“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” I pray along with my family. My eyes are sealed shut so tightly that the black is turning purple and neon fireworks are going off on the insides of my eyelids. That’s how fervently I’m praying. That’s how bad I need God to hear my prayer.
My parents picked Ben and me up from our schools today and we stopped by church before heading to the vet’s office for an update. Momma led us up front and we each lit a candle for Bandit, our footsteps echoing eerily in the empty cathedral. I open my eyes and find that I can’t stop looking at my candle now, as Dad leads us through the Lord’s Prayer. It’s beneath the Virgin, the fourth one over in the second row, its flame flickering for Bandit.
“Hear our prayer,” I whisper, gripping tightly to the rosary in my hand. “Hear our prayer, please.”
“His outlook is good,” Dr. Switzer tells us in the waiting room, and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. “He’s got a long road ahead of him,” the doctor warns, not wanting our hopes to soar too high, “but he’ll pull through.”
I hug him. I can’t help myself. I hug him with all my might. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I mumble into his white coat.
Dr. Switzer pats my back and then pulls away some. He squats down and looks me dead in the eyes. “Now, Ricki Jo, he may never be the same Bandit he was before. He won’t be able to run and play for a long time, and then, when he is able, he may have some psychological issues that you can’t feed into. Don’t pity him. He may be fearful, he may be jumpy, but it’ll be up to you to snap him out of it. Don’t feel sorry for him and he won’t feel sorry for himself.”
I guess he sees the mortified look on my face—Can I get a little bedside manner here?—because he awkwardly pats the sides of my arms and tries to smile.
“But, you know,” he continues, “we can talk about all that once he’s feeling better. He should recover well, and although you’ll have to watch him, clean his wounds, and give him medicine, he should be back on the farm in about a week or so.”
I bite my lip and nod. Poor Bandit.
Momma and Ben stay out in the waiting room (my folks worried about how my little brother might take seeing our dog so battered), but Dad and I follow Dr. Switzer down a small hallway to a caged area out back. I hear barking in the kennel as Dr. Switzer opens the back door. All the barking makes me jittery and I hold my dad’s hand, gripping it tightly, hoping Bandit is awake and that if he is, he isn’t scared, too.
“He’s still very weak,” Dr. Switzer warns us as he leads the way to a big cage off to the side, away from the ruckus.
On a long work table, Bandit rests in a big, clean cage. My eyes fill with tears when I see my dog lying there, his chest and face shaved close so that, even under all the bandages, I can see scratches, stitches, and bite marks. Thick black stitches crisscross his ear and a shaved ring circles one eye.
“We hope we can save it,” Dr. Switzer says, reading my mind. “He’ll need another surgery.”
I gulp and nod, scooting closer and wrapping my fingers around the wire of Bandit’s cage.
“And the tube?” I ask. A thick ivory tube sticks out from his upper chest, and then again near his neck.
“Infection,” my dad answers, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The tube helps drain the infection, sweetheart.”
I look over at Dr. Switzer and he confirms this with a swift nod.
I let it all sink in. This is not quite what I imagined when we were told that Bandit’s outlook is good. I watch his belly move up and down slightly and take encouragement from the steady breaths, trying to block out the persistent wheezing. I wish I could touch him, wish he would open his good eye and see me, wish I could take him home.
“We’d better get going,” my dad says gently.
I sniff and nod, wiping my eyes. “Bye, Bandit,” I whisper. “I love you.”
My dad shakes the vet’s hand at the front door, while Ben and I follow my momma out to the car. On the way home Dad explains that Bandit had major surgery on his neck and chest and needs to stay a few nights for observation. He starts to go into details that make my stomach turn along with the curves on our road, and I stop him. I saw the ear, the eye, the jaw, and all the blood. I saw how bad it was. The only thing I need to hear is that Bandit’s outlook is good. That, I can cling to. That, I can accept.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask Momma as I sit cross-legged on the floor next to her.
I already halfheartedly finished my homework, so I dive into the warm heap of towels that just came out of the dryer. I love the smell and warmth of just-washed bath towels. I can’t help but put my face into each one before I fold it and add it to the pile. It’s one of those things, like comfort food, that makes me feel better instantly.
“Did he already leave for work?” I ask again, worried. Dad usually kisses us before heading over to Toyota, and it’s late. I really hope he didn’t leave without saying good-bye.
“He had something to take care of,” Momma says matter-of-factly. She folds faster, more militantly, and her face is set and determined.
“Oh,” I say, understanding. A cold chill runs up my spine and I grab another warm towel. “He went to see the Gumbels, huh?”
She looks up at me, surprised, and then shakes her head and resumes folding. “He went to see the Gumbels. And Animal Control is with him.”
“He called them?” I ask, frozen in place.
“He called them,” she answers, not missing a beat. “Animal Control came over here for the dog that… didn’t make it… and they took it over to the Gumbels’ house together. Your father is very angry, Ricki Jo. It could easily have been you or Ben.”
My mother’s words bounce around in my head. It could easily have been me or Ben. It’s almost been me before, actually, but I doubt telling her that will make her feel any better. The fact is that it was Bandit, and now he’ll never be the same.
I am happy to hear that justice is knocking on the Gumbels’ door, but I worry about my dad at the same time. The Gumbels are mean, and they will still be our neighbors after the folks from the pound are long gone. And they won’t like it much that Luke killed their biggest dog.
Luke killed their biggest dog. I don’t know what came over him, but my dad said he found a bloodied piece of firewood near Bandit’s doghouse with black hairs all over one end. Luke must’ve grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, and with the woodpile being right there, nature’s baseball bat was the weapon of the moment. Which means he got really close to the dog tearing at Bandit’s neck. Which means he practically killed a dog with his bare hands.
I shiver again and wrap a beach towel around my shoulders. My momma raises an eyebrow, but I just grab a washcloth and keep folding in silence. I can’t believe Luke won’t talk about it.