“The moon is full, my arms are empty; All night long, I've pleaded and cried”

The tears come hard and fast. I gasp for breath. My insides ache like cramps and I twist into a fetal position. Two small dark beings nuzzle closer to me.

“I don’t know if he’s scared. I’m his mama. I don’t know if he’s alright. I should know. I should be with him.” The cries come harder, fiercer. He drapes his good hand over me, gently rubbing my arm. He tells me it’ll be okay.

I can’t look beyond my wall of howling tears. Instead, I do see images of him: a notorious sock and peach thief, who skillfully took what he deemed was his, and darted off to enjoy his loot. He boasted a sweet, goofy grin. I remember his excitement when he got to wake up his daddy on a weekend morning, and his sideways clumsy gallop as he ran toward his daddy. I recall his cuddles and deliberate love for his mama.

I first held him at three days old. My other half wanted an American Bully puppy. We met him at a breeder. He snuggled into the palm of my hand. I gently rocked him until he fell asleep. At eight weeks, we brought him home. Unprepared, we bought him the smallest sweater possible. He wore it like a poncho. We used his collar as a belt. At just ten pounds, he was my little meatball.

Under our watchful eyes, he climbed his first set of stairs; then onto the ottoman, and the couch. He pounced like a bunny to retrieve a tennis ball, which was too large for his mouth.

As he grew, gaining ten pounds each month, he embraced his curiosity and daredevil demeanor. He situated himself on kitchen chairs and outdoor furniture. He took a running head start to propel himself onto the counter, which thankfully he never achieved.

He developed a love for peanut butter and Pringles original potato chips. In the mornings, two games were played with his sister – “The Floor is Lava” and “She’s My Mama, Not Yours.” They wrestled and did zoomies. It was a picture of perfection.

But the feud to be "number one, alpha dog" never waned. He wanted it. Five years his senior, she had it. Neither would relinquish their place. Jealousy and a stubbornness often dictated their relationship. Sometimes a stern sound broke them apart. Other times, a hand.

Cuts, bruises, and blood were an ongoing occurrence. He kept gaining weight and strength. He was harder to grasp. At six months old, he had fifteen pounds on her.

This fight began over a treat. Everyone sat and received one piece. It wasn’t enough. A growl. A scream. Melee.

My other half jumped in. He grabbed my six-month-old, forty-seven-pound meatball. I grabbed her, a thirty-four-pound slender thrashing eel. It wasn’t enough. Like magnets, they were drawn to one another.

“Ow,” he yelled.

Blood splattered the hardwood kitchen floor like raindrops leading to a downpour. The dogs finally, against their will, relented and separated.

His hand bled copious amounts, saturating the gauze wrap. At the hospital in the middle of the night, four puncture wounds and a deep gash between his right ring and pinky fingers caused three doctors’ great concern. X-rays and an examination showed no broken bones, torn ligaments, or nerve damage. But an unspoken anxiety appeared to revolve around infection and the possibility he’d lose his pinky finger.

Five hours later, at three in the morning, we arrived home knowing a decision had been made: my baby couldn’t stay.

Stay tuned for part two.