A Memoir by Frances Scott                                                                                    

In my childhood home nights were filled with cigarette smoke, ice clinked in tumblers while my parents drank their bourbon and water before dinner, during dinner and after dinner.

My three older siblings, the closest one seven years my senior, chatted amongst themselves at the dinner table while I sat silent, eating.

To the fault of no one, it was the structure of our menage and dysfunction of living with an alcoholic/bipolar father that left me feeling left out, not a part of the pedigree I was born into. Runts of the litter face challenges and have trouble competing with their siblings.

Mama would say, “I tried to have a friend for you.” The result was five miscarriages, three before me and two after. Somehow, I was the embryo that stuck.

Daddy raised and trained black Labrador Retrievers, blue ribbon trial dogs. Our big fenced-in back yard down in Mississippi often housed a litter of black squirmy pups.
It pleased Daddy when I would sit on the ground with the puppies, picking them up, petting them, holding their faces close to mine. I socialized his blue-ribbon hopefuls, while receiving uncommon attention and praise from him.

My parents didn’t know I ached with loneliness at night, that as young as five, I crept out to sleep with the puppies, their sapphire little eyes asking me to join them. We whimpered together, speaking the same language of longing. Everything about them exuded softness and warmth, even their breath, sweet from mother’s milk. The pups and their mama welcomed me into their family as if I was born into it.

In my youth I was either rolling around with a bunch of puppies or alone in our house surrounded by people who looked right through me.

In my adult years, I had my own pack: husband, daughter, and Nick the tuxedo kitty. Divorce broke up our family wounding my relationship with my daughter.
My side gig of pet sitting fulfilled my care-taking tendencies and need for comfort and connection.

Years later my daughter told me she didn’t see any hope for our relationship in this lifetime, then she stopped talking to me. It was cold out and I lay alone on my bed after I realized she’d taken all the photos of me and my grandchildren off her social media. My last email had gone unanswered.

There was no living thing in my home, but off I went to care for a dog, Ollie, while his family was on vacation. The handsome husky met me at the door, tail wagging, happily barking. At nighttime, I welcomed Ollie when he invited himself to nestle on the bed beside me, warming the chill of my despair. His blue eyes looked into mine; his balmy breath fell on my cheek as I wrapped my arm across his warm soft body and fell into a deep sleep.

*   *   *

Frances Scott is a native of Mississippi who lives, pet sits and writes in Missoula, MT. Her writing has been published in the New York Times, Huffington Post, Next Avenue and more.