Dogs from Mars

by Marcelo Medone

“Tell me if it was you or your brother, Betsy: it's very serious matter. The strawberries were for Grandmother Lola's birthday cake.”

The woman points to the mess in the kitchen, with traces of strawberries staining the floor and the counter.

“It wasn’t me, Mum, I swear.”

Betsy makes a contrite face and sighs.

“And where's Timmy?”

“He left home. He hasn't come back yet.”

“Weren't you going to ask for sweets together?”

“Timmy says I'm too young to go with him. That I am a nuisance. That Halloween isn't for little four-year-old girls like me. That's why he left without me.”

“So, did you see him?”

Absolute silence. Betsy bites her lower lip.

“Did you see your brother?”

Betsy looks at her mother and realizes she can't lie to her. She swallows and musters up the courage to speak.

“Kevin came to get him earlier. They were the ones who ate the strawberries. Kevin must have eaten strawberries at home too, because his hands were red, and his mouth was red too. They didn't see me because I was hiding, but I saw them. They were playing at being alien monsters.”

“What do you mean, alien monsters? Did they dress up as aliens?”

“They danced and talked funny, grunting. Like Martian dogs.”

“Where did you get that from?”

“One day Timmy told me that on Mars there are dogs that, instead of barking, they growl and scream like crazy, as if they were people. That they transform every time the Martian moons appear. Because on Mars there are two moons and not one like on Earth. I learned that. I can't remember the names of the moons, but Timmy does.”

“So, your brother ate the strawberries? I'm going to punish him! And where is he now?”

“They went to Kevin's house. I wanted to follow them, but I didn't dare. I'm afraid to play aliens.”

“When your father comes, I'm going to tell him about all of this. And I'm going to talk to Kevin's mom, too.”

“I saw her a while ago.”

“Who?”

“Kevin's mother.”

“Where did you see her?”

“I looked out my bedroom window and saw her with Kevin's dad. They were running through the garden of their house. Timmy and Kevin were running after them, playing alien monsters. Kevin's mother was the one who screamed the loudest and tried to climb a tree, but Kevin wouldn't let her.”

“And you, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Betsy rubs her eyes and avoids crying.

“Then Kevin's father jumped over the fence and started banging on the door back here. He looked like a madman and shouted that they wanted to bite him. I was scared. So, I didn't open the door.”

“It's very serious what you're telling me! Why didn't you call me, Betsy?”

Betsy starts crying now.

“I don't want you to punish Timmy! He's going to blame me!”

“Don’t worry. You were right to tell me. When your father arrives with Grandma Lola, we wish her a happy birthday and we give her the cake without strawberries. We decorate it with cream, a candle and that's it. I will discuss this matter with Timmy later.”

At that moment, Betsy's mother hears a car pull up into the gravel driveway.

“Looks like it’s your dad.”

Betsy runs to the front of the house, climbs onto the sofa, draws open the curtains and peeks out the window.

“Dad came with grandma! They're arguing with Kevin's parents. I see Kevin and Timmy. Grandma hugs Timmy and they almost fall to the floor. Timmy has a funny face and looks like he's howling like a dog from Mars. Grandma Lola is crying and holding her head. They are all very excited. It must be because of the birthday.”

Betsy's mother arrives and stands next to her in the sofa, not knowing what to do. Then she looks towards the kitchen, nervously, while shouts and exclamations can be heard coming from outside.

“I'm going to the kitchen to finish decorating the cake,” she says to Betsy. “Don't open the door yet. You keep the door shut and locked. I'll be right back.”

“Don't tell Dad about the strawberries,” Betsy begs.

“We'll talk it later, my love. I can't promise anything right now.”

Betsy pouts.

Her mother bends down and looks into her eyes tenderly.

“When grandma comes in, hug her tightly, give her a big kiss and remember to tell her happy birthday. Be a good girl and stay here.”

Then, without looking back, Betsy's mother runs out.

BRIEF BIO

Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, playwright and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries around the world, including the UK.

He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone