rapidly.
"All right, gringa, let's go," the man said.
We marched out of my house. The two men, and me. We crept down the stairs and past my ancient dog’s bed.
Bear woke up with a start. Apparently they hadn’t come this way.
One of the men muttered something in Spanish and jerked his head at the dog.
The knife came out.
“No!” I whispered. “He’s old!” I held my hands up and tried to shield Bear from the men. I petted him and cooed.
“See?” I said. “He’s not going to do anything. He’s not. I promise.”
The men glared. One grabbed Bear’s collar and hauled him to his feet. Bear skidded and whined. He was an old Lab, big and impressive-looking, but tired, with bad hips.
“He’s scared,” I said. “Really. Please. Let’s just go. Don’t hurt him. Please.”
I couldn’t have dreamed that I’d be pleading with strange men to take me from my home, but Bear was my dog. I couldn’t let them hurt him.
The man holding me smiled.
“You do not tell me what to do,” he said calmly and quietly.
He nodded at the other man, who lashed out immediately and hit Bear on the head with a closed fist.
Bear and I both whimpered.
Maybe another dog would have barked or snapped, but Bear just cowered.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t say anything when I followed them out of the house.
I didn’t say anything when I got in their car.
I didn’t say anything when they shoved me to the floorboards with a dark bag over my head.
When the car started up and the loud beat of a Latino man singing mournfully about love came through the floorboards, though, I finally whispered.
“Help me, Merle.”
1796-1874 Agnes Strickland, 1794-1875 Elizabeth Strickland, Rosalie Kaufman