Chapter 6

Chapter Six : My Mother's Fourth Son

There was a point when Topsy stopped being "the dog."

Nobody announced it.

There was no family meeting.

No ceremony.

It simply happened.

One day, we were calling him our dog.

And somewhere along the way, he became one of us.

My mother was probably the first person to accept this without needing to say it aloud.

She treated Topsy differently from the beginning.

She worried when he was hungry.

She noticed when he wasn't feeling well.

She knew when something about his behaviour had changed.

And whenever he got into trouble, she somehow managed to be both angry and affectionate at the same time.

It was a very particular kind of motherly love.

The kind that says:

"What have you done now?"

while simultaneously making sure you're okay.

Topsy received plenty of that.

He had become comfortable in the house.

He knew where people usually sat.

He knew where food appeared.

He knew who might give him something secretly.

He knew which person was most likely to forgive him.

And he knew my mother would always look after him.

One day, Topsy became sick.

It wasn't just his usual laziness or sleepiness.

He genuinely seemed unwell.

The moment we noticed, the mood in the house changed.

After Rocky, illness in a dog frightened us.

We had already experienced what it was like to watch a beloved dog become sick.

So even a small change in Topsy made us nervous.

I remember worrying about him constantly.

I prayed.

Again and again.

I didn't know exactly what I was praying for.

Perhaps I was simply asking God to let him get better.

I didn't want to experience that kind of loss again.

My mother stayed close to him.

She cared for him patiently.

She watched him.

She made sure he was comfortable.

And gradually, Topsy began improving.

The moment he started looking better, the atmosphere in the house changed.

Everyone relaxed.

And Topsy?

Topsy returned to being Topsy.

It was almost insulting.

We had been worried sick.

He had received all our attention.

And as soon as he felt better, he went right back to looking for trouble.

That was his way.

He never seemed interested in making life unnecessarily serious.

If life gave him a problem, he recovered and went searching for something to chew.

If life gave him a peaceful afternoon, he seemed to consider that suspicious.

But his relationship with my mother was different.

He trusted her.

When she called him, he usually reacted.

When she sat somewhere, he often stayed nearby.

And when he was sick, he allowed her to take care of him without the usual puppy drama.

It was almost as if he knew that she was safe.

My mother also began understanding him.

She learned his expressions.

She knew when he wanted food.

She knew when he wanted to go outside.

She knew when he had probably done something wrong.

That last one became especially useful.

Sometimes we would walk into a room and find Topsy sitting unusually quietly.

That was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

A normal Topsy was active.

A silent Topsy was a detective case.

My mother would look at him.

Then look around the room.

Then look back at him.

And eventually, the truth would reveal itself.

Something had happened.

Topsy's innocence was usually temporary.

His mischief was permanent.

But even when he drove everyone crazy, my mother never treated him as though he didn't belong.

That was what made him feel like family.

He was included in ordinary things.

He was around when we ate.

He was around when we talked.

He was around when people came home.

He was around when someone was sad.

He was around when everyone laughed.

And if he wasn't allowed to be around, he objected.

Loudly.

One of his greatest complaints was being separated from the family.

If we went outside and closed the gate behind us, Topsy would sometimes start scratching at it.

He didn't seem to understand why the family was allowed to leave while he was supposed to remain behind.

He wanted to know:

Where are you going?

Why can't I come?

Why is the gate closed?

What exactly are you all doing without me?

The moment the gate opened, he would come rushing toward us.

He didn't need an invitation.

He had already decided he belonged in the group.

Sometimes everyone would be sitting together in the hall, talking.

Topsy would be somewhere nearby.

At first, he might remain quiet.

Then he would hear the conversation.

Someone would laugh.

Another person would laugh.

And suddenly Topsy would start barking.

Everyone would look at him.

He would stare back.

Someone might laugh again.

Another bark.

It almost seemed like he was saying:

"What's going on here?"

"Why are you all laughing?"

"Why wasn't I invited?"

"What did I miss?"

Eventually, someone would open the way for him.

He would walk into the hall with complete confidence.

Then he would lie down among us.

Mission accomplished.

He didn't necessarily need attention after that.

He just needed to know that he was included.

Sometimes, when we laughed at him, he would bark again.

It was impossible to tell whether he was annoyed or simply joining the conversation.

Maybe he believed barking was his contribution.

And honestly, it probably was.

Topsy had become part of the soundtrack of our home.

Human conversations.

Cooking sounds.

Doors opening.

Children talking.

And somewhere among all of it:

Topsy barking because nobody had asked for his opinion.

He was also becoming protective.

Especially toward me.

Whenever my mother scolded me, Topsy sometimes came and stood in front of me.

At first, I didn't understand what he was doing.

Then I noticed that he would remain there.

Between us.

Sometimes he barked.

It was as though he had decided that the situation had gone too far.

My mother would scold me.

Topsy would intervene.

It was almost as if he had appointed himself my lawyer.

An extremely noisy lawyer.

He didn't know what the argument was about.

He didn't know whether I was actually guilty.

He didn't care.

I was his person.

That was enough.

If my mother raised her voice, Topsy appeared.

If I looked upset, he came closer.

If I sat quietly, he often stayed nearby.

He didn't solve problems.

He didn't need to.

Sometimes simply having someone beside you makes the problem feel smaller.

And Topsy seemed to understand that.

There were days when I was sad and would sit beside him without saying anything.

He would gently place his head on my lap.

I would rest my head against him.

For those few moments, everything became quiet.

No school.

No scolding.

No worries.

Just me and my dog.

That was when I began realizing that Topsy wasn't only entertaining us.

He was comforting us too.

He had arrived in our home as a tiny puppy.

But he was becoming something much more important.

He was becoming part of our emotional life.

My mother had three children.

But somewhere along the way, she had gained a fourth.

A furry one.

A mischievous one.

A four-legged one who had no idea how to behave properly.

And somehow, that was exactly what made him perfect for our family.

Topsy didn't know that he had become important.

Dogs don't sit around wondering about their place in a family.

They simply love.

They stay close.

They follow.

They wait.

They protect.

They make noise when everyone is laughing without them.

And they somehow turn ordinary days into memories.

Our family was beginning to learn that.

There was still so much Topsy had to teach us.

Mostly about patience.

And forgiveness.

And the fact that absolutely nothing—nothing—should ever be left unattended around him.

Especially money.

Especially notebooks.

And definitely not wool.