Living Things

By Kate Watson

WINTER 2005 SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER - THIRD PLACE

It was all my fault, really. If I hadn't taken Angela to see my uncle's puppies that day a lot of innocent lives might have been saved. I never guessed that something so evil could spring from such a simple act.

"I just love puppies!" Angela squealed as she scooped up a wiggling ball of fur.

"If you love them, then we'll get you one," her father said. “I wouldn't mind having a dog around."

"No, Papa, not a dog. I want a puppy." Angela's voice rose dangerously.

"Of course, dear. I meant we'd take one of these."

"Well, actually, Sir, you might have to look for another litter. I think Uncle Chet said all these puppies are spoken for," I said.

"We'll see about that," Mr. McMaster replied. "We'll just see."

I knew then that Angela would be leaving with a puppy and that some other family would go home empty-handed. What the McMasters wanted, the McMasters got.

Sure enough, a few minutes later we were loading Angela's wheelchair into the back of the SUV and an eight-week-old Golden Retriever puppy into the front.

Angela was ecstatic. She held the puppy on her lap the whole way home, cooing endearments into its floppy ears. There was a tense moment when the puppy sneezed stickily onto Angela's blouse. I held my breath and I saw Mr. McMaster knuckles whiten on the wheel as he prepared for an explosion.

Angela's face darkened momentarily, and then she giggled. "You silly thing! Now I'm all wet."

I exhaled. Maybe a puppy was just what Angela needed. The poor kid had suffered more than anyone I knew, and that's saying something considering what I've been through.

Several years ago I survived a car crash that killed my mom and dad, and my little sister, Katy. In fact, I met the McMasters in the Children's Hospital while I was recovering. And despite the fact that Angela was only seven and I was ten, and that she is a girl and I'm a boy, we became fast friends. In fact, our bond was so strong that Mr. McMaster convinced my Uncle Chet that it would be best for me to come live with Angela when I was released from the hospital.

Now, I know that it must seem odd that I think Angela is worse off than I am. I mean, I'm an orphan and I still have nightmares about my little sister's bloody, crumpled body. Angela is in a wheelchair, sure, but she has a doting dad who would buy her the moon if he thought she wanted it. I guess the difference is that what happened to me was an accident, but Angela has to live for the rest of her life knowing that her mother wanted her dead.

It's never spoken of, but I'd seen newspaper clippings describing the suicide of wealthy socialite, Deirdre McMaster, and the attempted murder of her seven-year-old daughter, Angela. It was rumoured that his wife jumped from the Fifth Street Bridge not in despair, but in retaliation for Mr. McMaster's philandering ways. I guess she figured the loss of his beloved daughter and the stigma of a fatally unbalanced wife would be a suitable punishment. No wonder Angela had issues!

As soon as we got home, Angela insisted on being wheeled into Mr. McMaster's huge library.

"Don't you think you should rest, Princess? You've had a busy day and you look a bit pale. Max will look after the dog for you."

"I'm not tired, Papa. And she's a puppy, not a dog. I'm going to find a name for her."

As usual, her father didn't argue. I spent the next half hour alternating between tracking down books on baby names for Angela and preventing the pup from chewing and peeing on everything in sight.

Finally, Angela exclaimed, "I've found the perfect name. I'm going to call her "Callula". It's Latin for "small beauty".

I laughed. "I guess she'll always be beautiful, but she won't always be small, you know. Callula could end up weighing seventy pounds."

"She won't, because she's never going to grow up. Are you my little sweetie?"

I guess I should have realized then that something wasn't right. I mean, puppies grow up. There's nothing you can do about it...or so I thought.

"I want to look after Callula by myself," Angela announced at supper. "I'll feed her and walk her, and she can sleep on my bed. I'm going to take really good care of her."

Mr. McMaster beamed. The psychiatrists had warned that Angela might never recover emotionally, but it seemed this puppy might be the key.

"It'll be at least a few days until she's house broken, so Max will help you out for a little while," he said. "I've no doubt you'll be able to handle her."

The next day, I rigged up a system that allowed Callula to be attached by a metal arm to Angela's wheelchair so that the two of them could go for walks together without a leash to get tangled in the wheels. Mrs. Branch, the housekeeper, set up the dog food and dishes where Angela could reach them. For a while, it looked like everything would be just great.

"Max! Would you come in here?"

Mr. McMaster did not usually speak to me that way. I wasn't exactly a member of the family, but I certainly wasn't a servant. I was more like an object that gave Mr. McMaster pleasure because I gave his daughter pleasure. I was surprised to be summoned so sharply.

I rushed into his study.

"That damn creature has been eating my shoes again," He held out a scrap of leather. "And I don't mean chewing on them, or gnawing at them. I mean eating them!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. McMaster. I don't understand it. Callula's really smart. She was housebroken in three days. But we can't seem to stop her from wolfing down everything in sight."

Mr. McMaster sighed. "Well, I guess it's a small price to pay to see Angela so happy. But could you try to keep an eye on the little beast?"

Sure thing, Sir. I'll do my best."

But my best was not good enough. Callula's appetite was insatiable and she became a terrible mooch. I found her dark, pleading eyes hard to resist.

"Don't you dare feed her," Angela commanded whenever it looked like I might be about to share my food. "She'll get fat!"

I was often tempted to defy Angela, and I came to wish that I had. Callula was nowhere near fat. She was growing up but not out. Her ribs protruded, her eyes dulled and her luxurious blonde coat lost its sheen.

Angela didn't seem to notice.

Finally, it was obvious that something was seriously wrong.

"She must have worms, Angela. Dr. Lohenstein will fix her right up," Mr. McMaster said as he lifted the dog effortlessly into the SUV. "My God! She's lighter than when we brought her home two months ago."

"She's fine, Papa! Why don't you listen to me? I know what's best for my own puppy. Don't take her!" Angela's face was purple with rage. I thought for sure Mr. McMaster would give in, but he drove away.

A short while later he was home, without Callula.

"Malnutrition," Mr. McMaster said through clenched teeth. "The vet said Callula was literally starving. He had to put her down. It was the kindest thing to do."

Angela's face was blank. I waited for her to rage, to cry out, and to demand to know how and why such a terrible thing could happen.

Instead she said, "I want another puppy."

"But, Angela..."

"I want another puppy." Her voice was like ice. "You find me another Golden Retriever puppy, now, today."

I willed Mr. McMaster to say 'no'. He met my eyes, and hung his head.

"Are you sure, Princess? They say that a person shouldn't try to replace one pet with another."

Angela merely nodded.

Of course, I did my best to protect the new Callula. I made sure she had plenty to eat, and Angela didn't object. I was beginning to think that there had been some awful mistake, that the first batch of puppy food had been lacking in nutrients or that the first Callula had had some rare condition. It began to seem crazy that I could have imagined that Angela would hurt a defenseless puppy.

I relaxed...and the new puppy died of antifreeze poisoning.

"You can't really mean to get her another puppy?" I raised my voice to Mr. McMaster for the first time in our relationship. “Are you nuts?"

"Just what are you suggesting, Max?" His voice was calm and quiet. "Callula had a tragic accident. Angela is distraught. Of course I'll get her another puppy if it will make her happy."

"You're as crazy as she is," I muttered as I slammed the study door.

I wasn't around to see what happened to Callula three. Mr. McMaster offered me the chance to go abroad for my last year of high school, and I jumped at it. I spent another year working my way around Europe, so Angela was almost sixteen when we met again.

I'd never really let myself see how pretty Angela was. After all, she was like a sister to me. But I couldn't deny that she'd matured in all the right places since I'd been gone. My heart skipped a beat when she pulled me close and whispered, "I've missed you, Max."

Her face was so pure, her eyes so innocent that I almost forgot what she’s capable of. Then she motioned for me to pull up a chair beside her so that she could show me pictures of the two years I'd missed, and it all came rushing back. There was Callula, in every picture, never growing, never aging while Angela turned into a young woman.

I pulled away sharply and said, "Where's Callula? I haven't seen her, yet."

Angela frowned. "The puppy? She got to be too much work. I don't need the hassle."

I smiled. I was sure that someone had finally seen the truth.

"Besides," she added, "I've decided that I don't really like puppies. I like babies."

"Children? You with children?"

Angela giggled. "Not children, silly. Babies. I like babies."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kate Watson lives in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia where she has raised and home schooled three children. Writing is a great outlet for her slightly twisted and subversive thoughts.

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