The conventional wisdom says that it’s good for kids and old folks to have pets, that animals soothe the lonely soul, but the Maryland town where I grew up banished all biters and befoulers—no pets allowed no exceptions period exclamation point. Which left a hunger in my heart. Then my parents divorced; with a new husband, my mother relocated to an antebellum farm in Virginia, which soon occupied my weekends and holidays. It was there, on a bright Sunday morning, my tenth birthday, that I awakened not, as usual, to birdsong and the chittering of squirrels, but to a warm squirmy furball pawing my chin and licking my cheek.
         An Irish setter, the color of sherry and equally sweet. Puppy-clumsy at first, but lanking gradually into an animal with feathery ears and tail and high spirits and a disposition troubled only by jinking rabbits that, despite her speed and stamina, she never laid a tooth on. In all seasons and weathers, inseparable, the two of us roamed forest and field, stirring up turtles and toads, squirrels and snakes, rabbits and coons; occasionally we spooked a white-tail deer. Whenever he spotted us wandering the property my stepfather called, “The dynamic duo!”
         My stepfather: a doctor who never wanted to be a doctor. Though product of an M.D. lineage and obliged to perpetuate the family tradition, he hated to treat patients; instead of opening a rural practice he accepted a position in public health. John was any woman’s daydream: not only a doctor but Hollywood handsome, a former all-star athlete, owner of a dazzling intellect. Unlike my country-bred mother, though, John knew nothing about farming. Zero. My chuckling mom used to say, “Your stepdad has a humongous black thumb.” He labored the land, toiled, but totally lacked the natural touch. The parenting touch was equally absent. He did make attempts, now and then offering tidbits of fatherly advice (“Never play football, son; every one of my former teammates is hobbled by a lifetime injury”), clumsily patting me on the shoulder or cracking an unfunny joke, or trying to engage me in conversation well beyond my age (“The universe is running down, son, in a few billion years it will end up as as a sort of entropic soup”). I gave him an A for effort, an F for sensitivity.
         He was not without surprises. One weekend, on a patch of grass between the farm’s main house and smokehouse, smelling of fresh white paint, I discovered a wooden shelter for my dog. At first I was hoppity excited—then alarmed. Was Sherry to be exiled from the indoors, then? My pal, my partner, my bedwarmer—banished? My mother laughed at me: “Perish the thought! Sherry’s family, she can come and go as she pleases.”
         Then why the doghouse?
         “You’ll see.”
         At supper that night, cheek swollen with mashed potatoes, my stepfather wondered aloud, “Four? Five? She’s a pretty small bitch.”
         “You never know,” said my mother. “Our border collie at home, the runt of the litter, whelped eight.”
         “Damn! What would we do with so many?”
         Smiling at me, mom said, “Whatever happens, happens.”
         She was a knockout, my mother: a senorita with upswept raven hair and glittering black eyes; though a common farmgirl, everyone in the family claimed that from day one she had possessed “class,” a bearing dignified, almost regal, yet with no trace of snootiness. She graduated high school at sixteen with straight A’s and met my father in college; they married; he earned his MBA; they had a son, me; in the end, after seasons of squabbles, she decided that she could not compete with dad’s first love, numbers. I once overheard her remark to a ladyfriend, “It’s pretty obvious that he prefers mathematical figures to the female variety.”
         Sherry’s swelling belly became my obsession. On arrival every weekend I rushed to inspect it, marveled at its growth, wondered at its wobble, worried that an animal so delicate and sweet should have to suffer such a tumorous bloat. Did she know what was happening to her? Sometimes her soft eyes said so; other times she seemed bewildered by her biological burden. Rabbits remained unchased, squirrels unharassed. On our walks she would no longer circle me, nosing the earth, and then, catching a scent, flash fullspeed into the forest; her gait was more mature, more measured.
         And no wonder. On the phone one weeknight my mother announced the magic number: “Twelve! A small dog like Sherry! Twelve!”
         And on the weekend there they were. A swarm of them, so overwhelming that in greeting me their mother could muster only two wags of a weary red tail. She was so patient with the squirmies, so maternal; ceaselessly pestered, she licked and nursed, nursed and licked…. And I had the privilege of bottling milk into the little mugs, for Sherry had more offspring than nursing stations. How fast those puppies grew! Plump, waggy, needle-toothed, yipping. By coloring, as though many-fathered, they parsed into distinct groups: four reds, four speckles, three browns, a grey runt. I named the runt Mouse and grew especially fond of him because, bullied at feeding-time, he became my number one bottle-baby.
         On visits to the doghouse mom always cried, “What a litter!” and half-smiling, half-frowning, rolled her sparkly eyes. “A dozen dogs! Sherry, what in the world were you thinking?” Faking a grumpy tone, my stepfather always referred to the pups as “the dirty dozen.”
         But I sensed worry in the grownups; one night, planting my ear on their bedroom door, I heard whispers: “How do we find homes for that many dogs”—my stepfather’s voice—“when everybody already owns two mutts and three cats?” “We’ll just have to, John. I’ve been calling around. Don’t fret so.”
         Next day I asked mom if we could keep one of the pups.
         She was slicing ham; flashing the blade, she smiled sideways. “I can’t imagine which one you’d recommend.”
         “Mouse!”
         “Really? What a surprise!” Still slicing, she fell serious just as a cloud shadowed the counter, dulled the knife. “I’ll ask your stepdad. But don’t get your hopes up.”
         Every time I left after bottle-feeding, Mouse followed me; was he confusing me with his mother? Over and over I had to lift his plump little body, haul him back to his home. Once he trailed me all the way to the front porch of the house; spotting him, Mom threw up her hands and yelled, “Eek—a Mouse!” Sometimes I would lie in the sunlight near Sherry and let Mouse and his siblings swarm over me, their milky noses sniffing my T-shirt and shorts, their tiny tongues wetting my face; other times I’d stand in their midst, feel their furry soft bodies polish my ankles and feet. At such moments the farm seemed a kind of paradise.
         But not the farmhouse; next day Mom shut the door on Mouse.
         “Why can’t I keep him?” I tried hard to suppress the whine in my voice.
         “John will tell you himself.”
         “But Mom….”
         “Don’t argue with me!”
         She scrubbed the kitchen counter as though attacking lethal toxins.
         “But Mom….”
         “I said stop it!”
         In the afternoon my stepfather left the west pasture, where he’d been clearing rocks; saying, “Let’s talk,” he led me to a place of privacy behind the smokehouse. Laying a heavy hand on my shoulder, he seemed oblivious to his rude clodhoppers, filthy overalls, stubbly face, septic stink. In his idea of a fatherly tone he launched into a drawnout account of the history of the man-dog relationship dating back to Neolithic times; progressed slowly, interminably, to the present century. A robin, listening from the nearby cherry tree, grew bored and flew off.
         “So in this day and age it does indeed make sense to keep a watchdog who alerts the household to intruders. It’s a reciprocal relationship that makes sense: dog alerts man, man feeds dog. We have that relationship with Sherry. But a second dog would be redundant, and therefore a one-way street: man tends dog by feeding him and managing his health and well-being, dog adds only marginally to the security of the farm. In a way, it’s a master-slave relationship—with man as the slave. Does that make sense?”
         I didn’t answer; his hand oppressed my shoulder. Apparently pleased with his speech, he displayed his movie-star smile. “You’ll understand, son, when you’re older.”
         Back in Maryland with my real dad, I explained my predicament and begged him to let me sneak Mouse into our house. “I’ll keep him in my room. I’ll never let him out, I swear. I won’t let him make a sound. Can I? Can I? Please.”
         My plea was at best a longshot—and indeed, dad killed my question with a question: “Do you really believe that in a town of ten thousand you should be the sole exception to the no-pet rule?”
         Just what you’d expect from a numbers man.
         My mopey mood was not lifted at week’s end: arriving at the farm on Friday night, I discovered that two of the pups were missing. “Where’s Silky? Where’s Bird?”
         Mom sat me down at the kitchen table; the night-black window reflected her businesslike face. “The pups are eight weeks old. It’s time to find them new homes. When your stepdad asked around his office, two of the staff came out and picked Silky and Bird. You know we can’t keep the puppies indefinitely.”
         Next morning a neighbor stopped by to look over the litter: a farmer sunburned and leathery as a cowboy, with hard small eyes. Chatting with my stepfather, he lifted one pup after another, feeling their fat bellies, inspecting their paws. I held my breath but he ignored Mouse, kept returning to Bailey, a brown. “This is the one,” he said finally. “He’s going to be big as a bear.” Marching off with the pup on his shoulder, tilting his cropped head to avoid the little tongue, he said: “I don’t envy you, doc, trying to get rid of that many dogs. Four or five, maybe, but twelve? Especially when you get down to the bottom of the barrel.”
         Thereafter, on arrival every weekend I crossed my fingers, held my breath; first two reds, Russ and Pork, disappeared, and then a speckle, Stitch. A week later Pal, a male brown, was gone. I was relieved, of course, that Mouse remained, yet annoyed that the grownups thought him unworthy. I also felt guilty. Sherry was, after all, my dog, and as the weeks passed with no more takers my mom’s mood fell; once as fun as a circus, the pups now seemed a burden, impossible to place, another chore added to the farm’s endless list. Mouse and I slunk away, into the woods and fields I’d first explored with Sherry, but now in a less sunny mood; for hours, at my favorite spots, I’d brood, wondering at parents who refused to make room in their lives for one small pup. On a hot afternoon I said aloud, “Maybe we’ll run away.” Wagging, Mouse seemed eager to oblige.
         And we did run away: for maybe half a mile, until a growling stomach slowed my feet, and Mouse’s whimpers signaled nap-time. Lying in the field under a parade of clouds, I let the puppy sleep on my chest.
         Two weeks passed with no more takers. My mom and stepfather were all frown and grump. A darkness seemed to envelop the farm; unspoken words crowded the air. Occasionally my stepfather would mumble, “What a bloody nuisance!”
         Finally Jack and Nip disappeared, and then Ace, Jenny and Spoon, but the foul mood failed to lift. “We held Mouse back,” said my mom grimly, “to give you as much time with him as possible.”
         “But mom, why can’t we just keep him?”
         “John gave you his reasons.”
         “But mom … it doesn’t make sense.”
         “That’s enough!”
         Arriving at the farm the following Friday, I could scarcely breathe; before a word was spoken I knew—from my mother’s face, my stepfather’s silence. I ran to my room and sulked all night. Rising early I wandered the property, accompanied by Sherry but aching for her pup. Though skinny and bedraggled, Sherry had rediscovered her hunting spirit: as I glumly tramped the woods and fields, she swung about me in wide, ear-flapping orbits. In the afternoon my mom sat me down.
         “I know you’re upset but we found Mouse a good home. You don’t know the Beakers, but they have a little girl named Darcy. She’ll take good care of the pup.”
         Avoiding her eyes, I quickly left the room. I skipped the next three weekends at the farm. Several times my mom called, insisted I visit, but sullenly I refused. A full month passed before I softened, almost forgave her; I didn’t forgive my stepfather. Finally back in the country, I kept my distance from both adults, hanging out instead with Sherry, more herself now that she was liberated from maternal obligations. That Sunday, while lazing in one of my favorite shadespots, I suddenly pictured the name Beaker. I snapped upright. Where had I seen it? Where? Slowly I reconstructed a drive-by: dirt road … curve … pasture … house with white siding … mailbox ….
         “Sherry! Let’s visit Mouse!”
         What started as an impulse evolved into a trek. We walked and walked and walked; the August sun seemed to swell; car-dust, spinning, wheezed my throat; after awhile even Sherry wearied, ceased circling, dropped into a dull wagless walk. Still, I would not stop. I had made up my mind to visit Mouse. We plodded and plodded down the sunhot road until finally—finally—I spotted a Beaker mailbox. My blood leapt and step quickened, but then, as we drew near, a shyness slowed me: after all, I didn’t know Darcy Beaker from an angus heifer, had never laid eyes on her, maybe she was nasty, mean, contentious … on the other hand, Sherry and I had walked all that way, we couldn’t turn back now….
         My hesitation was dispelled by events: as we entered the dirt driveway a dog dashed out, a small yappy animal of ambiguous breed, and carried on as though we intended an armed assault on the household. Snarling, stifflegged, spinning, he stopped us—pinned us in place.
         A screendoor banged; “Shut up, Pepper! Shut up, hear? Shut your stupid mouth!”
         From behind the white house emerged a girl about my age, sporting a red ponytail and wearing jeans, T-shirt and scuffed tennis shoes. She was skinny as a pin and freckly, with blue eyes as vacant as the windows of an empty house. Despite her harsh commands, Pepper kept barking till she launched a quick kick.
         “Dumb dog,” she said. “Stupid. Plain stupid.”
         In the ensuing silence she stared at me, flat-faced. After verifying that she was Darcy Beaker I explained myself, progressing about halfway through my monologue before Pepper started yapping again; Darcy cocked her foot to shut him up.
         “I don’t know what you named him,” I resumed, “but we call him Mouse. Do Sherry a big favor and let her see him, just for a few minutes. She walked a long way, Darcy. She’d really like to see her favorite pup.”
         Regarding me suspiciously, Darcy transformed herself into an old lady, slitting her eyes and scrinching up her face.
         “I already got me a dog—shut up, Pepper! That’s my dog right there. Pepper. Shut up, you! He has a big mouth, but he’s my dog. I’d let you see your pup if I had him, but I don’t. I think you got me mixed up with some other girl. Nobody ever give me no puppy.”

R. C. Cooper graduated from the University of California-Berkeley and now lives in the Ohio Valley. He considers fiction-writing a form of play—anything goes.  Including "Mouse," 22 of his short stories, 26 "bioludics" (zany biographies of the famous) and 20 essays are published or forthcoming in: Barbaric Yawp, Black Petals, the Carolina Quarterly, Carve Magazine, the Copperfield Review, Dana Literary Society Online Journal, Devil Blossoms, Dirty Dishes, Fiction Funhouse, the Horsethief’s Journal, the Iconoclast, Liquid Ohio, Muse Apprentice Guild, the Nocturnal Lyric, Nuthouse, Nuvein Online, the Oracular Tree, The Paumanok Review, Pindeldyboz, 13th Warrior Review, TRQ, and Unlikely Stories. One of the essays is being nominated for a Pushcart Prize. rc has published a book of nonfiction humor (Follies, Foibles and Foolish Deeds) with Penguin, and recently completed Peace, a satirical novel.