The Protector The early morning sunlight woke Torry and her dog almost simultaneously. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer and hoped Scooter would go back to sleep. Unfortunately, his bladder didn't appreciate the snuggly warmth of the blankets and he jumped down. Still not completely housebroken, he wouldn't wait long. With a groan, Torry flopped her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. Scooter whined. "Hold your horses. Let me get my robe." It would not do for her lecherous neighbor, Bruce, to catch her outdoors in her nightie. She snatched the thick, terry bathrobe from its hook and threw it around her as she headed for the door. Scooter danced in an excited circle, obviously anxious to relieve himself. When she reached for the doorknob, he dug frantically at the jam. Before she had it completely open, he zipped through the opening. His white and brown hindquarters bobbed as he went down the stairs. Yawning, she followed him, and then sat in her favorite deck chair. As he did his business, she took in the early spring morning. Light clouds feathered across the sky in pale pink and gold. It would be another glorious day, regardless of the ache in her heart. The scent of mown grass and cherry blossoms lightly tinged the breeze. Scooter stopped snuffling a patch of clover to chase a bird from the yard. It tickled her how he pranced after such an effort, so proud of himself. He turned to come back, took two steps, then froze. His small body stiffened and the hair on his back stood in a spiky ridge. "What's the matter?" Scooter stood near the deck, sturdy legs planted firmly, staring at the fence that separated her yard from her troublesome neighbor, Bruce. A soft breeze carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms as it swirled through her hair. Bruce's yard was empty, and being just after dawn on Saturday, completely quiet. He must have seen a cat or maybe a squirrel. "It's okay, boy," she said. Although his ruff was still up, he finally turned her way and wagged his stubby tail. She patted her leg. "Come over here." After a quick look back toward the fence, he scampered over, wiggling his behind. "Did you see a cat? I know, I know," she cooed, rubbing his back while he squirmed and licked at her hand. "You're the protector of this territory." Scooter yipped in agreement, then dashed to the door in anticipation of breakfast. While savoring her morning cup of coffee, she watched the news, Scooter happily ensconced at her feet. Another woman had been assaulted after a burglar broke into her home. At least this one hadn't been murdered like the last one. Torry sighed. Being alone was bad enough; a burglar/rapist/killer on the loose reinforced the need to be cautious. This was not how she had planned to spend the rest of her life. But, some things you couldn't plan for, like being a widow at thirty. The sun filtered through the window inviting her to take advantage of the nice weather. She donned shorts and a straw hat then set out to work in the garden. Scooter busied himself with sniffing the rosebushes and chasing cottonwood fluffs that drifted over the yard. Her strawberries were pinking up and she began fashioning wire supports to hold them off the ground, out of the way of marauding pests. Bruce startled her when he spoke from close by. "Looking good," he said. Tall and scruffy, Bruce was just visible between the slats of the privacy fence. His suggestive grin told her he didn't mean her garden. "Uh, thanks," she said, irritated by his intrusion. "The berries are ripening quite nicely in this good weather." Bruce's thick lips curled into a leer and his eyes traveled over her bare legs. Why couldn't he mind his own business and leave her be? She had made it clear she wasn't interested in him. Richard had only been dead a month when she accepted an invitation to a barbecue in Bruce's back yard. That had been a disaster, and the last time she would ever socialize with him. The rough group of drunken friends made her uncomfortable and his advances were crude and totally uncalled for. When he trapped her in the alcove by his garage she had to fight to keep him off, the rancid odor of his sweat filling her nose. There had been no assistance from anyone, just snickers and obscene comments. She was lucky he was drunk and unsteady on his feet. When she finally extricated herself and retreated to the safety of her home, their wicked laughter echoed over the fence. After that, she ignored Bruce as best she could. "Mmm, mmmm, sweet stuff," he said and smacked his lips. Only half finished with the job, she dusted off her gloves and whistled at Scooter. "Come on, boy, let's go inside." She could feel Bruce's eyes on her as she walked away. "Ooo, that jerk!" She threw the gloves into the gardening tray by the door. Having a pervert living right behind her, with possible criminal friends, was unsettling. Life in the park would be wonderful, safe, quiet, with mostly senior citizens as neighbors, if only Bruce would lay off. She didn't need his constant prodding to remind her that Richard was no longer alive. He would have been a deterrent to Bruce's advances. Being a widow so young brought more difficulties than just loneliness. Scooter danced in a circle by his bowl. So precious. A surprise gift, her mother had given Torry a Jack Russell terrier because of their small size and big hearts. She suspected that the dog was also to keep her from noticing the hole in her life. She presented the ten-week-old pup, born on the same day Richard died of a brain aneurysm, in a colorful baby blanket. "Their love is unconditional," she had said, "all they ask of you is food and shelter, the rest is joy." His bright, brown eyes looked at her with such affection that she scooped him up and gave him a nuzzling kiss behind his ear. To reward her, his pink tongue darted out and planted a smooch on her nose, warm and wet. "You're my big, strong protector, right?" Scooter's ears perked up and he let out a good-natured bark. After feeding him, she lingered by the window, admiring her garden and waited for Bruce to leave. Saturdays he rarely spent at home, usually taking off around noon, and not returning until well past midnight. Whatever he did during that time, she didn't want to know. Following the terrible experience at his cookout, she was sure he was capable of violence, maybe even rape. Ever since, she had kept her doors locked. True to his habits, he left at twelve. At least now she could finish her work in peace. Like all Saturdays since finding herself alone, she kept busy so time would slip by more quickly. But, when the sun finally caressed the horizon and dusk fell, she knew her only company, other than Scooter, would be television. The dog snuggled up to her when she reclined on the bed, propped up by three pillows. He rested his chin on her thigh, gazed at her in complete bliss and sighed. Moments later he was sound asleep, the soft buzz of his puppy snore indicating utter contentment. It was warm inside, so she opened the window. After flicking through a number of possible selections, she chose a sitcom. Stroking Scooter's slightly wiry fur, she slowly became aware of a disagreeable odor. "Yuck, Scooter. Did you poot?" Sleepy brown eyes looked up in surprise then closed and returned to dreams of chasing rabbits. She had to admit, if he did that, something must have crawled up there and died. The smell was very bad, in fact, disgusting. She tried to figure out where it was coming from. After sniffing around the room, she went to the open window. Although the odor didn't seem to be coming from outside, she kept encountering whiffs and snatches of the nauseating stink more strongly there. Maybe someone composted their garden, or the sewer backed up and the intermittent evening breeze wafted in the stench. She slide the glass closed and went back to her sitcom. Within twenty minutes, the room was uncomfortably stuffy again. She sighed and opened the window. Only seconds past before the cooling air carried with it the awful foulness. A slight shiver ran through her when she realized it smelled like rotting flesh. Had an animal died somewhere close? Perhaps hit by a car and crawled away to die? It distressed her to think some poor injured creature may have struggled its way under the deck. She grabbed the air freshener from the bathroom and sprayed the room. At least that soothed her rolling stomach. With occasional sprays of freshener, the sitcoms and movies blurred by. Just before eleven, Scooter hopped down and whined. "Time to go potty? Go outside?" His ears perked up and he tipped his head to the side. She grabbed her sweater and let him lead the way. Scooter immediately jumped off the deck and relieved himself in the grass. She glanced up. The night was clear and still. Stars sprinkled the heavens like diamond chips on deep blue velvet, the moon a bright, slivered crescent. A sigh escaped her when she realized there was no one to experience it with. At times like this, she really missed Richard, sharing special times, the closeness they had. Scooter growled. It was deep and throaty, full of menace. Only six months old, he had never made such a serious noise and it took her off guard. Fear skittered through her. Barely visible in the moonless night, she made out his motionless form just inches from the deck. He seemed to be pointed toward the tiny evergreen at the corner, but could also have seen something beyond, in Bruce's yard. The sickly stench, light and almost imperceptible, carried to her nose. Goosebumps prickled under her sweater. Once her mother had told her a story about finding an injured raccoon in her yard. The animal's whole hindquarters were smashed to pulp, the bones protruding from gangrenous flesh. The poor creature must have been struck on the highway then dragged its maimed body over half a mile up a hill to her yard. It seemed amazing that such a terribly injured animal could perform such a feat. Her father had ended its agony with one shot to the brain. Torry shuddered. She had no .22. Scooter growled again, then leaped onto the deck and rushed to sit at her feet. He cowered, growling softly, his little body shaking against her leg. She searched the yard for some sign of an animal, but it was difficult to differentiate bushes from a living creature. Moving slowly, she walked back toward the door and flicked on the porch light, then grabbed the shovel that leaned against the shed. Scooter stayed right by her feet, growling. It unnerved her that he continued to issue such a very serious, adult-sounding warning. Whatever it was, she hoped a shovel could dispatch it. The foulness reached her nose, more strongly, and her nerves stepped up the adrenaline-filled tension in her arms. It might not be anything alive, she considered. And, it wouldn't surprise her if it was some dead body Bruce had buried in his yard. That thought was as scary as a wounded animal loose under the deck. Straining to see in the slash of light from the porch, the yard seemed still, serene in the cool, spring night. The rumble of an engine disturbed the solitude of the park. Headlights splashed through the fence and a car stopped in the driveway. Bruce was home early. His return promised no safety and made her more apprehensive. The car door slammed. She heard Bruce thumping and clattering as he put something in the garage. A smirk crept over her face as she considered that he might be hiding ill-gotten goods. The garage door banged shut and an eerie silence descended. What was he doing? He hadn't gone inside. The porch light bathed her in its yellow glow and she realized she was visible. Terrified at being so vulnerable, she backed up, the shovel held across her body. Scooter kept his ground and growled louder. Then the brisk sound of Bruce's boots clocking across his deck drew a panicked gasp from her. He had seen her. The sickly sweet stench grew stronger and her stomach roiled, promising to empty itself. She held back a gag and considered dashing for the house. But, Scooter was still on the deck, and somehow she knew he would remain there to protect her. She wouldn't put it past Bruce to kill him. A vague shadow that was unmistakably Bruce appeared by the fence. His hands gripped the upper edge to climb over, and she heard him grunt as he pulled himself up. The sound of his boots scraping the wood whispered across the yard. His head popped up as his arms straightened and he braced himself on the top. "Hey, sweet thing. Old Bruce needs some company." His implication was clear. Scooter hopped off the deck and planted himself between them in the center of the yard. A sharp bark followed by a deep, warning growl issued from him. "Git, rat dog, or you're history!" "No, you get out of here!" Torry yelled, hoping the neighbors would be wakened by the commotion. With a scornful laugh, Bruce hiked one leg up and started to pull himself over. Alarm raced through her and she whistled for Scooter to come. He didn't obey and continued to growl and bark. The stench grew stronger, almost suffocating. An abrupt exclamation from Bruce as something yanked him off the fence made the hair prickle on the back of her neck. A sharp scream, almost girlish, cut the air. Torry strained to see what was happening, but could only make out a frenetic struggle on the other side of the fence. Another scream, this time muffled, had a gurgling quality that made her shudder. What was happening? Scooter dashed to her feet and whined. She glanced down and he wagged his tail as if to reassure her everything was okay. Unable to move, she remained braced, unsure of what to expect from the carnage occurring on the other side. The struggle took on a wet, disgusting, squishy quality as Bruce's screams slacked off. Soon there was only stillness, but the coppery stench of fresh blood mingled with the odor of rotted flesh, now so strong it clotted the air and made it impossible to get a deep breath. A very faint shuffling movement caught her attention and her heart bang against her chest in dread. Then, softly, almost like a whisper stolen by the wind, a voice spoke. "You're safe, Torry. Safe. All you need now is Scooter to protect you. But remember, I'll always love you." The air was suddenly sweet again; the scent of spring flowers erased every trace of the horrible foulness. The shovel clattered to the deck as lightheadedness gripped her. "Richard?" Scooter yipped in agreement and snuggled close to her ankles. Her eyes traveled back to the stars overhead. Maybe she wasn't alone after all. --end-- © 2000 Sharen Nehoda Back to FMTM Please sign my guestbook below, or click the monster to send an email. [ Sign my GuestBook ] - [ Read my GuestBook ] GuestBook by TheGuestBook.com
The Protector
The early morning sunlight woke Torry and her dog almost simultaneously. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer and hoped Scooter would go back to sleep. Unfortunately, his bladder didn't appreciate the snuggly warmth of the blankets and he jumped down. Still not completely housebroken, he wouldn't wait long. With a groan, Torry flopped her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. Scooter whined.
"Hold your horses. Let me get my robe." It would not do for her lecherous neighbor, Bruce, to catch her outdoors in her nightie. She snatched the thick, terry bathrobe from its hook and threw it around her as she headed for the door.
Scooter danced in an excited circle, obviously anxious to relieve himself. When she reached for the doorknob, he dug frantically at the jam. Before she had it completely open, he zipped through the opening. His white and brown hindquarters bobbed as he went down the stairs. Yawning, she followed him, and then sat in her favorite deck chair.
As he did his business, she took in the early spring morning. Light clouds feathered across the sky in pale pink and gold. It would be another glorious day, regardless of the ache in her heart. The scent of mown grass and cherry blossoms lightly tinged the breeze. Scooter stopped snuffling a patch of clover to chase a bird from the yard. It tickled her how he pranced after such an effort, so proud of himself. He turned to come back, took two steps, then froze. His small body stiffened and the hair on his back stood in a spiky ridge.
"What's the matter?"
Scooter stood near the deck, sturdy legs planted firmly, staring at the fence that separated her yard from her troublesome neighbor, Bruce. A soft breeze carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms as it swirled through her hair. Bruce's yard was empty, and being just after dawn on Saturday, completely quiet. He must have seen a cat or maybe a squirrel.
"It's okay, boy," she said. Although his ruff was still up, he finally turned her way and wagged his stubby tail. She patted her leg. "Come over here."
After a quick look back toward the fence, he scampered over, wiggling his behind. "Did you see a cat? I know, I know," she cooed, rubbing his back while he squirmed and licked at her hand. "You're the protector of this territory." Scooter yipped in agreement, then dashed to the door in anticipation of breakfast.
While savoring her morning cup of coffee, she watched the news, Scooter happily ensconced at her feet. Another woman had been assaulted after a burglar broke into her home. At least this one hadn't been murdered like the last one. Torry sighed. Being alone was bad enough; a burglar/rapist/killer on the loose reinforced the need to be cautious. This was not how she had planned to spend the rest of her life. But, some things you couldn't plan for, like being a widow at thirty.
The sun filtered through the window inviting her to take advantage of the nice weather. She donned shorts and a straw hat then set out to work in the garden. Scooter busied himself with sniffing the rosebushes and chasing cottonwood fluffs that drifted over the yard. Her strawberries were pinking up and she began fashioning wire supports to hold them off the ground, out of the way of marauding pests. Bruce startled her when he spoke from close by.
"Looking good," he said.
Tall and scruffy, Bruce was just visible between the slats of the privacy fence. His suggestive grin told her he didn't mean her garden. "Uh, thanks," she said, irritated by his intrusion. "The berries are ripening quite nicely in this good weather."
Bruce's thick lips curled into a leer and his eyes traveled over her bare legs. Why couldn't he mind his own business and leave her be? She had made it clear she wasn't interested in him.
Richard had only been dead a month when she accepted an invitation to a barbecue in Bruce's back yard. That had been a disaster, and the last time she would ever socialize with him. The rough group of drunken friends made her uncomfortable and his advances were crude and totally uncalled for. When he trapped her in the alcove by his garage she had to fight to keep him off, the rancid odor of his sweat filling her nose. There had been no assistance from anyone, just snickers and obscene comments. She was lucky he was drunk and unsteady on his feet. When she finally extricated herself and retreated to the safety of her home, their wicked laughter echoed over the fence. After that, she ignored Bruce as best she could.
"Mmm, mmmm, sweet stuff," he said and smacked his lips.
Only half finished with the job, she dusted off her gloves and whistled at Scooter. "Come on, boy, let's go inside."
She could feel Bruce's eyes on her as she walked away.
"Ooo, that jerk!" She threw the gloves into the gardening tray by the door. Having a pervert living right behind her, with possible criminal friends, was unsettling.
Life in the park would be wonderful, safe, quiet, with mostly senior citizens as neighbors, if only Bruce would lay off. She didn't need his constant prodding to remind her that Richard was no longer alive. He would have been a deterrent to Bruce's advances. Being a widow so young brought more difficulties than just loneliness.
Scooter danced in a circle by his bowl. So precious. A surprise gift, her mother had given Torry a Jack Russell terrier because of their small size and big hearts. She suspected that the dog was also to keep her from noticing the hole in her life. She presented the ten-week-old pup, born on the same day Richard died of a brain aneurysm, in a colorful baby blanket.
"Their love is unconditional," she had said, "all they ask of you is food and shelter, the rest is joy."
His bright, brown eyes looked at her with such affection that she scooped him up and gave him a nuzzling kiss behind his ear. To reward her, his pink tongue darted out and planted a smooch on her nose, warm and wet.
"You're my big, strong protector, right?"
Scooter's ears perked up and he let out a good-natured bark.
After feeding him, she lingered by the window, admiring her garden and waited for Bruce to leave. Saturdays he rarely spent at home, usually taking off around noon, and not returning until well past midnight. Whatever he did during that time, she didn't want to know. Following the terrible experience at his cookout, she was sure he was capable of violence, maybe even rape. Ever since, she had kept her doors locked. True to his habits, he left at twelve. At least now she could finish her work in peace.
Like all Saturdays since finding herself alone, she kept busy so time would slip by more quickly. But, when the sun finally caressed the horizon and dusk fell, she knew her only company, other than Scooter, would be television. The dog snuggled up to her when she reclined on the bed, propped up by three pillows. He rested his chin on her thigh, gazed at her in complete bliss and sighed. Moments later he was sound asleep, the soft buzz of his puppy snore indicating utter contentment.
It was warm inside, so she opened the window. After flicking through a number of possible selections, she chose a sitcom. Stroking Scooter's slightly wiry fur, she slowly became aware of a disagreeable odor.
"Yuck, Scooter. Did you poot?"
Sleepy brown eyes looked up in surprise then closed and returned to dreams of chasing rabbits. She had to admit, if he did that, something must have crawled up there and died. The smell was very bad, in fact, disgusting. She tried to figure out where it was coming from. After sniffing around the room, she went to the open window. Although the odor didn't seem to be coming from outside, she kept encountering whiffs and snatches of the nauseating stink more strongly there.
Maybe someone composted their garden, or the sewer backed up and the intermittent evening breeze wafted in the stench. She slide the glass closed and went back to her sitcom. Within twenty minutes, the room was uncomfortably stuffy again. She sighed and opened the window. Only seconds past before the cooling air carried with it the awful foulness. A slight shiver ran through her when she realized it smelled like rotting flesh.
Had an animal died somewhere close? Perhaps hit by a car and crawled away to die? It distressed her to think some poor injured creature may have struggled its way under the deck. She grabbed the air freshener from the bathroom and sprayed the room. At least that soothed her rolling stomach.
With occasional sprays of freshener, the sitcoms and movies blurred by. Just before eleven, Scooter hopped down and whined.
"Time to go potty? Go outside?"
His ears perked up and he tipped his head to the side. She grabbed her sweater and let him lead the way. Scooter immediately jumped off the deck and relieved himself in the grass. She glanced up. The night was clear and still. Stars sprinkled the heavens like diamond chips on deep blue velvet, the moon a bright, slivered crescent. A sigh escaped her when she realized there was no one to experience it with. At times like this, she really missed Richard, sharing special times, the closeness they had.
Scooter growled. It was deep and throaty, full of menace. Only six months old, he had never made such a serious noise and it took her off guard. Fear skittered through her.
Barely visible in the moonless night, she made out his motionless form just inches from the deck. He seemed to be pointed toward the tiny evergreen at the corner, but could also have seen something beyond, in Bruce's yard.
The sickly stench, light and almost imperceptible, carried to her nose. Goosebumps prickled under her sweater. Once her mother had told her a story about finding an injured raccoon in her yard. The animal's whole hindquarters were smashed to pulp, the bones protruding from gangrenous flesh. The poor creature must have been struck on the highway then dragged its maimed body over half a mile up a hill to her yard. It seemed amazing that such a terribly injured animal could perform such a feat. Her father had ended its agony with one shot to the brain.
Torry shuddered. She had no .22. Scooter growled again, then leaped onto the deck and rushed to sit at her feet. He cowered, growling softly, his little body shaking against her leg. She searched the yard for some sign of an animal, but it was difficult to differentiate bushes from a living creature. Moving slowly, she walked back toward the door and flicked on the porch light, then grabbed the shovel that leaned against the shed.
Scooter stayed right by her feet, growling. It unnerved her that he continued to issue such a very serious, adult-sounding warning. Whatever it was, she hoped a shovel could dispatch it. The foulness reached her nose, more strongly, and her nerves stepped up the adrenaline-filled tension in her arms. It might not be anything alive, she considered. And, it wouldn't surprise her if it was some dead body Bruce had buried in his yard. That thought was as scary as a wounded animal loose under the deck.
Straining to see in the slash of light from the porch, the yard seemed still, serene in the cool, spring night. The rumble of an engine disturbed the solitude of the park. Headlights splashed through the fence and a car stopped in the driveway. Bruce was home early. His return promised no safety and made her more apprehensive.
The car door slammed. She heard Bruce thumping and clattering as he put something in the garage. A smirk crept over her face as she considered that he might be hiding ill-gotten goods. The garage door banged shut and an eerie silence descended. What was he doing? He hadn't gone inside.
The porch light bathed her in its yellow glow and she realized she was visible. Terrified at being so vulnerable, she backed up, the shovel held across her body. Scooter kept his ground and growled louder. Then the brisk sound of Bruce's boots clocking across his deck drew a panicked gasp from her. He had seen her.
The sickly sweet stench grew stronger and her stomach roiled, promising to empty itself. She held back a gag and considered dashing for the house. But, Scooter was still on the deck, and somehow she knew he would remain there to protect her. She wouldn't put it past Bruce to kill him.
A vague shadow that was unmistakably Bruce appeared by the fence. His hands gripped the upper edge to climb over, and she heard him grunt as he pulled himself up. The sound of his boots scraping the wood whispered across the yard. His head popped up as his arms straightened and he braced himself on the top.
"Hey, sweet thing. Old Bruce needs some company."
His implication was clear. Scooter hopped off the deck and planted himself between them in the center of the yard. A sharp bark followed by a deep, warning growl issued from him.
"Git, rat dog, or you're history!"
"No, you get out of here!" Torry yelled, hoping the neighbors would be wakened by the commotion.
With a scornful laugh, Bruce hiked one leg up and started to pull himself over. Alarm raced through her and she whistled for Scooter to come. He didn't obey and continued to growl and bark. The stench grew stronger, almost suffocating.
An abrupt exclamation from Bruce as something yanked him off the fence made the hair prickle on the back of her neck. A sharp scream, almost girlish, cut the air. Torry strained to see what was happening, but could only make out a frenetic struggle on the other side of the fence. Another scream, this time muffled, had a gurgling quality that made her shudder. What was happening?
Scooter dashed to her feet and whined. She glanced down and he wagged his tail as if to reassure her everything was okay. Unable to move, she remained braced, unsure of what to expect from the carnage occurring on the other side.
The struggle took on a wet, disgusting, squishy quality as Bruce's screams slacked off. Soon there was only stillness, but the coppery stench of fresh blood mingled with the odor of rotted flesh, now so strong it clotted the air and made it impossible to get a deep breath.
A very faint shuffling movement caught her attention and her heart bang against her chest in dread. Then, softly, almost like a whisper stolen by the wind, a voice spoke.
"You're safe, Torry. Safe. All you need now is Scooter to protect you. But remember, I'll always love you."
The air was suddenly sweet again; the scent of spring flowers erased every trace of the horrible foulness. The shovel clattered to the deck as lightheadedness gripped her.
"Richard?"
Scooter yipped in agreement and snuggled close to her ankles. Her eyes traveled back to the stars overhead. Maybe she wasn't alone after all.
--end--
© 2000 Sharen Nehoda
Back to FMTM
Please sign my guestbook below, or click the monster to send an email.
[ Sign my GuestBook ] - [ Read my GuestBook ]
GuestBook by TheGuestBook.com
