Summer Stories: ‘General’s Ghost’

“Not in the house; he has to stay in the garage!”

That was the rule for our new puppy, General. He was technically my Uncle’s puppy – a full-bred boxer. I didn’t like dogs and agreed with my grandmother’s rule: the dog must stay outside.

My uncle didn’t want his little puppy out in the garage, in the cold, but the puppy had blankets, food, and water for him, and my uncle would diligently check on him. As soon as morning came, he ran to the garage to rescue General.

I lived with my grandparents, as my mother was on a journey to “find herself,” but I didn’t mind; I was more of the last child instead of the grandchild. My grandmother, a devout Christian woman who stood 4-foot-11, thought that General was cute, too, but had standards for how she kept her house. Definitely, no dogs in her kitchen where we cooked and ate. She didn’t want the dog on the living room furniture; therefore, no dogs in the living room either. So my uncle, who had a room in our basement, would retreat downstairs with General whenever he would bring him inside.

“Can I go downstairs, Grandmommy?” I asked in my 11-year-old voice. While I wasn’t a fan of dogs, General was different, like a toddler, and I liked having another young creature in the house.

“Go ahead,” my grandmother said, “but close the door behind you. I don’t want that dog upstairs.”

I did as I was told and firmly shut the basement door behind me. Walking down the stairs, I could hear my uncle playing Parliament on the rec room record player. Our rec room was huge, where my grandparents held plenty of house parties, and my uncle, 11 years older than me, played there now on the sofa with General, the fireplace lit to the left of them. Behind the seating area, to the right, was a green and white checkered dance floor and bar. The bar had barstools and a full refrigerator. On the opposite end of the bar was our piano, and on the other side of the piano was our small green bathroom. It was not your average green bathroom; it was a neon lime green.

As a child, our rec room was my playground. I had many adventures here, dancing on the dance floor, playing on the piano, and eating too many sugar cubes (stocked for coffee) from the bar. While the rec room was mainly for the adults, it was the coolest place in the house for me to play. But now, it seemed that General was making himself quite comfortable in my playground.

Although a puppy, General had big paws and big floppy ears. His coat was a Sierra brown with dark black eyes that constantly stared at me as if in wonder. Or perhaps I stared at General with awe at how this dog was a baby. As cute as General was, I held on to my grandmother’s disdain for the innocent pup.

“Move out of the way, General!” I’d say as I would climb onto the rec room sofa and listen to the records my uncle played on his stereo.

My uncle had so many albums. There had to be at least 5,000 – or so it seemed. Jackson 5, Stevie Wonder, Rick James, James Brown – if you can name it, my uncle had it. I would sit for hours thumbing through the albums looking at the art and photography of this 70s and 80s music collection. My uncle would spin records, and I’d dance around in the rec room or color with crayons and paper, and over time, I started to play with General. My youthful energy matched his puppy energy. But it was only downstairs in the basement in the confines of the rec room where General was my friend. Upon going upstairs, I had to put on a front of disdain with my grandmother. “No Dogs upstairs!”

My grandmother died two days after my 12th birthday – her murder, still unsolved, left our family fearful, uncertain, and devastated. My somewhat normal life became suddenly complicated, intense, and chaotic. My mother officially moved away, leaving me with my grandfather and uncle. Then my uncle left, too, leaving General and me alone with my grandfather. General was no longer a puppy; he, too, was now a pre-teen like me. Without my grandmother to enforce the “No Dogs” rule, General became a permanent fixture upstairs, and I no longer retreated downstairs to play in the rec room. I confined myself to my bright powder blue room upstairs close to my grandfather, whose bedroom was down the hall from my own. General made his bed outside my bedroom door each night, becoming an unofficial guard dog. I’d open my bedroom door, and General would be there looking up at me with those eyes – eyes that had grown older and more protective. Eyes that reflected sadness and worry because so much had changed so fast. General and I would lock eyes each day as if to say, “I got your back, and you got mine.”

One day my grandfather phoned me at my father’s house and exclaimed, “Come home, Neesa; something is wrong with that dog!”

It was early Sunday morning, and I had spent the weekend with my father. The tightness in my chest made me feel as if I were suffocating.

“I have to go home,” I told my dad, and he drove me home immediately.

My grandfather, a 78-year-old man from Memphis, Tennessee, had a look of fear in his eyes. This man has seen Jim Crow, segregation of the South, Civil Rights, and the recent death of his wife; this man had seen it all, and to see fear in his eyes indicated to me something was wrong.

My grandfather explained that he had returned from Playfair Race Track and let General in from the backyard. General had been outside on a chain. This was in an era before dogs were treated like extended family members. Poor General would be in the elements for hours with minimal food and water.

At around 2 a.m., my grandfather said he heard General frantically barking as if there was an intruder. My grandfather, alone in the house, called out, “Anthony is that you?” It wasn’t my uncle – he had moved to Seattle.

“Neesa? You here, Neesa?” He yelled out. He got up to find General in the back of our kitchen near the steps to our basement, gagging and barking at the door. As my grandfather approached, he heard a woman say, “Shhh, General, shhh.”

“Antoinette?” My grandfather called out, thinking it may have been his daughter – my mother. General was now whimpering and dry heaving at the back door.

My grandfather opened the door to the basement and felt a breeze whisp past him, and General took off running through the kitchen and up to my bedroom.

Upon my arrival home, General seemed normal but extra happy to see me, but he didn’t look sick, as my Grandfather described the gagging and dry heaving.

“Your Grandmomma was here,” he said somberly, “and the dog saw her.”

I sat on the floor next to General and took his head into my palms to look into his eyes.

I whispered to him as if he could answer me. At this point, General and I had a connectedness that no one else could understand. We had our language; even if General could not talk, he always spoke to me.

General put his paw on my chest and scratched at me several times – that was his answer. Grandmommy had indeed been there, and General saw her. I hugged General around his neck tightly, and of course, in his excitement, he knocked me over, licking and wagging his tail.

General and I, the best of friends, made an unspoken pact that we would not go in the rec room – at least not alone.