Perrito

I was asleep in my son’s bed when you started pawing at our gate. I heard the lock rattle and clang against the gate latch. At first, in my fuzzy-headed state, I thought it was a cat prowling along our fence, but the rattling was too loud, so I got out of bed and stumbled through our dark bedroom. It was two-thirty in the morning. Was someone trying to break into our backyard? I grabbed a flashlight, then tiptoed past our kitchen to the backdoor. A window by the door was cracked open and that’s when I heard you, panting on the other side of the door. Oh, shit, I said aloud as my eyes flung open like a pair of roller blinds. I immediately knew it was you. I knew you had snuck into our backyard.

Two days before, my five-year-old son asked to see you and your companion, Coco, a mangy Maltese. I lifted him up so he could see you both over the short fence that separates our backyards. We saw you. You saw us. You were lying on the dirt. Coco was chilling next to you, also staring back at us. You wagged your tail whenever I talked to you in the sweet voice I reserve for furry animals and infants. I’ve known you since you were a pup, when you were shorter than Coco. Now you’re a full-grown pitbull mix. My son’s scared of you. He shrieked that time about a month before when you escaped from your yard and visited us as my wife and son did yard work on our driveway. He’s scared of any dog that is barely shorter than him.

When I opened the backdoor, you were standing on the back step. I pointed the flashlight at you. I saw your eyes, like two beads of light, glint back at me. I gasped when I saw the shadowy outline of your figure. Holy shit, you’re a big dog. I’d never been so physically close to you—and I was scared of you. Throughout my life, I’ve met and befriended so many dogs but I had never petted or played with a pitbull.

I turned off the flashlight because I didn’t want it to blind your eyes. Thought its piercing light might not be hospitable. I talked to you in my sweet voice and explained that it was okay that you were in our backyard but I needed to go back to sleep. I gently closed the door and went back to bed. I heard you prowling up and down along our fence. I heard you bark into the night. The feral cats that live in the abandoned yard next to our house must have brought you over. After a few minutes, I drifted back to sleep. To my surprise, it was soothing to hear you bark at the cats to scare them off our yard. I understood then how comforting it can be to have a bad motherfucker of a dog like you as a protector.

But then, early in the morning, I was startled awake again when I heard the lock rattle against the gate latch. This time, it sounded like you or Coco were pawing and digging through the patch of dirt next to our bedroom. I shot up in bed and raced out of the room, afraid you were trying to dig a hole beneath our gate to escape. Before you came along, your owner, tu dueño, owned a huge Irish wolfhound that howled like a wolf. We heard the dog had run away. I didn’t want you both to escape from our house. Not on my watch.

This time, I grabbed a solar lantern instead of a flashlight. I opened the backdoor and there you were, standing on the other side of our screen door. Your homie, Coco, stood at the foot of the backsteps, turning his head curiously at me, the white fur by his paws all covered in dirt.

Okay, perrito, I said to you. I just want to step out, okay. I just want to see what you two have been up to.

I tried to open the screen door, but you were standing right next to it. I had my house slippers on. As I gently pushed the screen door open, you stuck your snout beneath it to sniff at my slippers. I realized you were smelling me. Trying to get acquainted. Our first contact. Over the past three or so years, you had only seen me through the slits between the fence boards, when I would climb a ladder to clean the gutters from the garage, or when I would peek over the fence.

I held the screen door open and let you sniff my slippers. Soon after, you took a few steps back. I carefully opened the door and stepped out. There you were, sniffing at my hand as I held the lantern, bathing you in its warm light. I spoke sweetly to you. Then I held a hand out so you could smell it. After you sniffed me for a few seconds, I reached down to pet your back. You tensed up for a second, but after I petted you, you started licking at my hand.

Together we stepped down to the back patio. I walked over to the gate. There was no hole in the patch of dirt by the fence. I was relieved. You followed by my side, playfully nipping at my hand, as I led you and Coco to the fence that separates us. As I suspected, the loose wooden board had been pushed aside. Probably your work. You and Coco had slipped through the crack into our backyard.

I grabbed the loose board and lifted it. I gestured with my hand in an attempt to coax you and Coco back to your yard, but you both looked at me like you had no clue what I was proposing. I just laughed and stepped away.

By then, it was six-thirty in the morning. The sky was brightening. You circled and hopped around me like I was your sun. It was a joy for me. And validating. When my wife and our son walked around the block, or when we drove him around in his push car, you would bark loudly at us through a hole in your back fence. Your barking scared my son so we’d cross to the other side of that street anytime we went around the block so you wouldn’t snap and bark at us. I had told them, on a few occasions, that I thought you simply wanted attention. Your owners—whoever they are—never play with you. We never see them pay attention to you, and it’s always made my wife and I sad. They got you to protect their backyard. You’re a guardian, not a companion to them.

I tried so, so hard not to pet you. I wanted to, but I was afraid that it would endear me to you. See, my parents and family have a history of inadvertently stealing our neighbor’s pets by spoiling them with treats and affection when we took care of them. I was afraid you’d want to squeak through the fence or dig underneath it to be with us, so I tried not to pet you. But as I was heading back inside, I petted you once and you responded by jumping on me, your dirty paws on my chest. I smiled as you stood on your powerful hind legs while I held you by your front legs. You stared back at me, I swear, like you just wanted me to hold you. I’d never seen a dog do that. Usually, a dog gets excited and jumps up like they’ve missed the hell out of me, but you just wanted me to hold you. To claim you, so you could claim me.

I let you go, and my heart was torn. Then you kept playfully nipping at my hands, which scared me a teensy bit because your snout is so freaking wide and your jaws are so unbelievably powerful. And then you rolled onto your back so I could bend down and scratch your tummy. God, I wanted to scratch your belly and laugh with glee, but I refrained because I didn’t want to kindle your affection. You’re not my dog, as much as I wish you could be. Before long, I managed to shuffle and distance myself from you and left you and Coco standing in our back patio. I went back to bed. Soon after, I heard you whimper, and that just broke my goddamn fucking heart.

Soon after, our alarm rang. Time to get ready for work. When our son was not in earshot, I whispered to my wife that you and Coco had snuck into our backyard. I made my way to our kitchen and peered out into the backyard and saw that you and Coco were gone. I stepped out to the backyard. I tiptoed to the fence and heard you bound up to it. I moved the loose board to cover the opening, then covered it with another board and a few bricks. I could see your snout, trying to wedge into the crack between the fence that separated us. Then I said, I’m sorry, perrito, and hung my head and trudged back home.

About a week later, I was pulling weeds and doing some yardwork. I heard you in your backyard. I stepped over to the fence and peered over. You were laying on the dirt. Psst, psst, I said, and I know you heard me. And I know you heard me approach the fence as I stepped on dry crinkly leaves strewn on our lawn, but you refused to turn to acknowledge me. It was like something a cat would do, not a dog. But I understood, even though it saddened me.

I am certain that you will never read this, but I wish you knew just how much I like you, perrito. 

How much I wish I could take you into our home.

You are the companion I wish we had.