Super "Momma" Shows Soft Side Amid Family Pet Crisis

By Jackolyn R. McCoy

SELAWIK - My mother-we call her "Momma"-sits across the kitchen table from me. I glance at her and smile because we look so much alike: big brown eyes, long butterfly eyelashes, that same straight smile. It's as if I were looking into an aged mirror.

"Woo-hoo!" my mother yells right in my face. "Yahtzee!"

She does her little victory dance, assuming I will become jealous. I love her lively spirit, but I hate it when she beats me at stuff more than I can get a chance.

Suddenly the local airline calls over the CB about a plane coming in, which would launch a string of events that would derail all our lives.

"Jack, do you want to help?" Momma asks politely. (One thing I love about my mother is she always asks and doesn't demand anything.)

Out at the airstrip, the plane swoops down from the sky. My mother parks the snow machine on the side of the plane to help the pilots unload the freight onto the wooden sleds. "Jack, you ready?" Momma asks, grabbing the starter rope.

We stop in front of the post office. I run up, keys jingling in my hand, and unlock the back door. I help Momma unload but eventually grow weary.

"How can you do this every day, Momma?" I ask. "My arms are tired!"

"You can go ahead and run home now," she says without hesitating. "I can finish the rest."

I don't run home, sitting instead on the snow machine, watching Momma carry parcels into the post office, a daily chore. She picks up each box with ease. I think she must be a super woman. I have no idea I'm about to experience another side of my mother.

After meeting the mail plane, we cruise home only to find that Harley, our beloved housedog, is nowhere to be found. My mom nervously asks the community over the CB if anyone has seen Harley recently. No one replies about seeing Harley, although a few hello's come back from locals. Then the phone rings.

"Good afternoon. McCoys," says Mom, whose expression after only a bit looks grim; something is wrong.

"A local man was shooting dogs earlier today," Momma says after hanging up. I think nothing of that because everybody in town knows Harley, but Momma's expression remains bleak. Momma rushes to put on her winter gear. I do the same. We simultaneously dash out the door and jump on the snow machine. It doesn't take long for us to reach the local person's house.

We explode off the snow machine. A white plastic trash bag lies on the snow full of something. Momma rips open the bag to find our year-old dog lying stiff and still.

"Oh, no!" Momma cries out. "My poor Harley!"

She runs up the stairs and charges into the house of the man who shot our dog, but all he can do is offer an apology. We will never get our dog back.

My mother simultaneously is furious and miserable, her face oscillating from rage to grief. She's lost her baby, our family's best friend. We leave in disgust.

Momma covers Harley, throws him onto the sled, and cries all the way home. I am crying too. We reach home and purposely "forget" Harley is in the sled. We want this nightmare to cease.

My mother unzips her parka and slumps into her office chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. Harley was like one of her own children.

Momma hasn't cried like that since she lost her brother a few years ago.

Recommend this page to a friend

© AlaskaReport. All Rights Reserved.