Bernhardt the Therapy Dog

by Nicole Brogdon

My father wanted “a dog with big balls.” So he brought home an ex-police German Shepherd, brown with black saddle markings, a Nazi dog. “Bernhardt”, his tag read. Dad kicked the animal’s chest until he lunged, meeting Dad’s swinging boot.

“Heel!” Dad barked. Bernhardt popped back onto haunches, vibrating.

“See?” Dad said. “Don’t agitate him.”

Bernhardt had massive ears, coffee eyes, and pink mottled scars around his mouth – someone had hurt him. The dog smiled at me, big ear to big ear. My little sister Mitzi rode on his back around the crabgrass yard, Bernhardt squatting, letting her slide on and off. We washed him, pulling stickaburrs from paws. When we played basketball, Bernhardt herded our ball.

“You girls are spoiling that dog!” Dad said.

Bernhardt glared at Dad.

Nights, Bernhardt was supposed to sleep in the front laundry room. My father came home late from the bars. Once, Dad unlocked the front door from outside, slipping his big hand into the open space to unhook the chain lock, and heard Bernhardt snarling. Dad yanked his hand back – just as Bernhardt hurled himself against the front door, body-slamming it shut.

Usually, though, Dad entered, work shoes squeaking in the hallway towards bed and Mom. She slept, or she pretended to sleep, or they exchanged moans on creaking springs.

Later, Bernhardt slinked down the hallway, opening my bedroom door, my sister and I sleeping in separate bunks. Leaping onto my bed, he pushed my head off the pillow with strong flanks, moving me down from the headboard. “Bernhardt!” I’d whisper. He lay his big body on my pillow, two legs draped round each side of my head, like a fur hat.

I’d fall back asleep, often dreaming a recurring dream of a glass-front clothes dryer in our laundry, thumping with circulating objects – a fountain pen, a naked kewpie doll, my head bouncing round and round. Clothing, too – shirts with outstretched sleeves, reaching like crying children wanting to be rescued. Different family members sat next to me each dream, watching items tumbling behind glass.

My sister slept through everything, disappearing into her warm, open-mouthed sleep. My parents fought in their bedroom, conversations beginning with Dad waking Mom from a dead sleep to call her “Whore,” to discuss her imaginary whoring.

When I felt alone, I’d turn to see Bernhardt, rocking in the chair in my shadowed room, legs crossed, smoking a pipe. “Ready to discuss your family?” he asked, in a German accent.

Crack, slap, from my parents’ bedroom. I hopped up, pressing ear to door. Moans – from pleasure or pain.

I sat on the rag rug, Bernhardt regarding me through eyeglasses, big ears twitching in opposing directions. He looked like my good grandpa – with a dog’s body, hairy tail fanning beneath him. “I’ll come at night. When you need me.”

I rubbed my fists in my eyes, bumpy knuckles plugging tears.

“Reach into the dryer,” Bernhardt said, “Take the fountain pen.”

“My father gave me that pen. For my birthday.”

“I know,” Bernhardt nodded. “He’s creative, too. The watercolour set behind the glass is your dad’s. Write.”

“What else?”

“Stop being surprised.”

Before morning light, Bernhardt slid back to the laundry room.

One night, Bernhardt and I were in session when Dad turned my doorknob. Bernhardt jumped onto all fours, tense, glorious fanged muzzle angled towards the door, towards Dad. Growling, deep. From the rug, I began to growl with him, a primal roar rising from my gut.

Two years later, Bernhardt would attack the neighbour boy in our front yard, jumping upright like a man, snarling, ripping into the boy’s hands and chest, the boy bleeding and screaming. I yelled until Bernhardt ran off, his muzzle dripping blood. The boy rushed to the emergency room. We found the dog, dragged him back.

In the backyard, my father shot the massive beast – shot my friend – with a rifle. Toppling him.

My father knew Bernhardt was entering my room nightly. And Bernhardt sensed when my dad came to the door – the dog growling, like a buzz saw revving. My father retreating, his footsteps receding, like a whipped dog.