This is What You Get

A Dog’s Quest for Freedom, No Matter the Consequence

The bloody remains of Alfred splatter the floor below me. He had tried to escape several times before, but it was this attempt that would be his last. Our Owner had enough of it.

“That stupid dog. Couldn’t stop tryna’ run away. I said it to you, if you run away one more damn time, dog, I’m gonna shoot you. This is what you get,” he screamed over his cries as the rancid carcass began to attract flies and other natural critters to his lifeless body. I would cry, but Alfred and I were not friends. He was old and weary, but that didn’t stop him from bullying me to a pulp. Our owner loved it, said it would make us “better creatures”. The only reason why I should cry is because of what is next to come.

Our Owner is a sadistic fool, with an inclination for torturing dogs like ourselves. He had beaten Alfred so many times, morphing the once humble and kind being he was into an evil animal with no regard for anyone but himself. That is probably why he always bit and tore at me after Our Owner’s daily beatings; he needed control and he had none.

But now Alfred is gone. It is not Our Owner anymore, but instead My Owner. Lucky me.

The next day I wake up to the sound of hollering in the kitchen. My Owner is screaming over the phone regarding money issues. In hand is a fifth of half drunken Jack Bean. He keeps repeating the same phrase: “You can’t take my house. This is my granddaddy’s place. He built it with his own two hands over a hundred years ago.”

He snaps and line drives the phone straight at my head. I dodge the throw and walk up towards the phone. I get close enough to the item to hear the other person on the line: “Sir, you have said that several times now. Our records show the house was built over 20 years ago by the Wayne Construction company. If you are not going to take this discussion seriously, then I have nothing more to say…Mr. Cowherd, hello?”

The man repeats saying “Hello” until he realizes My Owner is nowhere in sight. He then hangs-up. I turn to the back door and BAM, I am side-winded by the foot of my owner. “Get the heck out of my way, Dog,” he shouts as he walks over to the couch and turns on the TV.

I feel woozy walking towards to back door. My owner laughs as I struggle to find my way to the back yard.

“Dumb dog, that’s what you get for being in my way. Go outside, you mut!”

He then signals his strong hand towards the door I am already heading for. Even in my own choices, I have no control.

It’s raining. What was left of the green grass in the yard has turned to mud. I can faintly smell the septic tank ten feet below, a fragrance that even an “animal” like me despises. A dead bird’s remains linger in the corner of the field. Walking around, I observe a puddle forming and look down to see myself: My blonde stallion coat has turned to a dark, overgrown scruff. Scars and markings infest my face. I look skinny and destroyed. The pretty pup I once was is now a ragged old dog. I begin to cry.

“Shut up, dog. Stupid idiot. I’ve got money on this game. Be quiet.”

My Owner walks outside and kicks me off the porch. I feel winded again, unable to breathe. My ribs feel like they are protruding out of my stomach. But even with this pain, I hold in my whimper. I can’t let my owner hear it.

“That didn’t hurt. Come here,” my owner demands. I immediately get on all fours and run to the far corner of the yard. My Owner follows me.

“This is what you get, you dumb, stupid, dog.” He corners me and starts wailing with his hands and feet. Each punch hurts more than the one before, and before I know it I pass out from the pain.

I wake up to find darkness all around me. The day had come and gone and all I had done was lay lifeless in the dark summer rain. In the distance, I can see the flashing lights of the living room with a dark silhouette hung-up on the couch. An echoing scream is ringing through the soft rain, but by now that type of stuff goes through one ear and out the other. It is a part of my daily life and I accept it.

After some time I begin to get feeling back in my legs and slowly stand-up. The ground below me suddenly gives way and I fall back on my face. I look to the loose ground and notice a hole running four inches deep right below the fence.

My first thought is how upset My Owner would get. I can imagine all of the screaming and complaining My Owner would demonstrate, only to get even more pissed off and kick me in the abdomen. Stupid dog, this is what you get.

But then something else happens as I stare aimlessly into the muddy hole. The idea is subtle, simple, but so complex almost no man could ever understand its true nature: Freedom. I had finally found the escape Alfred had been seeking all his life. The hole. It suddenly brings new life. To me, the possibility of actually getting out of this rancid slum of a home had actually becoming real. Never had I actually cared for freedom, mostly because I knew it was impossible. I always thought why dream when you know that dream can never be. But now that the dream is actually possible, I begin to believe:

I can be free.

With a new grown sense of inspiration, I immediately begin digging. Soon enough my owner would come outside, stroll through the muddy field and find me. I need to get moving.

Over the next hour I almost double the size of the hole. I can finally see the Light when I feel a slight nudge on my head. A hand is petting me. I turn away and see My Owner kneeling slightly above me. Looking into his eyes, I could tell he had been crying.

“Oh, little Weasel. My little Weasel. Such a good little dog. Come here, Weasel. Come here.”

He opens up his arms and bear hugs me. The rain is coming down harder at this point, but that doesn’t bother my owner. His eyes look bloodshot, filled with booze and other substances. He then closes his eyes and lose consciousness. His body falls straight forward. I roll to my left to avoid his fall, but in my own escape I seemingly screw myself. My owner falls right on top of the hole.

I look at My Owner and realize moving him from off the hole would be an impossible task. Instead, I would have to wait until tomorrow. My escape had become a fruitless endeavor for now.

The night passes and I wake up to a glowing light in the distance. The eternal rain had finally passed, allowing for the glows of a beautiful sunrise to take shape and give me some sort of hope. I look over to the corner of the fence where my owner was lying and see that he had walked back to his bed.

This is my moment. This is when I will become free.

I jolt to the corner, hoping in some way, somehow, he had not noticed the hole. But of course as I arrive at my exit, I find a large brick plaster sitting comfortable in the hole, creating an impassible escape route. Shit.

Downtrodden from the discovery, I head back to the house. At the backdoor stands My Owner holding a paddle in his right hand.

“What the heck do you think you were doing, dog? Dig a hole under my fence do you? Come here, this is what you get.”

And so it goes.

The next month I can barely move. My Owner had given me a beating unlike any other, leaving bones broken and muscles bruised to a point of near-death. Heck, I wanted to die. I wanted something to save me from this pain, this agony knowing that this dream I had succumbed to creating had all but been destroyed. Screw the aches and soreness from my beating; not being able to escape hurt so much worse.

I wake up one cloudy day to a shouting contest between my owner and a stranger arguing over something that must be very important. The man keeps saying that they are going to take the house. My Owner keeps laughing at him while simultaneously berating the man over his features: “Get the heck off my property you elephant eared Jew. Yeah, you. Money grubbing suckers.”

Eventually the man exits the house, leaving the door half-open. My owner walks away to make a drink in the kitchen. I hear the blender go off and the back door open.

The front door is half-open…the front door is half-open? THE FRONT DOOR IS HALF-OPEN!

I look once, just to make sure my owner is nowhere to be seen. Then twice. I then bolt for the door as quickly as I can move my legs. As I am doing so, the sun breaks through the clouds, lighting a pathway straight up to the door. Just as I get to the entrance and begin my descent down the steps, I smack right into Jerry.

“Where ya’ going? Oh boy, if I tell Sammy what you just tried to do, you be getting’ a beatin’. Screamin’ ‘this is what you get’ and shit. Come on, boy. Get in here.”

Jerry is one of My Owner’s friends. They both like hunting and drinking together. Unlike My Owner, Jerry is actually kind and caring. There are many days I wish he was my owner.

“Sammy, where the heck are ya? We goin’ huntin’?”

My Owner walks in from outside and slams the door.

“Yeah, I am. I got drinks made to go. You ready?”

“Ready as you are. Let’s do it.”

My dream, the one damn thing that mattered, was all but destroyed. A second chance? Are you kidding me, Weasel?

I am screwed. There is no hope; that concept is out the window, in the street, prancing around like some bastard who just won the lottery, but won’t share the rest of the winnings with his starving family. I couldn’t help but cry.

“Shut up, Dog. I’m leaving, you best be quiet when I return.”

My Owner and Jerry — -locked and loaded with a shotgun for killing deer — — leave out the back gate, through the field and out of sight. He must be drunk because he forgets to close the back-gate. I immediately realize what he has done.

I run out the backdoor to make sure I am not hallucinating.

He left the back gate unlocked! That idiot. This is what you get, you stupid, stupid owner.

I check to make sure My Owner is out of sight. Nowhere. This is my last chance.

I run. I run as fast as I ever have straight through the gate and into the welcoming woods.

I am greeted by my dream: Freedom. The wind and the air, the woods and the ground. The tranquility of nature, its surrounding, loving, heartwarming atmosphere. I am free and no one can stop me.

After I run some distance into the woods I decide to pause and look up. The sky. For the first time I could actually rejoice knowing I am looking at a sky that is actually free. A place where I can observe and not look behind my back. A place…

The sound of a gun goes off in the distance. I blackout and come to on the ground bloody like Alfred. I am shot.

I slowly turn my head only to see My Owner and Jerry coming towards me. They see my body’s innards flowing out onto the woodland’s ground. My Owner falls to his knees and begins to cry.

“You stupid, stupid dog. This is what you get.”

I think back to how Alfred died and become sad. My anguish is not over Alfred, or even over myself. I’m upset because I begin to realize that this fate has happened to so many dogs before and will happen to so many dogs after. My Owner’s upset now, but soon he will have another companion to soothe his needs of violence. That’s what really sucks about this whole thing.

“Sammy, I think you need to put him out of his misery. He’s not even whimpering.”

My Owner stands up and realizes what he needs to do. He takes his shotgun and points it my head.

I’ve heard when death is on the brink of taking you from life, you see a tunnel, and at the end, a blinding light. It is then when your life flashes before your eyes.

But that’s not happening. All I keep thinking about is the pureness of the air, the blueness of the sky, the taste of oak permeating through the forest, onto my tongue and into my body. Nothing really mattered before this moment. These few seconds of freedom, the Now as I would say, are all that keep flashing before my eyes. A lifetime of solitude for a few moments of actually living. I’ll take that any day.