ZEBEDEE

ZEBEDEE
She was a terrified tiny wire-haired dachshund, black coated, with
eyebrows of clear tan. Her ears were completely bald, dark brown flaps
of heavily veined skin, and she trembled uncontrollably. The vet
dismissed her as a nervous wreck, brutalised by over-breeding and
abandoned to her fate, due to be put down the next day. She was too
frightened to look at me. She glanced up from under her eyebrows for a
second. Her eyes were amber, anguished, beautiful. I asked if I could
try to help her, offer her another chance in a new home. The vet
admitted that she was physically healthy, but he thought her
emotionally beyond hope. I had just had to let him put my own dachshund
to sleep because she had fractured her spine and was incurably
paralysed. I wanted to expiate what I felt to be my sin by saving a
life. When I put my hand into the holding cage, she made no attempt to
bite or growl, she only shuddered and pressed herself against the back
wall. I took hold of her body and she became locked rigid, beyond
comfort as she resisted touch in total panic.

I carried her home. She was in a state similar to rigor mortis, with no
hint of relaxation. When lowered to the living room floor, she
disappeared under the sofa, which was so low to the ground that she had
to lie on her side and force herself into the space. I made a nest
inside an oval dog bed, made of plastic not wicker. Experience had
taught me that nervous dogs often felt threatened by the sounds made by
wicker dog baskets when they first settled into them and abandoned them
for the floor. Under the top piece of blanket I put a hot water bottle.
I lived in an old cottage with a solid fuel fire, which I had made sure
was well stoked up before I had gone to the vet's surgery. The room was
warm and the dog bed was beside the hearth, but that was not going to
help a dog jammed under the sofa and afraid to come out. I looked under
the sofa and those startled amber eyes were looking back at me from the
darkness. I withdrew into the kitchen, leaving the adjoining door open.
Finely chopped chicken livers, gently fried, filled the house with a
smell that promised good food, even to a human nose. I was relying on a
sense of smell a thousand times more sensitive than mine to tempt the
fugitive out of hiding. Very quietly I put two small feeding bowls down
beside the dog bed, one with the fragrant, fresh chicken livers, the
other with water.

Less quietly I walked across to the sofa and sat down. There was a
desperate scrabbling underneath me and a dark streak launched itself
from beneath the sofa to the furthest corner of the room, which
happened to be inside the alcove beside the fire. In her panic, she had
pushed past the dog bed, now she crouched behind it as though seeking
protection. At that proximity, the smell of the food must have been
overpowering. I put my feet up on the sofa and lay motionless,
watching. The vet had told me her name was "Kiki". I hesitated to make
any sound. I breathed steadily and lowered my eyelids. Those amber eyes
beside the fire studied me as I continued to observe her through my
eyelashes. She inched out from behind the dog bed, moving one paw after
another like a slow motion cartoon. She never took her eyes off me and
she was as tightly wound as a new spring. Someone coughed walking by
outside. She went rigid and scrambled backwards, waited and then
continued creeping towards the food and water. She chose the water and
drank with fierce speed until the bowl was almost empty. She spun round
to check on me. I was careful to show no flicker of movement. Satisfied
there was no immediate danger, she turned to the food and seemed to
inhale it without the use of teeth, so quickly did it disappear. She
investigated the dog bed thoroughly and put an experimental paw inside.
Cautiously, as though she expected it might break or injure her, she
arranged herself into the circular position in which dachshunds feel
most comfortable. The food had made her sleepy, but she watched me as
her eyelids closed and opened several times, before she succumbed to
sleep.

I went about a few chores as quietly as I could and she slept on. When
I saw those amber eyes fixed on me again, I opened the back door so
that she could go out into the garden, before I went towards her.
"Kiki!" I wheedled in a coaxing voice. "Good girl, Kiki, out you go!"
She launched herself out of the dog bed, out through the open door and
disappeared into the shrubbery. I left her alone to explore the garden.
It had high walls and a solid back gate, so she was safe enough. When
dusk chilled the air, I went in search of her, calling her name. A
rustling sound betrayed where she had pressed herself against the wall
out of sight, I called and called, gently, encouragingly, lovingly. A
black streak in the half light cannoned up the garden and through the
open door to the kitchen. At least she was inside again. I followed her
in. "Kiki! Silly girl, where are you? Kiki! Kiki!" The frantic scraping
of claws under the sofa gave her away. Wise to her ways now, I went to
sit on the sofa, she bolted behind the dog bed and looked at me,
unblinking and tense. I used her name. She began to tremble, then to
dig at the floor in the corner of the alcove as though she were a
prisoner-of-war trying to tunnel under the wire fence and make break
for freedom. She gave up when she realized there was no way out.
Squirming her rear end into the corner, she went on staring at me, her
eyes wide with fear.

I sat thinking about her. I worked with children in a recovery centre
dealing with victims of family violence and sexual abuse. This dog was
behaving like an abused child and the name her abuser had used for her
caused her to panic, so she tried her damnedest to escape from whoever
used that name on the assumption that she was in danger of more abuse.
I curled up on the sofa and half closed my eyes, a position in which I
posed no threat. I talked to her softly without using her name,
stroking her verbally, very calmly letting her hear me and become
accustomed to my voice. Eventually she crept back into the dog bed and
did not run away when I put fresh food and water beside her before I
went to bed. In the morning she ran through the back door as soon as it
was opened. I decided on a cooked breakfast. It was Sunday and I could
relax with the papers, eating in my own time. The coffee machine
puttered away while I started to fry bacon. I was treating myself to a
proper breakfast that reminded me of seaside holidays in childhood
summers. Comforting and familiar, the smell of bacon and coffee filed
the kitchen. I had forgotten the dog in the garden. I heard a small
tapping sound behind me. She had come in and was standing on her hind
legs as though trying to see into the frying pan on the hob. I smiled
at her. She jumped vertically, landing neatly on her hind paws with
perfect balance, like spring loaded toy. She made no sound, no whine or
bark or growl, but she bounced and she bounced, her nostrils twitching
at the bacon smell. Then, still bouncing, her tongue peeped out and the
smallest of muffled whimpers escaped her.

"Do you like bacon, good dog?" She bounced tirelessly. "Do you want
bacon ?..?" I must not use her old name. What should I call her? Then I
remembered "The Magic Roundabout". I took out a small piece of bacon
and let it cool. She was now standing, poised, vertical and anxious,
adjusting her balance by slight sideways swaying. I took the bacon in
my fingers and offered it to her. She bounced up and down as it
descended to nose height. "Bacon for you, Zebedee!" She took it
carefully and dropped to all fours to eat it. When she had finished, I
gave her another piece and started to stroke her while she was
concentrating on the bacon. "Zebedee? Are you a good Zebedee? There's a
good Zebedee!" I knelt down on the cold vinyl flooring and she put her
front paws on my thighs. Slowly I bent my head towards her. She
quivered. I stopped. She raised herself on her hind legs and licked my
nose. I lifted her into my arms, she relaxed and I felt her tail
wagging. Zebedee had come home and Zebedee she remained
? LINDY MCNAUGHTON JORDAN, 2002 (1,525 words)

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