Only a Scruffy Little Mutt

by Gary Clifton

“Oh, Mama, please let's keep him. Squeaker followed me home from the pool and obeyed everything I told him to do. He can sleep with me, and I know already he won't wet the bed. Please, Mama, oh please.”

Nine-year old Heather Smith, on tiptoe, skinny, but captivating in the sometimes-awkward stage of the bloom of youth, was the perfect daughter: an excellent student, a great help at home, and a patient tutor to her little sister, Olivia.

Heather's mother, Lois, studied the new prospective member of the household. Heather had picked up the squirming, half-starved mongrel, ostensibly white with brown spots, but so filthy that an assessment of colors was only an estimate.

“One thing, sweetheart, Squeaker is a girl. Let's wait till Daddy comes home. Meanwhile, let's give her a bath, try to find something she'll eat, and maybe test your theory that she won't pee on the floor.”

Lois was pleasantly surprised that the emaciated little creature actually seemed to enjoy the bath and appeared to be capable of eating anything in the household. That the dog did not pee in the house was a pleasant bonus.

Scott, a CPA, came home with a package of steaks and announced barbeque was the menu. Olivia, who had been playing with a neighbor's daughter, was all in when the now freshly laundered mutt climbed all over her. Scott, warned by his wife, received the same greeting.

That night, Squeaker slept on the den sofa with Heather and passed the test of civilization. Her bladder and other functions held until she yipped at the back door at 6:00 a.m., not an ideal time for Saturday morning, but a critical milestone in family assimilation.

Scott, a long-time athlete, had signed Heather up for the church girls' softball league. She had turned out to be the best player on the team. They played at noon that day. The sun was hot and so was Heather, who not only pitched the whole game, but also hit a bases-loaded home run in the third inning.

Squeaker, intimidated by the heat, hovered beneath Lois's sports chair, uncharacteristically silent. As Heather carried her back to the car, Squeaker lost her breakfast, raising fears she may not be as household oriented as they thought. When they reached home, however, she was fine. Sunday morning, Lois readied the girls for church. She wasn't surprised to repel a full-frontal assault from both girls to carry Squeaker.

After three weeks, Squeaker had become an irreplaceable fixture in the household, having never faltered in her bathroom habits nor committed any other mortal pet-sin.

At a Friday morning breakfast, Heather said, “Mama, our church overnight camping trip is next Friday. Can Olivia and I take Squeaker? If she fell in the river, dogs can swim. I know sometimes kids take their dogs as long as they get prior permission from the camp master.”

Lois knew that although their church would send a small group of less than ten girls, she didn't think dogs were allowed. “Sweetheart, I'll have to call the camp and see if they'll allow it.”

Scott said, “I don't see what harm a scrawny little critter could do, Lois. Just make sure we've got whatever paperwork is necessary, because no way I'm gonna drive back out to that river. The main bridge is out and you have to drive fifteen miles around to get to the campsite.”

At dinner, Lois said, “OK, kids, we had to strongarm the camp manager and put up an extra fifty dollars, but since it is only one night, Squeaker gets to go camping.”

The week went quickly. Early the next Friday morning, Lois and Scott loaded the girls up with more gear than they could possibly carry, with the understanding they would have to enter camp and set things up. They had an early breakfast at McDonald's and by mid-morning had the girls and their faithful companion Squeaker installed in a small wooden cabin which was shared with several other girls.

Scott took Lois to an upscale Italian restaurant for dinner. They were in bed by eleven o'clock. Lois was dozing when the distant peel of thunder passed over. At one o'clock, she was awakened by massive blasts of lightning and booming thunder. Scott was already in the den watching television.

The announcer, appearing genuinely alarmed, announced that sudden flash flooding to the west had cancelled all travel in the area. Residents were warned to stay home or seek high ground.

Scott and Lois were instantly speeding toward the church camp. By chance, the route they had used previously was open. When they approached the camp, horror of horrors, the area where they had left their daughters was now a raging torrent.

They encountered a fire engine carrying several first responders. A man in emergency gear, his face bloody, clinging to the back, said, “Folks, get up in here; we've got more water resistance than your car.”

They searched in terrified agony throughout the night. By daylight, water subsided rapidly. Both grieved, certain their lovely, priceless daughters were lost. Then one of the firefighters said, “Damn dog yipping must be caught in a tree. We ain't looking for no dogs, but I don't see nothin' else to look for.”

After an hour of wallowing in the mud, the chief declared that there was nothing alive in the nearby area. Then he said, “Wait, dog yippin' again.”

The girls were alive. They were lodged in a tree on a high piece of ground, which had been surrounded by raging river water.

“Daddy,” Heather wheezed, “Squeaker led us here, but she couldn't climb, so we had to carry her. She saved us and we saved her.”