The dog had been chained in the corner of the yard for six years. The iron chain had rusted red, like a dried-up trail of blood. You can’t blame me—when he was just a puppy, he tore around wildly, scattering the neighbor’s chickens and even killing one. When I fastened the chain around his neck, I saw a flash of confusion and fear in his eyes. I should have felt pity. But the neighbor had shouted, “If you don’t keep that dog under control, I’ll stew him myself.” I did it to protect him, to make him good. I did it out of love, or so I told myself.
At first, he howled through the nights, the chain pulled taut, his little body rubbed raw from struggling. Every time I passed, I walked faster, trying to outrun the guilt. Later, his cries faded to a rasp, folding into the wind. And then, even the rasp vanished. In storms, rain poured through the crooked kennel roof. He curled into the puddle. If he whimpered, the rain swallowed it. Under the scorching sun, he looked like a sunbaked lump of clay, motionless except for his tongue.
He grew into a large dog but lay in that narrow patch of dirt, quiet as stone. I should have let him run, let his muscles remember what it was to stretch. I should have warmed his cold nose with my palm before the light left his eyes. But I only hurried past, the way you pass a plum tree that never bears fruit—there, but no longer seen. For six years, aside from refilling his bowl, I nearly forgot he was alive.
One autumn afternoon, I walked toward him with a key. When the lock popped open with a click, he didn’t even twitch an ear. I called his name. He looked at me. I felt dizzy. I touched my neck—no chain. But something still choked me.
My late husband’s face flashed: twisted with rage, fists flying, spit in his curses. Blow after blow, I shut my eyes, unmoving—like a dog long used to being kicked. Why did you make me do it? You know how much I love you! He shouted, striking again. I looked into the dog’s hollow eyes and thought: do I have the same dead fish stare? If I had struggled harder, could I have broken free? Or was I, like him, still shackled to the years I thought I’d outlived?
I looked at him. Obedient. Broken. Utterly resigned. “It’s over,” I whispered. The chain was off. And yet I wondered: how long would it take for us to stand?
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.