The same day I was born, my parents bought me a companion, a Chow-Chow called Betos. Betos was my first friend, he always took care of me, was always protective of me, when strangers came to our house, he always stood by my side protecting me. He was the truest friend I ever had. It was strange, he hated my father and barely tolerated my mother, but he protected me at all times.
When I was four, I first heard him speaking. He always slept under my bed, so I heard the voice coming from under me. At first I was scared. But with time I think I just sort of accepted it. We would have long and intimate conversations.
Betos never talked to me during the day, but when I looked in his eyes, I knew it was him, because he seemed to know whenever I was sad and needed company, whenever I was happy and wanted to play. Even without anybody noticing, he did.
When I twelve, my mom died to a heart attack. He stood by my side at every moment for months, comforting me. No one did that, not even my close friends, but Betos did. My father also was not good emotionally. He hit the bottle hard. He would sometimes ground me for days without any reason and even slap me. Betos would then bark at him, and father would stop, because a ChowChow is a fucking Chow-Chow.
Betos stopped talking to me during this period, I thought at the time he did not want to disturb my grieving. He only started talking to me again a year later, but he never told me why he stopped.
But when I was around fourteen, the conversations started to get creepy. He would begin saying things like how I looked like my mother, how pretty I was when I was changing clothes, how I had grown. I tried to ignore it, maybe he was just parking me or something.
When I was sixteen, Betos died. I started grieving again, hard. It was like losing my mom once again. The night after he died, I heard the door opening. My father was entering my bedroom, unbuckling his belt and carrying an empty bottle. He said: “Finally, that flea-bitten brat is gone. Now we can talk more privately, if you catch my drift. I can’t help myself any longer, you look just like her…” The voice he used was not his normal voice. It was the voice Betos supposedly used. Then I understood it was never Betos talking. I screamed in horror as he approached, with the most perverted and sadistic smile I have ever seen, the moon illuminating his booze-stained teeth.
And then, suddenly, he screamed in pain and crouched. His leg was bleeding, he had a clear bitemark there, I could even see his bone. My father tried to get up, but another bite-mark appeared in his torso, and he was thrown to the wall violently.
“But how?! I poisoned you! You would always growl when I tried to enter so I fucking killed you!” I remember these words because they were the last he spoke. His neck was violently ripped, and he bled to death right there.
When the police came, they found a small space between the wall of my room and my parents bedroom, with a chair, holes on the wall, and hundreds of photos of me all over the wall. I told the police what happened, they told me that did not make sense, but the only way to explain the bite marks was if a dog broke into the house and killed my dad.
I ended up moving into my aunt’s house, she took care of me. Now I understand my dog never talked to me. He didn’t need to. He was always by my side and will always be. I still see or feel him sometimes. Betos is not only my truest friend but my true father.