Off The Farm | Teen Ink

Off The Farm

September 25, 2016
By justwriting2 BRONZE, Seattle, Washington
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justwriting2 BRONZE, Seattle, Washington
2 articles 0 photos 10 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside a dog, it's too dark to read."
~Groucho Marx


I am the runt of the litter, always lagging behind my brothers and sisters who are stronger, bigger, faster. The small farm that we live on only produces corn, so that’s what we get most days.  It’s not a lot to grow on, not the most nutritious food they could give us. The farmer’s children come to play with us most days, but they only want to throw balls and sticks to Tough Brother and Whiney Sister. 
Yep, those are there names, given to them by me: the most amazing puppy in all of the land, Runt.  That’s what Tough Brother and Whiney Sister call me.  My other siblings have been catching on, and now even Mother calls me that.  It’s not a very nice name.  It’s usually associated with the words small, ugly, and dead.  The farmer was going to kill me or give me away to another family, but then I looked into his eyes with all my will, and he looked back, and we came to an agreement.
Actually, I heard him talking to his wife about me.  He told her that he was going to wait to see if I got a little bigger, then he would make his final decision.  The rest of my brothers and sisters are going to be sheepherders for the neighboring farm, but they will still get to see the farmer’s children whenever they want.  I will probably get shipped off to the city, to live in a cramped apartment, with an old alcoholic that doesn’t feed me so I have to eat rats that I find in the air ducts and the dust motes under the bed. 
Did I mention that I have an overactive imagination? No? Well, I have an overactive imagination. 
I’ll probably only go to an old couple that feed me scraps from the table and treat me like the child they never had.   Ooh! Ooh! Or I could go to another farm that produces something that isn’t corn, and they would only have me as there dog so they would love me until the end of eternity and they’d have kids who would throw sticks and balls for me, not Tough Brother and Whiney Sister, Runt, the most amazing puppy in all of the land. 
I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the second-smallest puppy of the litter, Small Sister, nudging my side with her nose.  She barks, conveying to me that my brothers and sisters are going outside to play with the farmer’s children.  I sigh and get to my feet, I was curled up against Mother before, and my side is warm and all mussed up.  Before I go outside, Mother licks my fur down; she is the only one who understands my need to impress the farmer and his wife.  I follow Small Sister out of the musty red barn and into the bright daylight.  I’m about to break into a run to catch up with the rest of my siblings when I’m scooped up into someone’s arms.  At first I twist and turn, but then I realize that it’s only the farmer.  Thinking I’m finally being noticed, I lick his face and wag my tail, giving him the famous ‘please love me like I love you’ eyes.  Then, right as I think I’m finally getting to him, I’m thrown into a cardboard box, and the lid sealed shut on top of my head.  There are tiny holes punched into the lid and sides, and that let in tiny pockets of light, but other than that it’s completely dark.  I bark, hoping that Small Sister is still in range, but no one comes to my aid.  I try clawing open the lid, but I just went to the vet and my toenails are dull and useless.  I do the last thing that I can think of: cry.  Not like human children do when they fall off there scooter and cut there knee open, but a high whiney sound that makes even a grown man pity the poor puppy that can’t take it any longer.
“Are you sure this is the easiest way, John?” I assume the farmer is ‘John’ and the man who put the lid on the box is the one speaking.
“Of course, Tim,” John says. “This little puppy’s a fighter.  It wouldn’t have been easy to get him to comply.”
“Alright then.” Tim says reluctantly.  The box jostles around and I realize that I’m being picked up and loaded into the back of a pickup truck.  I can hear Tim strapping the box in, and then the engine rumbles to life under my paws.  I do the only thing I can think of, and lay down, my head between my paws.  The truck jerks underneath me and a wave of nausea makes my stomach roil.  As we go up a hill my box slides slightly backward and a bark escapes my throat.   After about five minutes of rolling along a dirt road, we come to a halt. 
“You doing OK, pup?” Tim’s voice wafts from the front of the truck.  In response I whimper and huddle closer to the bottom of the box.  “I’ll just be gone for a moment, I’m going in for a smoke.”  I hear his footsteps leave the side of the truck, and a door slam shut behind him.  I can smell the cigar smoke drifting from inside the building, so strong that it makes me gag.  The minute I’m sure he’s gone; I leap up, hitting my head on the top of the box.  I take a deep breath and start to chew at one of the air holes punched in the side of the box, slowly making the hole bigger and bigger.
Tim’s got to have been gone for more than and hour before I make the hole big enough to fit my whole body through.  I eagerly climb out, and brightness fills my vision.  Even though us puppies have pretty bad eyesight during the day, we can still tell when things are too bright or too dark.  I shake my head, my floppy ears whipping into my eyes.  I do a little shimmy to stretch my tight muscles, and jump down from the bed of the truck.  In the direction that the truck was heading there is the faint outline of a city on the horizon.  I decide right then and there that I will not live with an alcoholic or an old couple.  I will be Runt, the most adventurous puppy in all of the land.  I will travel along the dusty road, in search of a home that will cater to my every need. Everyone will know the story of Runt, the little puppy that could do things that no other could. Not even Tough Brother, Whiney Sister, or Small Sister will be as famous as me. 
With a new spring in my step, I set off down the road, in the opposite direction of where Tim intended to take me.  I am Runt, adventure puppy. 

The road is dusty, and after about ten minutes of trotting along the side of it, I have to stop and sneeze.  I shake my head and focus again on the tree in the distance.  Where the shabby evergreen is I can see that there is a fork in the road.  Since Tim decided to put me in that darned box with only tiny pinpoints of light to see by, I have no idea which direction to turn.  I’ve recently come up with a new saying while I was walking.  I figure that when I’m famous, I might as well have some quotes that people can know me by. 
Here goes:  When in doubt, go right because right starts with R and so does Runt ~Runt, adventure puppy.
So when I reach the fork in the road, I obviously go to the right. This path is a little nicer, with cobblestones instead of tightly packed dirt.   My newly shortened toenails click along the stones as I hop along the side.  That way, when Tim realizes that I’m gone, get’s in his loud truck and comes looking for me, I’ll be able to jump into the bushes quickly and avoid being spotted.
Soon enough, I hear the truck zooming down the road.  I dive into the bushes, but Tim never drives past me.  He must have gone down the left road, purposely ignoring my intellectual reason to turn right.  I climb out of the brambles that line the road and dust myself off.  I jumped in those bushes for nothing!  My pride is seriously injured.  I should get stitches.  I should go to the emergency room!
One time, when I was little, Whiney Sister and I had to go to the emergency room because we both stepped on some glass.  It smelled like antiseptic and cigarette smoke.  The floors were white and so slippery that the farmer almost fell and dropped me.  The lady that helped us was named Nurse Matilda.  She had graying hair and the nicest smile.  She was very gentle with Whiney Sister and me.  They gave me some stuff that made me all sleepy and see colors.  The only bad part was that after, my paws felt all big and awkward because they were swollen.  They also put a thing called the cone of shame on my neck.  I couldn’t even lick my poor feet to get rid of some of the pain! 
Maybe my pride will heal on it’s own and I won’t have to go to that horrid place again. After another fifteen minutes of walking down the street, I come to another fork.  Both the right and the left side have signs in front of them.  Being a scatterbrained puppy, I’ve already forgotten my saying for which way to go.  The left side has a big fence for cows in front of the sign, which is filled with tons of writing that I can’t begin to understand.  The right side also has a fence, but for this one, the sign is just a picture of a dog, cat, and pig with an X through it.  I go left. 
Almost immediately I come to a small farmhouse.  It’s painted light blue in chipped eggshell paint and has a sagging front porch.  I trot up the steps and sit outside the door, thumping my tail on the rotting wood and making my ‘I’m-just-a-poor-lost-puppy-please-help-me’ eyes. An old woman comes to the door and opens it, her eyes widen as she sees me and she exclaims with a very pronounced Italian accent,
“Oh! Poor puppy, come inside, come inside!” As soon as I take one step forward, she scoops me up, hugging me against her chest.  She smells like lavender soap and fresh rain.  “Amelia, Scott! Come here, I have a surprise!” Two teenagers immerge from the back room.  The girl, Amelia looks to be about fifteen with light brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and gray eyes.  Scott has the same hair and eyes as Amelia and the old woman, but after that, the resemblance stops.  He has a big nose and towers over everyone else in the room.  He’s probably somewhere around eighteen.  Both Scott and Amelia have headphones over their ears, and are staring at the old woman with disinterest.
“What is it, Grandmama?” Scott asks in a rumbly voice.  He looks like he’s going to add a surly comment, but Amelia interrupts him when she sees me.
“Oh.  My.  God.  Grandmama! A puppy!  Where’d you get him?” She rushes forward, taking me from Grandmama.   I sneeze, Amelia smells like coconut with a strong underlying scent of cigarette smoke.  “Oh, poor baby, you must have been outside for so long,” She says to me, then to Grandmama, “I’ll go get him cleaned up in the bathtub.”
Grandmama starts to protest, saying something about rabies shots and cleanliness, but Amelia’s already taken me into the bathroom.  I squirm, knowing what comes next, but Amelia’s having none of it. She locks the door and plops me in the tub, talking to me the whole time.
“I have some doggy shampoo from our other dogs, Lassie and Benji.”  She turns on the faucet and steamy water cascades over my fur, weighing me down.  Amelia massages the green tea scented shampoo into my skin, and then washes it out, the dust from the road coming with it.  After she’s done, she rubs me off with a towel and straps a leash around my neck dragging me along after her.
“Grandmama, what do you think we should name him?” My pulse spikes up a bit.  Name me? My name is Runt, adventure puppy. They can’t change that!  I try barking that at them, but Amelia holds my snout shut and I’m forced to shut up.
“How about Bowie?” she suggests, and I squirm some more.
“After that old singer guy that died?” Amelia asks, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, Amelia, David Bowie. I suggest that we name the puppy after him, but if you have another suggestion then don’t be shy, speak up.”
“Fine.  Bowie it is.  What kind of dog do you think he is?”
“Sheepdog, definitely. No doubt about it.”
“Didn’t… John just get a litter of sheepdogs?”
“Mmhhm.”
“Do you think Bowie ran away?”
“Mmhhm.”
“Should we give him back?”
“In time.”
“Well you’re being mighty helpful Grandmama, I’m going to take Bowie for a walk.”’
“Mmhhm.”
“Ugh!” Amelia exclaims, storming outside.  I follow her.  We walk through the grass wet with dew from this morning.  After ten minutes, we reach a barn.  I’m struck by déjà vu.  It’s so similar to John’s old barn where Mother and all my siblings still are.
“This is where Lassie and Benji live.  I’ll take you in tomorrow to meet them.  Let’s go see the horses now.”  We go into the stables behind the barn.  They have about seven horses, all jet black but for one.
“This is our newest horse, Bolt, he isn’t tame yet.”
I stare up at the horse’s face, his beautiful chocolate brown eyes.  He stares back, and everything changes.

It’s like we have an instant connection.  Bolt whinnies, letting me know that he feels it too and that it’s safe to come closer.  I strain against my leash, but Amelia holds me back.
“Careful, Bowie, the horsey isn’t trained yet.” She says, talking to me lie I’m not Runt, adventure puppy.  I bark softly as Amelia drags me out the door.  The last thing I see is the wide open door to the stables before Amelia scoops me up and forces my head to face forward.
*~*~*
That night, I’m stuck in Amelia’s bedroom.  It’s painted pinky-orange and hurts my eyes.  She has an overflowing dresser and no books whatsoever.  By her bed is a media table filled with a computer, iPad, tablet, and her phone.  A mess of charging cords and ear buds cover the floor, making it hard to walk without hurting my feet.
Luckily, she leaves her bedroom door open so I’m able to sneak out.  I follow the path to the stables and go to stand in front of Bolt.  He’s still awake, his eyes mellow and observing, roam the hay floor.  When he sees me he whinnies and I come closer.  I jump up so that my front paws are on the door and my hind legs rest on the ground.  I stretch my neck so that I can grip my teeth around the rope that opens the door to his cubicle.  I pull downward and the door swings open, and I’m forced to scramble out of the way as Bolt rushes out of the stall.  He helps me to my feet by nudging me with his nose.
He’s gigantic, all muscle and limbs.  He looks much for fit for racing then farm work.  I don’t even go up to his knees.  Bolt starts to walk toward the exit, looking back to see if I’m following.  I trot next to him as we walk next to the strawberry fields.  Every few moments, Bolt leans down and sucks up a juicy berry.  I copy him, the perfectly ripe ones almost melting in my mouth.  After twenty minutes of eating, Bolt suddenly breaks into a run.  I follow him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.  I laugh, which in human terms sounds like a bark, twirling in circles while I run.  Maybe I’ll finally give my tail what it deserves.
For the first time in my life, I feel free.  Bolt doesn’t know me as Runt, the smallest dejected puppy in the litter.  He will only ever know Bowie, carefree and joyous.
Bolt suddenly comes to a screeching halt in front of the apple tree orchard.  Unable to stop my short puppy legs, I keep on running.  I finally get my paws to obey about 100 feet into the trees.  Bolt snorts and follows me, sitting down where I stand.  I bark and curl up with him, laying my head on his neck.
Amelia finds us like this in the morning, and scolds us both profusely, but I don’t mind.  I have found my real happy place: next to my new best friend, Bolt.



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