"Ready or not, here I come!"

I could hear my older brother yell out from the front porch as I crouched in the shadows. The night bugs hummed around me, their tiny wings creating a sonata of summertime, rhythmic buzzes. I strained my ears, listening intently for any sign of movement from my brother, who was out there somewhere, hunting for me in our game of flashlight tag.

He won't get me this time.

Peering cautiously from my hiding spot near the base, I spotted a flicker of light in the distance. It was him, moving stealthily through the darkness. My heart raced as I devised my escape. But my legs had other plans. One of my crutches slipped from my grip and clattered loudly on the ground.

"Them ragged crutches!"

He had to of heard me. I might as well come out now with my arms up to surrender.

Before I could admit defeat, Atticus, my loyal dog, trotted over silently.

"Atticus, come here boy, help me get my crutch."

With a gentle grasp of his mouth, he retrieved the fallen crutch and placed it gently back into my hand.

"Good boy." I whispered gratefully, rewarding him with a comforting rub behind his ears.

With my crutch secure once more, I didn't waste a moment. I took off limping towards base, relying on Atticus to cover my retreat.

The night bugs continued their serenade as I wobbled through the darkness, my heart pounding with exhilaration. I could hear my brother's footsteps closing in, but I was determined to reach safety. With Atticus by my side, I made it to base just in the nick of time.

I leaned against the front steps, panting with relief and excitement as I declared myself safe from being tagged.

"SAFE!"

"You cheated!" My brother was hunched over, his two buck teeth poking out from beneath his upper lip as he caught his breath.

"How does a person with broken legs cheat?!" I asked.

I gave him the meanest slit of my eyes.

"Ah shucks, ya' mad cause a person with legs that don't work right out run ya'?"

My brother watched me for a minute like he had more to say, but instead waved a dismissive hand at me, then dipped off to find the others.

I leaned down and gave Atticus a squeeze.

"Good job, bud," I said.
When they say a dog is a man's best friend, they aren't wrong, especially when the friendship buds from childhood.

I sat in our small bedroom, the size of a closet, looking at old photos, and tossed them to the side.

Disappointed.

I'm twenty years old, still trapped in a room that my siblings and I refer to as, "The Room" due to it being the room we have all shared since elementary school.

There's five of us all together, four boys and one girl. Me being the third oldest boy in the group. We mostly grew up in a small county in NC just over the VA line.

I say mostly because we have been sent to live with various relatives throughout the years, and still, we always end up back in this rundown trailer on Middle Swamp Road.

No matter where went or for how long, Atticus was waiting for us at home, excited, wagging his question mark tail.

If he could talk, I know he would say something like, "You're finally back! I have been waiting for you! Don't leave me with these drunkards again!"

We wouldn't all be sent away at the same time though, there would at least be one or two of us there to comfort him.

Atticus has a golden colored coat, two short perky ears, and a face that reminds me of a bear and a wolf mixed.

A beautiful dog.

This time at the "Steele Trailer of Hell" it's just me. All my other siblings moved out on their own. Some of them started families already, some of them were figuring themselves out in the madness of their early adult lives.

I have been having a tough time figuring out what the to do with my own life.

If you didn't catch on, I am what an old timer might call a Gimp.
Old timer or not, calling myself or someone a Gimp will get a crutch shoved up your rear-rend. I would say a "foot, or a "shoe" but, eh, you get it.

I have cerebral palsy.

Calm down. Don't look at it like that, I'm not completely helpless, as it's not textbook "All the way gone," cerebral palsy. It's only physical.

My thoughts go out to them who won't as lucky.

It wasn't genetic, I happened to get graced with it at birth. You ever see those commercials that say, "If you or someone you know have an at birth injury, we can help get the settlement you deserve!"
They are talking about me.

Let's take it back to December of 1996.

I remember the way my mother always described it as a terrifying experience. It was a whirlwind of confusion for her because she was in the worst pain she had ever felt. She had been feeling off for days, minus her usual pregnancy symptoms. She had intense abdominal pain that just wouldn't go away.

The first ER visit left her frustrated and still in pain, diagnosed with just a stomach bug and sent home with painkillers. But something inside her knew it was more serious. She had a quick progression of symptoms.

The second ER visit was no different. More waiting, more assurances that it was just a gastrointestinal issue.

By the third visit, she was exhausted, in agony, and desperate for answers.

Yet again, they dismissed it as a common ailment and sent her home.

       How many doctors does it take to do their job, right?

It was now her fourth trip to a different hospital that finally saved her life, and mine. The doctors there took one look at her and knew something was seriously wrong. Within minutes, they rushed her into emergency surgery.

As they operated, they discovered her appendix was not just inflamed but on the verge of bursting. In fact, by the time they got inside, it had already ruptured.

They told her later that they had barely made it in time. Our lives were spared but, I was extremely premature. Everyone took pictures holding me in the palm of their hands.

Doctors didn't think I had a shot, but I proved them all wrong repeatedly. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy a few months after birth based on physical evaluations, and not reaching milestones as I should have been, of course my mother was told a lot of different things about how she shouldn't expect much out of me.

But time will show that I did what the hell I wanted. I went from casts on my legs, to wheelchairs, walkers, and those god-awful arm crutches, the same kind Forrest Gump had. Before you knew it I broke free of all of them. Of course, I am not walking 100 percent "normal" but to me it may as well be.

I am not sure if it's good or bad, but my parents and my siblings never treated me as if I were physically incapable of anything, so for a while that's really what I thought regardless of the blatant fact that I walked differently than anyone else around me.

The room we shared didn't have much. A shitty squeaking bunk bed and where I mostly sat, an old computer chair that barely fit in the room. Not the most comfortable chair, at that. Like most of my days, there I am, chugging down a bottle of 1800 blasting some of my favorite songs from our old computers speakers.

Atticus padded over and licked my hand, trying to get my attention.

"I know Atticus, I'm a failure," I said to him, as I let out a drunken burp. "I'm just like that son of a bitch aren't I?"

Look at me, asking him questions as if he could reply.

Atticus laid his head between my legs and gave me a face of concern.

"I am all right boy. What do you need? You got something in your bowl bud?" I asked, as I caressed his prickly fur. I took myself another swig and pushed myself up off the chair.

I limped to the front of the trailer where our kitchen was and found his water and dog food bowl untouched. "Yeah I wouldn't eat that crap either Atticus."

I looked inside our fridge, hopeful to find something more fitting for him.

I mean seriously, Atticus is like a sibling. He shouldn't be eating that disgusting dog food.

I grabbed a leftover steak, not sure who was saving it but it's going to a good place.

Amen.

I carefully grabbed a knife from the drawer.

Imagine it, "Boy with cerebral palsy found dead in home. It appears, he'd stabbed himself after losing balance and landing on the blade."
Tragic.

They ain't makin' no fool outta me.

I chopped it up real nicely and tossed it in his bowl.

He walked over, peered in, then glanced at me in satisfaction.

"Just say I'm the best and leave it at that."

Atticus ate it up slower than usual, then walked over and stood in front of the door. Staring. The stare and silence meant, "Come let me out."

Atticus was a very smart dog. When we were younger we would take walks often. Sometimes we would walk miles to our friend's houses, and he would be there every step of the way. He would stick around wherever our destination would be and then head back home when we did.

During fights with our stepfather, he would be right behind us, comforting each one of us when we were upset, as if he really understood each situation, happy or sad.

I opened the door for him, and he darted outside. Once down the steps, he looked back at me, staring as if he were trying to tell me something.

"Go pee boy!" He watched me from across the yard, then let out a long whimper.

"Well come back inside then."

He didn't budge.

His ears twitched, and he sniffed the air.

I walked out onto the wobbly porch. I hesitated at the four raggedy steps, leading to the yard.

Something I never told anyone before, is that I'm afraid of steps.

There I said it.

I'm afraid of stairs dammit!

It's not just a fear of falling, although that's part of it. It's more about the uncertainty of each step, the feeling that at any moment, something could go wrong.

Even on wide, sturdy staircases, I feel a tightening in my chest as I approach each step. My mind fixates on all the ways I could slip or lose my balance, and die, or embarrass myself.

Going up feels like a relentless climb, and going down feels like a plunge into the unknown. The fear intensifies in unfamiliar places or when the steps are old and creaky. It's a constant battle between wanting to conquer this fear and feeling paralyzed by it.

Even though I know logically that the chances of dying going down four steps are slim, I freeze.

But it's not too irrational for me to have this fear when you think about my condition with my legs.

I sat down on the first step and watched. Atticus was content with this as he went out a little further and cocked his leg to pee. Usually, he would run off and do some daily investigations of his own but instead he came right back to the door.

"It's hot out here, I get it. Let's carry our tails back in the AC and relax a little before they get back home."

My stepfather and mother went off somewhere for the day I suppose. They were gone before I got up, and now that we are all older and it's basically an empty nest, they do it often. I never know where they go, and I never give a shit either.

I plunged myself onto the living room couch. Feeling the effects of the liquor now.

What the hell am I doing getting drunk anyway?

I have a cousin who once made a 'joke' asking if I walk straighter when I'm drunk, since when I am sober I walk with a wobble, like I got double limps.

So hilarious right? Yeah, I think about that sometimes when I'm drinking. The damn audacity.

Anyways, I find myself getting drunk more often now. I used to talk shit about my mother and stepfather for it, pissed off about the loud music blasting from the living room every night, school the next day or not. My mom would come in with her twenty-one drunk questions, and every day there would be drunken fights that would honestly happen equally when they were sober.

Ugh.

I vowed to never be that way. But here I am, alone drinking.

Wow. I really got it all figured out.

"You know, Atticus, life's been pretty crazy lately, huh?"

Atticus sat there, wagging his tail, looking up at me with his golden eyes. I love his eyes; it looks like he has black eyeliner lined along the bottoms of them.

"Sometimes I feel like you're the only one who really gets me. Mom and James just don't understand."

Atticus laid his head down in my lap as if in agreement.

"I wish I could take you everywhere with me, you know? Take you away from this bullshit.

You have been dealing with crap just about as long as all of us."

This made his ears perk up closer together.

"But hey, no matter what happens, you'll always be my buddy. We'll get through anything together. We always have. And, I don't say it enough, but I love you, Atticus. You're the best dog a guy could ask for."

Atticus, happy, nuzzles my hand affectionately. He knows when I get to drinkin' I get to talkin.'

I remember one of the first nights where Atticus showed his loyalty, as my stepfather's rage erupted. He was throwing things, breaking whatever he could get his hand on. I was scared, cowering in the corner, helpless and small.

But then I felt Atticus beside me, his warm body pressed against mine. I wasn't alone.

Atticus, usually so gentle and playful, was different that night. He stood tall, his ears perked up, eyes fixed on my stepfather. He understood that I needed him, that he had to shield me from the storm raging in our home.

A strange sense of calm washed over me knowing that Atticus was there, ready to defend me if needed.

His presence gave me the courage to endure that night and many others. He wasn't just a pet; he was my guardian, my protector when the world felt like it was falling apart.

"Ah I gotta pee."

I got up drunkenly stumbling towards the bathroom in a hurry to release myself. Atticus whined as I walked away abruptly. I was only in the restroom for a few minutes before I heard Atticus make a noise I have never heard him make before. A strange low howl.
Or was it more like a final sigh? I rushed back to the living room and found him there.

Standing in the middle of the room, perched up as if he were giving me a salute.

"Atticus what's wrong?" I asked.

Before I could make it over to him all the way he collapsed right in front of me. The sun streaming gently through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Atticus, usually so full of energy and life, was now slipping away.

I sat beside him, my hand resting on his fur, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. His eyes, once bright and full of mischief, now held a deep weariness.

I knew at that moment that he was saying goodbye, that our time together was ending.

As he lay there, peaceful yet frail, memories flooded my mind. The walks we took, the games we played, the quiet moments shared together. Atticus had been my constant companion through it all.

What do you say to your lifelong best friend, that's taking their final breath in your arms?

I thanked him for the years of loyalty and companionship, I thanked him for simply being around. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched him take his last breath, his gentle spirit leaving his tired body.

Oh, I cried. I cried like a little kid. I was that little boy with the crutches again.

I couldn't believe it. He died right in front of me. He waited for it to just be him and I. Why?

Of all fucking people Atticus, you know I am not physically capable of helping you.

"Atticus come on, you got to wake up bud. You gotta wait for mom to get home so you can have a proper burial. I can't move you from here."

I was a damn mess.
Snot and tears merged on my face. I couldn't breathe, I was having a panic attack. The walls were closing in, everything was magnified. I couldn't believe it.

Get yourself together.

You aren't completely helpless.

Everything he has ever done for you. He wanted you there at this moment.

I stood up and tried to cradle Atticus in my arms, but to my surprise he was heavier than I expected. He fell right out of my hands and back onto the living room floor.

NO.

"Why? Why the hell is this happening? " I asked, with tears streaming down my face. I

I took a few breaths, and I picked him up again, with the same outcome, him falling limply to the floor. I ran back to the room and grabbed my phone. Took a few breaths and called my siblings, my mom, and my stepfather. No answer. Of course.

I can do this.

I know I can.

I can do this for you Atticus.

I went out back and grabbed the shovel perched up on the porch and threw it down on the dirt. I held on to the side railing and slowly took each step one by one. Once I reached the flat surface I yanked up the shovel and started digging.

Digging a hole for Atticus was both heartbreaking and cathartic. With each scoop of dirt, I felt the weight of our years together, the joy and the pain, settling into the earth. My balance, weakened by cerebral palsy, struggled against the stubborn ground, but I was determined to give him a proper resting place.

As I dug, all I could see was Atticus bounding through the fields, hopping up and down like a deer, his tail wagging furiously; our quiet moments together, where he would nuzzle close, offering comfort without words. My friend.

They better have bean fields in dog heaven.

The hole grew deeper, the sun began to dip low. I could feel Atticus' presence, as if he were guiding me through this final act of love. Each shovelful of dirt was an offering, a tribute to the bond we shared.

Finally, the hole was deep enough. Now I had to figure out how to get him into it.

Once inside he was still there, spread out on the carpet. Stiffening. This time I scooped him up in my arms with a deep grunt. I'm sure my veins were bulging in protest.

What are ya' doing? Ya legs aren't strong enough!

I headed towards the back door. With each step I held him tight and balanced myself along the wall. It seemed like forever until I finally reached the outside. Ah, the enemy. The shitty steps.
I can't do this, there is no way.

My legs are crap, my balance is weak, and I'm going to fall and break my fucking neck. Then, they will be burying us both.

I gently laid him on the top of the first step.

"I'm so sorry Atticus," I whispered, as I slowly let him roll down the stairs. "I'm so very sorry."

Tears fled down my face as I watched him tumble to the ground. I slid down behind him, cursing everything curs-able.

Even things that had nothing to do with it, like the ants marching up and down the steps, and the squirrel dashing by.

I grabbed him back up with all the strength I had, and I took each step slow.

Finally making it to the newly dug hole, I gently lifted Atticus up closer, cradling him in my arms one last time.

Then, I laid him to rest.

I sat there for a moment before picking up the shovel again.

As I readied myself, I heard their song from above, devilish vultures soaring high in the sky, their broad wings outstretched, riding thermal currents. With their keen eyesight, they spotted us below. Or was it the smell?

Circling effortlessly, one of them began a graceful descent, gliding down with precision. As it reached the ground, I yelled out as loud as I could yell, and I stood up as tall as I could manage to stand, to scare it off.

"GO aWAaY," my voice came out cracked because of the tears in my eyes.

I hate those disgusting creatures and now at this moment, even more.

I picked up the shovel and began shoveling in the dirt as fast as I could to keep Atticus safe from the nightmarish creatures.

"I won't let them get you," I assured him, as I continued to cover him beneath the earth.

Finally, once completely covered and secured below the surface of dirt, I fell back and lay next to his fresh grave.

"You've been a good boy, Atticus, even when times were bad."

Gazing at the mound of freshly turned soil, a sense of peace washed over me. Atticus may no longer be by my side, but his spirit will forever live on in the memories we created together.

Now that I'm older, he could finally give in to his old age. Atticus had been through so many things throughout his lifetime, and nothing could take him away, not until he was ready to go.

As I glanced down at my hands, dirt embedded beneath my nails and dog hair clinging to my skin, a wave of emotions washed over me. The scent of Atticus's fur mingled with the earthy smell of soil, triggering an ugly cry.

Dogs have an unparalleled ability to love unconditionally. They become intertwined in each moment of our daily lives, sharing in our joys, and soothing our sorrows with a wag of their tail or a gentle nuzzle.

When they're gone, the emptiness takes hold of you.

Losing a dog is losing a part of oneself, a piece of the heart that forever holds their paw prints.

As the sun went down to rest, I headed back towards the house. In that same moment, my mother and stepfather pulled up with their music blaring, their headlights shining on me like a spotlight.

I stood and watched as they exited the car and noticed me standing there, filthy.

My stepfather took one look at me, the shovel, the fresh dirt, and the trailer. Then while gripping a twenty-four pack of beer, before turning away he said, "You ain't comin' in the house like that."