Tossed and Found

by Cat Fiasco

“I’ve seen a lot of crap, Gram.”

Her silver hair framed a weathered face, her graying eyes still twinkled with childlike impishness, her gentle hand warmed me like an angel’s caress. Gram nodded.  “I’m sure you have, sweet thing. Tell me about it.”

She stroked my head and waited. I considered whether retracing my journey would rekindle past pain or release me from it. It was time. Squirming closer to her side, I began.

“It was a stormy night, but not a Mother Nature kind of gale.  This bitter storm raged inside a small, wood-framed ranch house. The thunder of angry voices, a brutish hand around my neck, I knew my fate was writ when I was stuffed into a dark plastic bag.  Barking, growling, pleading for mercy, all useless. I wanted to live. I just needed to figure out how.”

 Gram patted my shoulder.  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”

Without reply, I continued. “It happened quickly.  The speeding car, the sound of rushing air, the bone-crushing landing.  Looking back, it was a small blessing to land on a clump of muhly grass rather than on unforgiving pavement.  With a broken leg and barely enough air to breath, my teeth tore furiously through the plastic shroud meant to be my coffin.  Bundled like garbage, discarded like trash, I squeezed myself through a ragged hole, a rebirth of sorts, into the moonless night.  Although racked with pain, I managed a bloody smile, then out loud I yelped, Tomorrow I may live or die—either way, I am free.”

A tear drop dampened the scruff of my neck as Gram stretched for the tissue box, never far from her nose.  After a honk like the call of a migrating goose, she sniffed and whispered. “The pain of rejection can linger long after the ache of broken bones. It can torture the soul.”  For a fleeting moment I wondered what secret agony hid in her aging body.

“Yes, Gram, except for the rousing warmth of the morning sun, I would have surrendered to my predicament.  Awake and squinting into the daylight, I assessed my wounds: my left eye swollen shut, front leg crippled, my body cloaked in bruises. As I scanned my surroundings, my gaze was distracted by a welcome whiff of food that drifted on the breeze. Luckily, my undamaged nose guided me toward a nearby drainage ditch, hopping, and hoping, for breakfast. A paper sack tangled in roadside brambles offered a few stale breadcrumbs.” 

Gram slowly stroked my side, as if counting each rib. “That doesn’t sound like much food.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t enough to satisfy my hunger. Oddly, the nightmarish ordeal made me appreciate those few morsels more than any tasty bowl of canned food. Afterward, I stretched out in the sunshine to warm my aching bones. My bulging left eye was worthless, probably crushed when I hit the ground. The right eye slowly focused on an end-row building, its brick wall splashed with paint. Intrigued, wounds forgotten, I pulled myself out of the ditch and hobbled forward. 

Hunger and pain aside, I sat mesmerized by colors I’d never seen, colors that changed in the shadows of passing clouds, colors that stirred my imagination.  Unfortunately, something else stirred—the pain in my left side. I needed a place to rest, perhaps a place to die. Trembling and with no shelter in sight, I struggled to dig a shallow bed at the base of the wall.”

Gram pulled me into her lap. “Did you dream?”

Staring into her eyes, I mused, “An odd question, Gram. I guess I slept fitfully, over hours or days; I’m not sure. My thoughts and, yes, my dreams fixed on that wall, on the mingling of light and dark, on the freedom with which each color danced across that hard surface. I remember waking to a cold downpour. Struggling to move and with nowhere to go, I decided to stay close to the wall, it’s bold colors warmed my spirit if not my rain-soaked fur.

By morning, mud-caked, hungry, and hurting, I tried to stand. Not good. Yelping, I fell back against the wall.  That’s when I heard voices. Fearful and unable to walk, I waited and listened.

Two voices approached. ‘Let’s see how it held up in the storm.’ As they rounded the corner, both stopped and stared. I was hoping their gaze was on the wall. The freckle-faced gal lifted her hand to stop the approach of her auburn-haired friend. In a harsh voice, ‘Wait, Misha, I think it’s a rat. Don’t get too close. What if it has rabies?’

Misha pushed her friend’s hand aside. ‘Don’t be silly, Becky. It’s a chihuahua. That’s why it’s so small.’ She continued to talk, her voice soothing, as she reached out. ‘Hey sweet thing, what happened to you? How about a bath and some food? Oh my, your eye looks bad.’ I barked when she touched my damaged leg. ‘You poor thing. Let’s get you to a vet.’

The wall seemed to be Becky’s focus. ‘Misha, what about our artwork? The street festival is next week. I don’t see any storm damage but it needs some finishing touches. Why don’t you get that ratty thing to the vet and I’ll finish our mural?’

Misha agreed. ‘Thanks, Becky. Don’t forget to sign it.’ I whimpered in pain as she lifted me to eye level and asked, ‘What shall I call you?’

Mocking my size and appearance Becky chuckled, ‘How about Stinkerbell?’ Both girls laughed before Misha disagreed. ‘No, maybe something shorter. Tink it is. Let’s get you some help.’”

“My memory of the vet is hazy – warm bath, flashes of color, masked faces. I woke up groggy and alone in a small wire cage, my neck bound with a collar so big I couldn’t see the rest of me. Although my pain was gone, a different loss overshadowed that welcome news. I was trapped; my freedom was stolen once more. If dogs could cry … I begged the universe to set me free.”

I heard Gram laugh quietly. “It sent my granddaughter instead.”

“Yes, it did.” We both laughed out loud. “Gram, I could use a snack.”

Always accommodating, she agreed. “Sure, chewy or crunchy? I’ll top off my coffee.”

“Yes, please, to both.” From the time Misha introduced us, her grandmother and I have had a magical connection. At our first meeting, she sat in a yellow-cushioned rocker, book in hand, a blue pen stuck over her left ear. Setting the book aside, she leaned toward me and stared, her two blue-gray eyes to my single dark one, then whispered, “Come here, sweet thing.” I hobbled forward, a black patch over a worthless eyeball and a pink cast bracing my left leg. When she lifted me to her lap, like super-glue, we bonded. From that time forward, she has been my confidant, my sage, my voice and interpreter of all things human.

When Gram returned from the kitchen, hot coffee and treats in hand, I hopped into her lap and quickly snapped up a crunchy biscuit. “Where were we?”

After a loud slurp of caffeine, Gram replied. “I think we’re at the point where Misha brings you home from the hospital.”

“Right. Confined again, I freaked out during the car ride home. Too many terrifying flashbacks. I pawed, I gnawed, I trembled and whined for the entire trip. I didn’t calm down until Misha pulled me from that soft-sided prison she called a pet carrier and put me in front of you, announcing, ‘Meet Tink.’”

I stretched my body as Gram swept her warm hand across my back. “My apologies for laughing at your name. Misha explained its origin and I had to agree.” She chuckled, “Yes, Tink’s freedom came at a high price but it opened a new kind of independence, one of self-determination. When I first looked into your sad little eye, I saw flashes of color, flames of a creative soul—an artist waiting for inspiration.”

 I pressed my paw on her wrinkled hand. “Thanks, Gram.” After a bite of my blueberry-flavored chew, I continued. “But I didn’t see flames in your eyes. I saw a tunnel, swirling with brilliant colors, inviting yet frightening, pulling me forward into your world.”

Gram sighed, “Yes, in that instant our worlds collided, our souls, our destiny forever entangled. Now tell me about your art.”

That’s quite a leap, Gram, from your eyes to my art.”

Gram chuckled, “Yes, it is.  I can recite Misha’s stories from the time she could lift a crayon. Her techie job only served to help her achieve her dream of owning an art gallery. I know her art history. Continue with yours.” 

After a long sigh, “My painful recovery took three months but offered a few surprise benefits.  Misha kept me close, handfeeding me and tending to my injuries. Best of all, she tucked me inside her jacket as we toured art museums, galleries, libraries and murals around town educating ourselves as we went.

Over time, I developed an abstract style that Misha described as canine Jackson Pollock.  Lots of bold tail-strokes, usually after breakfast when I had lots of energy. My bedtime art tended to be sweeping and rhythmic like a queen’s wave. And I always signed my work with a pink swoosh.

When I appeared in public, people adored my uniqueness, a black patch over one eye and a pink binding over my gimpy leg. One gallery visitor declared ‘Aww, what a cute little pirate.’ From then on, people asked about the Pink Pirate. Everyone, especially me, loved the name.

Gram patted my head. “Names don’t usually change, but nicknames adapt to character. My birth name is Sofia but now everyone calls me Gram. Tink suited you at the time of your rescue.  Now you are the Pink Pirate, resourceful, daring and colorful.”

I nodded agreement, “Yes, the nickname fits.”

Thoughtfully, I explained. “I literally stepped into art. Most evenings Misha laid several canvases on the floor with jars of paint and trays of brushes scattered around them. From my cozy bed, I studied her color choices, and brush techniques.

One late night, Misha knelt before a primed canvas, the usual clutter of paints and brushes nearby. In a hurry to get to the doggie door, I figured the shortest path to relief lay between the canvas and Misha.  In my haste, I stepped from her mixing tray onto the canvas. Trying to shake off midnight blue, I knocked over two jars: teal and lemon-yellow. Slipping, sliding, mixing colors with my butt, I skidded across the canvas. Shrieking, Misha grabbed me and raced to the sink. After a scrub, and a scold, we returned to the canvas.  Misha stuffed me in her oversized smock pocket and stared at the chaos of colors.  She smiled then said ‘I like it! Let’s try another.’”

What began as an accident lit the fire that was my calling. Misha and I loved painting together. At first, people only saw me as her save-the-animals project, a one-eyed, limping dog. My art exposed them to the true dog inside, to the creativity that was my heart and soul.

After years of murals, street fairs and party sketches, Misha resigned her techie job and bought a studio to display our work as well as that of other artists. I barked constantly on our road trip to the new location. When she lifted me from the car, I was stunned. Before me stood a solid brick building with a faded, yet familiar, mural on its west wall. A sad homecoming. I suppose fate is the artist.

As Misha lifted me out of the car, she asked, ‘What do you think?’  I hopped out of her arms, trotted to the wall and peed on it.”

Gram chuckled. “A strange baptism, indeed.”

“For weeks, Misha struggled to name her new studio, names like The Barking Brush and Pawsitive Art. When she suggested Tossed and Found, a tribute to my journey, I barked agreement. Misha gathered me in her arms and together we danced. The choice was made.

At our opening gala, I wandered through the crowded gallery, accepting pats on my head. Small crowds would gather to remark on tail-strokes, color and composition. My signature piece hung in the entryway. “Misha labeled it First Steps because I trotted all over the canvas, mixing colors as I raced for the doggie door. I called it Relief.

Our masterwork had stormy grays, dark blues, ominous black with red splotches meant to be teeth marks. No tail-work, only paws and claws digging a hole through the canvas. Misha titled it Rage; I called it Rebirth. Another canvas filled with streaks of every shade of blue completed my contribution to the show. Misha labeled it Rain; I called it Tears. Amazing how the same image evokes such different reactions. Isn’t that the power of abstract art?”

Gram nodded. “Truly.”

“I don’t have enough paws to count the dog years since Misha rescued me. The early ones were filled with pain, the middle years with art and accolades, and my senior years with love and reflection. Throw in several dog biscuits along the way and I’ve had a good run. Funny how the brain doesn’t seem to recognize the passage of time the way the body does. It’s been a joyful and art-filled life.  Sadly, my vet recently declared I have a failing heart. I’m dying, Gram.

Now, I want to end my life with dignity. Your granddaughter is talented and sentimental. She has given me a wonderful life and does not want to let me go. I love her for that, but prolonging my stay means enduring the bittersweet pain of living. I need your help. Will you tell her it’s time for me to go? Will you stay with me when I die?”

Gram hesitated then pulled me close. “Yes, sweet thing, I will look into your eye and watch the brilliant colors you love draw you, once again, into a miraculous new world.”

“I’m ready, Gram.”