Madeline & her Dog

MADELINE runs out to the middle of the stage, panting. When she stops, she immediately falls to her knees and ends sitting with her feet pulled under her. With her head down, she slowly raises her head until she is staring out at the audience, her eyes scanning back and forth. She looks crazed.

Madeline

When I was young, just like any child you would see in a grocery store wagon, sitting like a baby bird, peering over the edges - I was one of the energetic sort. But as a child, I grew up surrounded at all times by domesticated pets. My aunts and uncles had cats and dogs and My Grandmother had a fish tank with two goldfish that she let me feed every morning. And I loved everything and everyone. Every Dog I came in contact with I wanted, and I squirmed to free myself from my young mother and associate with the dogs instead.

And as I grew older, my mother loosened her grip and my father was there again and everything was perfect. So we got a dog. The perfect dog. The exact dog I always thought I wanted. A tan puppy who was almost overtly energetic with what seemed like a permanently upturned ear in a constant state of interest. And he was mine. He was quiet and soft and mine. But then he grew.

He went from a level of about my knee to my waist, and it seemed like it wouldn't stop. All he was, was a puppy. And his large paws and tiny body slowly grew proportioned before his mind and his actions could grow accustomed to his size. It was unfair, really. It was out of control. He was out of control, but only in the things I felt like he couldn't even control. He jumped up and knocked me over and ate my food and ripped my dresses and Mom cried even though I told her it was me. And Dad was unhappy and was always angry and he told me it was my fault that we got the goddamn dog in the first place. But I loved him anyways. I still don't know when I say that, if I mean my father or my dog.

And as a year passed, both my father AND my dog got more aggressive and my mother was yelling again and that's how it stayed. But I still loved my dog, when I didn't love anyone else.

But, as Mom said she KNEW he would, Dad left. Again. And when he tried to come back for his things, Mom screamed and threw things at him until he stopped coming back for weeks at a time. Whenever I saw him, he was either angry or drunk, but I didn't know that. I only knew it was my Dad.

The last time he reared HIS ugly head, Mom had enough. She started yelling and he started hitting her and my dog started barking, and all I could do was cry. The only thing I did for her was sit rigidly on the couch, curled up, crying into my long locks.

Then Mom fell and Dad started crying and my Dog bit him. And then Dad started fighting again. He kicked my perfect dog, my favorite thing, in the chest, but my guardian fought back. He bit my Dad in the ass, like he deserved, but Dad kicked him again and he went down. My gorgeous dog, panting on the linoleum with his head rested on the carpet, looking on with frantic eyes, looked almost serene.

I like to think of him like that. Like he was actually happy in the life we had to live together.

So Dad left, and Mom got up, and... And... My dog. He got sick, Mom told me. He got sick and he was coming back soon, real soon, doll.

But he didn't.

He died on June 21st, 1983. My Mom never told anyone what happened. And neither did I. And I still don't. But I-- I wish I could. It's so lonely, being alone. Without your best friend, who never even said a word.

Madeline starts to cry, with large gasps in between. She sits back, relaxes, and looks up into the rafters, smiling almost.