Kevin Brown
When autumn came, Mom stayed in the canyon, but Tiger went back to live with dad. One winter night has always stood out in my mind. After midnight, Willie was singing about slow dancing, a little louder than usual. I crept downstairs, into the dark, where I found my dad, strung out in his easy chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Tiger sat beside him, lapping at a bowl of milk. Dad scratched Tiger behind his ears. He had some kinda love in his eyes. “You stupid dog,” he muttered under a sigh. “You can’t let em get under your skin like that. It ain’t about cats or dogs, it’s just women.” They drank. “Women...” We didn’t see Tiger too often from those days on. Every other weekend we’d drive up to stay with Dad, and those old boys were usually in the same place, drinking to fill their broken hearts and howling along to old country songs. * Time only made Tiger lay around more. We all saw the signs. The pet shrink and the veterinarian agreed. Friends and family tried to sugar-coat it best they could, “That dog’s long overdue to be put out of his misery.” “There’s nothing wrong with Tiger,” Dad slurred back. “It’s society that’s fucked up. Everything’s shoved into a cate11