“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read. Don’t ask how I know, it’s a terrible story. And since you didn’t ask, I’ll tell.

After our mother died, it was just me and my brothers, and we were without money or a home. My only possession was mother’s prayer book, which the pawn shop wouldn’t touch, all because she’d scribbled her name in it. We had nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat. These were desperate, angry days, and we did some terrible things.

I don’t like to admit that we caught and cooked stray hounds—so I won’t.

It was Zeppo’s plan. He’d walk into a delicatessen and leave with a sausage stuffed in his pocket. Later he’d drop chunks of meat around our makeshift encampment. It was never long before a hound appeared, lured by the promise of a meal.

Chico tried this once with a girl. Turns out she was a vegetarian.

One rainy night, when we hadn’t eaten for days, a beautiful dog fell for Zeppo’s ploy. She was large, more than enough for us all. She ran straight to Zeppo and licked his fingers, which were still greasy from the meat. Zeppo took a large brick that he kept nearby and raised it against the pup. Suddenly, something outrageous took over me and I knocked the brick out of his hand. Zeppo turned around sharply, ready to strangle whatever he saw; there was orange madness in his eyes, even after he had recognized me as his brother. It was then I realized that, if pushed, he would do what he would to survive.

Not this one, I said to Zeppo. Besides, look at those ears, she’s family.

We fell asleep as we always did, huddled together around the dying fire. The dog slept with me, and I felt great affection for her.

I woke to a terrible howl. Save for the moon, it was pitch dark and everything was obscure. Through half-open eyes I saw Chico, standing and shouting at Harpo. And there was Harpo, starved and wild, a knife in one hand, my mutt held down with the other. Chico shouted at him to stop, to let the dog go. But when I saw the smile on Chico’s face, I knew he was in on it, this terrible joke.

Though I could scarcely see them, I charged towards my brothers. With great effort (and some violence) I was able to wrest the dog from them, these betrayers. Then, holding her in my arms, I sprinted from our encampment, paying no attention to my beating heart or the blood on my hands.

I was in such a rush, would you believe it, that I forgot to tip the maître de.

My dog was hurt with a great gash in her side. I could feel her shallow breaths against my chest. I needed to treat the wound, and fast. But I had left our camp with nothing, nothing but my mother’s aged siddur, her Hebrew prayerbook.

When I had run for long enough to trust my distance, I kneeled and tore a page from the siddur. I placed it on the wound. The blood soaked through this makeshift bandage immediately. I tore out more. Then still more. I held them onto the cut with my palm and felt the blood slowly seep through. So, more pages—until finally the bleeding held, and the top layer of pages were dry. It was only then that I let out a cry.

The poor thing. I figured she had a good chance to live, if only she’d survive that long.

The dog, who I hadn’t thought to name, was asleep in my arms, and I was badly missing my mother. I remembered her last days. Her frailty. The way her death felt like a relief, and my shame at that. My brothers…I don’t know what they felt. We were always close with each other, but never like that. And whatever love we’d had was overshadowed by the daily attempt to survive. I missed our love.

In the dark, amid these thoughts, I found myself in a panic. When I had been tearing pages from the siddur, had I had torn out my mother’s name? Yes, before I had been ready to dispose of the book. I regretted that now. Was her handwriting still inscribed on the front page, or was it pressed into my dog’s fur? I desperately needed to know.

Trying hard not to disturb her, I turned the creature towards me, angling her gash and its dressing into the moonlight…

…but, alas, it was too dark to read. There was nothing to do until night ended. So instead, I closed my eyes, the poor thing pressed against my body, my mother’s handwriting maybe inside her, and plotted what I’d do to that coward Harpo come dawn.”