Dog Story

essay

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In the late 1970s, my big brother adopted a stray dog—a massive St. Bernard. Back in those days, white people sometimes dumped their unwanted mutts on our reservation. I guess they thought that we Indians, being so romantically and stereotypically associated with flora and fauna, would take care of those abandoned dogs. And Indians did adopt some of those pooches. Other dogs disappeared. Some turned feral and formed dangerous packs.

I like to joke about a gang of crazy-eyed Pomeranians with switchblades in their paws and dirty pink ribbons in their fur.

I don't remember when that St. Bernard first appeared on the rez. And I don't remember what new nickname he was given. Probably something like Big Fucker. But I do remember that he got into fights with other dogs. I don't know dog politics but Big Fucker rose up through the warrior ranks until he faced Eddie, who was a stout mixed-breed and the reigning rez champion. Those fights were not arranged. There was no dog fighting ring. That canine combat happened because the dogs had instincts to follow.

Eddie had never lost a fight but Big Fucker quickly walloped him. I didn't see the battle but rez gossip said that Eddie, bitten and torn, hid under a trailer house for a few days then meekly emerged and never fought again.

I don't know why my big brother fell in love with that St. Bernard. And I've never asked him. My brother wasn't violent. He's always been a good guy who's universally loved on the rez. As far as I know, he's only been in three fistfights in his life. Once during a pickup basketball game where the other dude threw three punches and broke his hand on my brother's forehead. The second fight was between my brother and his best friend. That brief skirmish happened because his best friend kept sticking his finger in my brother's TV dinner. As for that third fight, the only thing I know is that my brother came home one night with a black eye.

So you might be asking how a good guy like my brother got into three fistfights. It's because every rez kid had to throw fists now and again. It was honor culture bullshit. We also had instincts to follow.

My brother charmed that St. Bernard by feeding him. Our family couldn't afford the luxury of actual dog food, so our three dogs—Outlaw, Cheetos, and Pierre the Poodle—ate what we ate. That meant Big Fucker also ate the food that we ate. For a few days, all the dogs ate together. But there was no way that Big Fucker got fed enough. He must’ve been constantly hungry.

And it must've been a territorial dispute at mealtime that led to Big Fucker chomping on our little Pierre and shaking him until he was dead.

My brother, sisters, and I watched it happen. My sisters screamed and cried. My brother cursed as that St. Bernard opened his mouth and dropped Pierre to the ground.

I know that dogs feel shame. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that most dogs feel shame while others have been bred to feel none. I'd like to say that St. Bernard was a remorseless killer but he immediately ran up the stairs onto our back porch to whimper and wail.

As I screamed with rage, I picked up a baseball bat and ran up those stairs. I was going to beat Big Fucker to death. He cowered as I raised the bat over my head.

But our father, alerted by the noise, opened the back door and grabbed the bat from my hands. Then Big Fucker made his escape into the woods behind our house.

I'd wanted to slaughter that dog. But I think it's far more likely that I would've only enraged him. He would've defended himself. I was only ten years old. He could've have seriously injured me. And he was certainly big enough to have chomped on my throat and shaken me to death.

By taking that bat from me, my father might've saved my life. He remained silent as he led all of his children and surviving dogs into the house and fed us stew. Then, later that day, he dug the grave for our dear Pierre.

Big Fucker disappeared. There were rumored sightings. I cursed my brother for bringing that murderous dog into our lives. I was furious. I’ve long since forgiven my brother—he was just a kid—but I still remember the enormous grief.

A few weeks after Big Fucker disappeared, my father and I drove our trash to the rez dump. As I threw a heavy garbage bag as far as I could, I spotted Big Fucker's dead body. Somebody had shot him multiple times.

"Dad," I said. "Look."

My father sighed and shook his head.

"Did you do it?" I asked him.

"No," he said. I knew he was telling the truth. My father, like my brother, was a good and non-violent man.

I don't know who shot Big Fucker. The Second Amendment is gospel on our rez. Most every Indian owned a rifle or two. But nobody took credit for the kill.

What did I do after I saw that dog's body?

I celebrated. I danced and cheered. I ran toward Big Fucker. I wanted to kick his bullet-ridden body and make him bleed all over again. But my father grabbed me by the shoulders and guided me back into our car.

As we drove away, I looked back at that killer's dead body and felt joy. No, I felt grim joy

I know what vengeance tastes like. As I write this, I can taste it anew. I'd like to say that vengeance is only bitter. But sometimes bitter and sweet are more synonyms than opposites.

And this is how I know that I should never be the judge who determines the punishment for the people who've harmed the ones I love.