Fran and the Forest

 

The clock mocks Fran. It reads 12:15.

Every creak and crack a house makes is amplified when one is home alone, more so when one cannot sleep. Add to that the hooting of owls, the chirping of crickets, the howling of coyotes, and there is little chance of her sleeping tonight.

12:16. Was that really a minute? It felt more like three. She hears a car drive by. Her house is bordered on one side by a moderately busy road. This road forms a corner with a pretty dense forest, a forest full of nature’s loudest creatures.

12:17. She hears tires screech to a stop. There is no stop sign outside her house. Fran's mind immediately goes to the worst possible scenario. How would she defend herself? She grabs her phone from the nightstand, and sinks under the covers. She has her thumb on the nine, ready if she hears anything else.

Thump. A car door slams. Tires screech again. The car leaves.

12:18. Did she lock the door? She can not remember. For the next five minutes there are no more noises. The sounds return to normal, as normal as loud forest animal sounds can be in the still of the night.

12:23. Haaaauuuuuu. Auuuuu. Auuuuuuuuu. That is no coyote. This is a sound she has never heard before. The sound repeats. It sounds like an animal undergoing torture.

She waits for it to stop, but it never does. For five minutes the strangled howling continues. The pain-filled yelps sound worse every time, pawing and scratching at the inside of her ear.

When the clock strikes 12:30, Fran can not take it anymore. She musters every bit of courage she has, puts on her slippers, grabs a flashlight, and makes her way to her backyard. It is at times like this that she misses having a man in her life.

Hauuuuuuuuu. Auuuu. Auuuuuuuuuuu. The sound is coming from the corner of her property, where the forest meets the road.

She stands and stares at the thick trees and blackness that hides the howls. She swallows, takes a deep breath, and walks past the first line of pines. She scans the surroundings with her flashlight, trying to locate the source of the harrowing sounds.

There! Eyes! Hollow eyes, red and shimmering, popping in the darkness. She sees sharp teeth, whites mixed with bloody red. Fran screams and hides behind the closest tree. She tries to make sense of what she saw. The eyes reflected the light from her flashlight, but she can't explain the sharp, bloody teeth. She shudders, what the hell was that?

The howling continues. It sounds like a dog venturing through the fires of hell. She squeezes out a little more courage and peers around the tree. She shines the light at the beast one more time. Under its head is some sort of giant, shiny, black boulder. Is this a monster? She is not one for supernatural explanations.

Auuuuu. Auuuuuuuuu. She sees the noises exiting the mouth of the animal. These are not menacing howls. They are whimpers of pain.

After getting a better look, she sees it is not a boulder, but a plastic trash bag. Out of the trash bag, a dog has chewed a hole large enough for its head to poke out. It begs for help.

Fran dials 9-1-1. Two police officers arrive in record time, and dive into the forest. One officer carries the animal out. He lays it under the light from her back patio.

“It looks pretty beat up,” the officer says. “Looks like someone tried to bash its head in.”

The young dog, maybe two years old, is black with Catahoula markings. It has a sharp black face and a narrow snout.

“Here's the situation, young lady. I need you to make a decision.” The officer kneels next to the dog and looks up at her, holding the dog's head with his gloved hands. “I can call animal control. They will come, take this dog, and put it out of its misery. Or, you can take ownership of the dog. My partner and I will escort you to the nearest animal hospital. There you can decide what happens next.”

This is a choice? Death, or not death? Fran can not bear thinking that the final memories of this creature's life will be getting beat over the head, and waking up inside a plastic trash bag. He cheated death by chewing his way out of the bag, yelling for help, only to die by lethal injection? She would have no hand in his death.

Being a college student living on a rental property, she has limited funds. She does have some money saved up from a part time job, and her mother has given her an emergency credit card. As an animal lover, her mother would understand. This surely qualified as an emergency.

The dog stops yelping. He shakes under a blanket the officer wrapped him in. She looks into his face and notices the spark of life in his eyes. At this moment, she realizes that the choice presented to her is but an illusion.

“I’ll take ownership.”

~ * ~
 

“Looks like blunt trauma to the head and a broken jaw,” the veterinarian explains. “But with enough T.L.C., he should make a full recovery. Fran, is it? Fran, you are a saint.”
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“We’ll need a name for the dog,” his assistant says.

“Forrest,” she says without hesitation. This is her dog. Looking at him, she knows she made the right decision, even though she didn't have much of one to make.

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