and the new additions to her family.
The first time Dean asked his Dad for a dog he was eight. They were staying Steve, an old army buddy of his Dad’s, who had a spread in the foothills of the Ozraks. Steve bred Labradors and Dean had spent hours ever day tumbling around with dogs as playful and energetic as he was.
“Dad, Steve said I could have one of the dogs! The brown one with the bit of white on his paw and I’m going to call him Max and…”
“Dean, we can’t have a dog.”
“But Daaad! I’d look after him and feed him. I would.”
“No dog. Now go and play with your brother”.
The next, and last time, Dean asked his father for a dog he was eleven. They had been staying with Bobby, who had a series of serious junkyard dogs –the latest being Lewinksy a mean-tempered mongrel who looked like the outcome of a drunken night between Godzilla and a werewolf. Lewinksy had replaced Kato, who’d in a break with tradition for Bobby’s dogs, been killed not by a demon, or crazed creature, but by John Winchester backing over it in the Impala.
“A dog would help us track things Dad. And he could stay and protect Sammy, so I could come hunting with you.”
“No dog. Now get to cleaning those guns”.
As Dean got older, he still thought about having a dog. A loyal companion, who would always be by his side. Who would never leave him, or yell at him or look at him like he was stupid. He thought a lot about what sort of dog he’d get. He didn’t want a big aggro dog, not like ones he saw with the pimps and drug dealers in every town - the pit bulls with studded collars and scarred heads and empty eyes.
Anyway, Dean thought the more mean the dog, probably the more insecure the guy. It was like a penis substitute thing or something. More importantly, the ladies didn’t dig mean old junkyard dogs, and Dean always had to consider what they ladies liked. Unfortunately a lot of them seemed to like dogs that barely made the height requirements for the species, or ones that had more hair than Sammy and probably needed a personal stylist. Although he knew some little dogs had guts. There was that foxie one motel owner had that would take on dogs five times it size.
But finally it wasn’t a terrier or a hound or any sort of dog that Dean got.
It was a ferret, who nestled inside his leather jacket, and would pop his head out causing chicks to coo in delight. Ferrets had guts – or more precisely they had no sense that the whole world bigger than them. And they were smart – Dean had even heard of one who’d called 911.
He was sleek and black, and Dean called him Imp.