the backyard, wearing her pink collar, her favorite blue ball at her side.

That was a year ago.

After so many months, the pain of Adelaide’s death faded. Still, I could not help but feel sad whenever I thought of our beloved dog, not to mention guilty. After all, Jack and I had made the decision to end her life; though her death was painless, it was not natural. I could not help but wonder what choice Adelaide would have made if she were human and could understand what was happening to her. I knew I could not reflect on this for long though. Animals were put to sleep for reasons like this all the time; it was considered humane. And, despite our loss, life went on.

And go on our lives did. That fall, Nathan started fifth grade, and Natalie started second. Jack got a job promotion, I got a pay raise, and it seemed like everything was just about perfect.

And then, one night, it was not.

It was the barking that woke me up that night. The short, sharp, constant barks pierced the quiet night and disrupted my sleep; I had always been a light sleeper. I lay awake in bed for a few minutes, Jack still sound asleep at my side, and listened in annoyance, waiting for the neighbors to shut their dog up. But as I listened, growing more and more awake each second, I realized the dog’s bark did not sound like that of Hershey, the beagle that lived next door. His “voice” was higher-pitched and not nearly as loud. In fact, the barks almost sounded like…

But no, it could not be.

Still, curious to find out whose dog it was and where it was, for it sounded close, I climbed out of bed and padded across the carpeting to the window. Slowly pulling back the curtains, I leaned close to the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass, and squinted out into the backyard. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, and I could barely see into the dark night. But from what I could tell, there no was no sign of moment, no dog in sight. Yet still, the barking continued, sounding as if it were right outside our first-story bedroom. The sound sent shivers down my spine.

A bit unnerved, I crossed back to our bed and nudged Jack. “Jack?” I whispered, gently poking his shoulder. “Jack, are you awake?”

My husband groaned and opened his eyes, squinting up through the darkness at me. “Yeah,” he mumbled in disorientation. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?” I asked, pointing to the window. “The dog?”

“What about it?” he asked, closing his eyes again. “It’s probably just Hershey.”

“It’s not Hershey; it’s too deep to be Hershey,” I insisted. “It sounds like it’s coming from right out in the backyard, but I looked, and I can’t see a thing.”

“It’s probably just a stray or something, honey. Go back to bed,” he murmured, rolling over so that his back was facing me.

But I could not sleep. The barking continued, almost frenziedly, and I suddenly had the feeling that something was wrong, that it was not just a cat wandering outside that was making the dog bark like that. My stomach twisted in knots, I gave up on Jack and decided to go investigate. Pulling on my bathrobe and slippers, I left the bedroom and crept down the hallway.

It was not until I got into the kitchen that I smelled smoke. My first thought was that someone had left the oven on too long or burnt their toast in the toaster. But, seeing as it was two in the morning, that just was not possible. Nate and Nattie were asleep in bed; no one had set foot in the kitchen, I was sure.

The smell grew stronger, and I began to look anxiously around for its source. And that is when I saw it – a haze of gray smoke curling out from under the door leading to the basement. My stomach dropping, I knew instantly what was wrong – there was a fire in the basement.

I tore out of the kitchen and back up the hall, my heart racing with panic. I reached Nathan’s room first and threw open his door with a bang. “Nathan!” I cried, trying to keep calm. “Wake up, Nathan!”

Nathan, always a light-sleeper like me, was out of bed immediately, asking, “What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Honey, there’s a fire in the basement,” I said. “We need to get out of the house. I have to get your sister up, and I want you to go to our meeting place.”

As a family, we had discussed this situation before and decided if there was ever a fire or any kind of emergency that forced us to evacuate the house, we would all gather in one spot of the yard. Long before Adelaide’s death, we had settled on the apple tree in the corner of the backyard as our spot, for it was about as far from the house as one could get without leaving the yard.

His eyes wide, Nathan nodded and scrambled out of his room, and I hurried down to Natalie’s room. While Nathan had inherited my light-sleeping tendencies, Nattie had always been more like Jack, hard to wake up. Firmly repeating her name, I shook her awake.

“Mommy?” she asked sleepily, looking up at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “What’s-a matter?”

“Sweetie, we have to get out of the house. There’s a fire.” Not even giving her a chance to pull herself out of bed, I scooped her up in my arms and raced back to my bedroom, where Jack had fallen back to sleep.

The smoke smell had carried to the back of the house now, and the air was getting hazy. I knew the fire was spreading rapidly; we had to get out before the doors were blocked.

“Jack!” I shouted frantically. “There’s a fire! Get up!”

For a deep sleeper, Jack sure moved fast. He was awake and out of bed in an instant, stumbling as the covers twisted around his long legs.

“Come on, we have to get out,” I urged, running with Nattie out of the room, Jack staggering behind me. As we headed for the front door, the air around us grew warmer and thicker with smoke. Nattie coughed, and I tried not to inhale as we hurried along.

The kitchen was now engulfed in flames, but luckily, they had not yet spread to the living room yet. We ran through that room to the front door and hurried out, racing around the house to the backyard, where I could just make out Nathan’s small silhouette standing in the corner, under the apple tree.

“Oh, thank God we’re all okay!” I cried in relief, setting Natalie down as we reached our meeting place.

“What do you think caused it?” Jack asked, looking at the house, his face contorted with anguish.

“Probably the space heater,” I whispered back. “It must have gotten left on for too long.”

Jack shook his head in sorrow, his eyes still fixed on our home, the house we had lived in for over thirteen years. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured.

“At least we’re alive,” I said firmly, always the optimist.

Right then, I heard another voice cry out, “Are you all okay?!” It was the next-door neighbor, Mr. Bentley, who came running across the yard toward us.

“We’re fine!” I shouted back.

“I saw flames shooting out of your kitchen windows and called the fire department. They’re on their way,” Mr. Bentley said breathlessly when he made it to us. “Thank God everyone’s all right.”

“That’s what I said,” I replied weakly.

“Hey, is Hershey chained up outside tonight?” Jack asked Mr. Bentley suddenly, taking me by surprise. I had forgotten all about the dog I had heard.

“Hershey? No, he’s in for the night. Why?”

“My wife heard barking,” said Jack. “That’s what woke you up, right, honey?” I nodded. “I thought maybe it was Hershey, but I guess not,” Jack continued.

“No, it wasn’t Hershey,” I said firmly. “I told you, the bark was too deep to be Hershey’s.”

“Well, whoever’s dog it was, it woke her up,” Jack went on. “Probably saved all of our lives. If we hadn’t have gotten out when we did…”

I shuddered as he let the sentence trail off. But he was right. If it had not been for that dog, I would not have woken up when I did. By the time I smelled smoke, it might have been too late to escape the house.

“Well, why don’t we take the kids back to my place,” said Mr. Bentley. “You all can sleep there tonight.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. I turned back to Nathan and Nattie, who were both sitting in the dewy grass, probably soaking their pajama bottoms. “Kids, come on, we’re going to the Bentleys’.”

We started slowly across the yard. “You know,” I commented to Jack as we walked, “this is going to sound completely crazy, but you know who that dog I heard sounded like?”

“Who?” he asked, and I could have sworn I heard a hint of skepticism in his voice. Could it be that he already knew what I was going to say next?

“Adelaide,” I replied softly.

He started to say something in return, but I never found out what. A thud behind us caused us to both stop and whirl around. Looking back, I saw Nathan on his knees on the ground.

“I tripped on something,” he said, climbing to his feet.

“You okay, buddy? Come on,” said Jack, and we started to go ahead. But Nathan’s cry stopped us.

“Wait! Mom, Dad, look! Look what I found!”

Exchanging perplexed glances, Jack and I turned back and hurried over to where Nathan was standing, holding something in one hand.

“What is it, son?” asked Jack, and Nathan handed him the object. Holding it out, Jack and I both leaned in to inspect it. It was a small, rubbery ball. Jack pressed it in with one of his large hands, and it resonated a feeble squeak.

My heart racing, I shook my head in disbelief and, out of instinct, glanced down. I saw it immediately, another object lying on the grass, just feet away from the apple tree. I picked it up, somehow already knowing what it was. My inspection of it confirmed this.

It was a dog collar, and though I could not tell its color by the dim moonlight, I knew it would be a faded shade of pink. And there, dangling from its center, was a small, silver, bone-shaped tag. The light from the moon and the stars and the flames that ravaged our home illuminated it just enough for me to make out the inscription on its front.

Addy.

***