A huge pit bull grabbed my dog by his mouth and pulled him as hard as he possibly could, killing my dog. The pit bull tore my dog apart, one half of his body went off of the other because the pit bull still had the other half in his mouth. I was seven when it all happened. I remember the very first time I met Brochas, my dog.

I was a field worker when I was younger, growing up I didn’t have friends. It was fun to me at the time, because I got to help out my grandparents a lot. Every morning I woke up around six to get ready to pick asparagus out in the field in El Topia.

We lived in some poor houses that looked like there were going to collapse above our heads. The boards over the roof looked dull, like the rain was wearing them out. The porch steps were broken, crumbling to waste. I was thankful for the things I had, I grew up living like that so I was used to it. I didn’t argue though I liked working. My imagination as a kid kept me entertained.

One day when I got out of work I picked up a stick and let my imagination fly, I thought I was playing swords. I would hit trees as if they were attacking me, I would jump off rocks and act like I was jumping off tall seven story buildings. I went off for a walk not knowing where I was going. I ran into a little, furry, brown dog that was covered in dirt. He smelled bad, but I never had a pet at that time. I looked at the dog as my first friend. He wasn’t moving and he was howling. He looked at the ground, there were tears coming out of his eyes. He must have been there for a while because some of his tears had dried up. The fur under his eyes was all wet. I figured that he had a sticker in his foot because his back right leg was up.

I picked him up and checked his feet. He had a lot of stickers in between his toes. He thanked me for taking them out by licking me and we instantly became friends. I carried him back home. On the way I was thinking about what to tell my grandparents, on how to persuade them to let me keep the dog.

I walked into the kitchen where grandpa was sitting at the little round table drinking a beer talking to grandma, and grandma was cooking some asparagus that she brought home from work. The asparagus smelled fresh and had a dirt smell to it. I always asked my grandpa first about everything, because most of the time he wouldn’t say no.

I remember him asking “why are you holding a piece of crap?” He didn’t notice it was a dog until I told him, the dog smelled. The thing that caught his attention was that the smell didn’t mix well with the food, it smelled like something went rotten in the kitchen. Grandpa thought the food went bad. The stench was strong, I had to move my face away from him even though I wanted to look at him and hold him. After I asked grandpa, he said I could keep him on one condition, if I gave him a bath.

While I was giving him a bath my uncle came into the restroom and he gave me options on what to name the dog. He wanted to call him Tierra because the color of his fur looked like dirt. Then he called it Brochas so I started to call him that. The dog was very furry and Brochas in Spanish was brush. Brochas would always sleep in my room. He would sleep on my bed. He always snorted when he slept. He would also fart a lot, that smelled like something died and decomposed in my room. I was ok with the smell though because he was my friend.

The next day I looked out the window and saw a big pit bull. The pit bull was as tall as me and it was all black with a big head and strong legs. I never looked long enough at him because I was scared, but I thought he had some red eyes. We lived up a hill. We knew the owner to the dog, he lived down the hill. The pit bull would always come up the hill and walk around.

Grandpa would always tell the owner of the pit to keep him on a chain, he would never listen though. One night Brochas needed to go outside to do his business. My uncle let him out in the middle of the night. Suddenly Brochas cry broke the dead silence.

Everyone woke up and my grandpa grabbed his rifle. I ran outside before grandpa did to see this huge black dog growling carrying Brochas in his mouth tugging at his little body. I was too scared get close but a part of me wanted to get my stick and hit him with it. The reflection of the moon I could see blood all over the floor, I felt helpless because I was too small to help my only friend. He was tossing Brochas around like a rag doll. Then half of Brocha’s body separated from the upper part of his body, the pit bull had ripped him in two. Brochas whole head was in the huge dog’s mouth.

Grandpa got on a knee and aimed his rifle, he shot the pit bull in the head. The dog died instantly. I walked over to Brochas and saw the two pieces of his body. His nerves caused him to twitch, I thought he was still alive at the time. Grandpa took me away from the body and my uncle cleaned up the mess. I cried all night and all the next day.

The next morning I made a grave for Brochas before taking off to work. I dug a hole and with a marker I wrote on a rock “Brochas” and made a cross with two sticks and corn peelings. I put the only picture I had of Brochas on his grave, the picture showed me hugging him. To this day I haven’t, and will never, forget the first dog I ever loved.