The Tree House

It was summer, 1993. I was eleven years old, with few responsibilities--and that was just the way I liked it.

Our quiet resedential street was lined with hundred-year-old maples, and the dimming sunlight would flicker through them in the evenings as the neighbourhood children ran barefoot along the sidewalk. The wind carried with it the smell of barbeque and the sound of buzzing cicadas.



Directly nextdoor to us stood a Victorian-era brick house, with an unusually large side lot. It was so large, in fact, that the owner ended up subletting it in order to erect another home, which he planned to rent out. During this summer I unhappily watched from our porch, often with popcicle in hand, as that yard, where my friends and I would often have cap gun shootouts, was scooped out with backhoes so that the foundation could be poured.

Our industrious neighbor, who lived in the large Victorian house, had a daughter, Samantha, whom I had befriended. She was a year older than myself, but probably just as boyish. We both had mop-top hair styles, enjoyed riding our bikes, catching newts and worms in the nearby ravine, and loading up on as much candy a dollar or two could by us at the nearby convenience store.

Sam had two dogs, and they followed her everywhere, even though she almost never forced them to wear leashes. One of the dogs was a large, smiling golden retriever called Taffy; the other, her favored of the two, a tiny black poodle-terrier mix she had named Jack. Taffy was a very well-mannered dog, but whenever she was around Jack she did not receive much attention. Like an infant sibling, Jack stole the spotlight. His behaviour was nearly human. He would give polite little barks as if to say hello, and then look up at you with his understanding little eyes--although they were partially obscured by what looked like big bushy eyebrows. Sam could almost always be found outside, running up and down the street for whatever reason, with Taffy trotting beside her and Jack behind them, sprinting to keep up.

I had another friend named Tim in these days, who would often come over to my house to play Nintendo, because his parents refused to buy him one of his own. One afternoon, after our thumbs had become raw from playing Super Mario Brothers 3 for several hours, we ventured oustide in search of more wholesome entertainment.
Samantha, as usual, was nearby with with her dogs, and she quickly approached as if she had been waiting for us. "Hey, what are you guys up to?" she asked.
I told her that we were bored with video games and in need of something to do. She paused a moment and then her eyes lit up. "Do you want to go work on the tree house? We've got a ton of lumber scraps on our lot!"

This suggestion interested Tim and I, and we nodded our approval. We knew of the "tree house" Samantha referred to--it was nothing more than a few decomposing boards that someone had hammered into one of biggest maple trees in the neighborhood. This tree grew in solitude in the far corner of an empty lot at the end of our street. None of us knew whether the fort had been constructed years earlier and left to rot, or if had been constructed recently with material that was already rotting; but this didn't really concern us. Our plan was to tear the old fort down in order to build a new one in its place.

So, after hauling out my old wagon from the garage, we all proceeded to the build site nextdoor and began collecting various pieces of wood that littered the yard. Then, after we felt we had grabbed enough, we carted it all down the street along with a few hammers and nails, Taffy and Jack following patiently behind us.

The original fort was perched about fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground. Sam, Tim and I all ascended the steps, hammers in hand, eager to begin the demolition. Meanwhile, the dogs waited in the shade below, playfully chasing one another from time to time.

Up in the tree we began our work by attempting to pry the rusted old nails from the wood; but we soon discovered that because there were literally hundreds of them, this would be a slow and futile effort. Thankfully, because most of the lumber was so old, we realized that we were able to hack at it with our hammers and dislodge the boards quite easily. So the three of us began chopping and prying at the fort, in an effort to make way for the new one.

We were making a good deal of progress when Tim and I decided decided to rest for a moment. Samantha, however, was feaverishly attempting to dislodge a very thick board, which was dangling from a cluster of brown, crooked nails. Tim and I sat silently as Sam, totally focussed on the task at hand, began kicking at the old plank with her running shoe.

The board suddenly broke loose from the tree and fell, and each us hunched over the hole it left in the floor in order to see it land. It was during this instant, which still remains burned in my memory, when the three of us remembered that Taffy and Jack had been chasing about on the ground below us. What made us forget about the dogs, I don't know. Perhaps it was the excitement of working on the fort--or maybe because they were always so quiet. Whatever the reason, all I know is that at that moment there was nothing we could do but watch.

During the instant the plank fell, little Jack was rounding the trunk of the tree counter-clockwise, playfully chasing Taffy. The board hit the little black dog hard with its corner in the middle of his slight frame, right behind the ribs, abruptly slamming him to the gravel. Jack yelped repeatedly in agony as he squirmed to free himelf, and then ran frantically in circles. No harm had ever come to him before, and this sudden onslaught of pain terrified him. He bucked and kicked as if he was fending off invisible enemies, but what he likely thought were repeated attacks were in fact the waves of agony shooting through him.

We watched helplessly from above as Jack suddenly collapsed within the whirlwind of dust and debris he had kicked up. Samantha, horrified at what she had just done, scrambled as fast as she could down the tree with tears in her eyes, saying Jack's name over and over again. Tim and I remained frozen, and exchanged a wide-eyed look at one another. "He's dead, he's dead!" Samantha hysterically shrieked as she ran up to Jack, who lied very still in the dirt.
At this point, Tim and I made our way down to the ground and subtly approached Sam and her little dog.

Jack wasn't dead, but it was clear he was dying. His tongue, which hung like a rope from his mouth, began turning blue, and his eyes, his previously warm and caring eyes, were glassy and vacant. Between sobs, Sam shouted garbelled orders about veterinarians and "going for help" to no one in particular. And it was just as well, because she must have known that Jack didn't have much time.

The little dog's stomach was distended and his breathing was rapid and automatic. Taffy, who no longer had a reason to run, sat calmly nearby and watched the scene, looking like she always did: contented and simple. Tim stared in silence, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

And then Jack stopped breathing.

We all sighed, not knowing what to say--so we didn't say anything. Samantha regained her composure and picked Jack up off the ground to carry him. Tim and I gathered the tools, put them in the wagon and began walking home behind Sam; Taffy as always, moving silently with the procession.

As we made our way down the sidewalk, a young lady in her mid-thirties, who was just leaving the front door of her house turned to Samantha and exclaimed, "Awww, what a cute little puppy!" and reached to pet Jack, who lay as if he were sleeping over Sam's shoulder. In a flat and uncaring tone, Samantha responded, "He's dead." The woman, startled, quickly recoiled and put her then shaking hand to her mouth as we marched on.

We buried Jack amongst the hedges in Samantha's side yard that day, and never went back to complete work on the tree house.