Just a {dog} (open)
Apr 24, 2009 17:27:50 GMT -5
Post by fledge on Apr 24, 2009 17:27:50 GMT -5
Fingers twine through my hair, slowly at first, then working themselves into a frenzy. I scarcely feel the silky texture of it. It's just something to do with my hands, a barrier of movement to stave the thoughts away. But my carefully placed defenses are broken as soon as he licks my hands, and hot tears slide over my already moist cheeks. Unable to ignore him any longer, to keep away the pain, I slide from the stump and sit next to him on the ground, my busy fingers now combing through his ivory chest fur. Those ice-blue eyes gaze at me in concern. He can't hear my sobbing, but he can sense my sorrow. Confused, he pushes himself against my chest, thrusting his muzzle into my hands, and I go quiet.
It was just this afternoon, coming home from school. My feet traced the same path as always; I set my backpack where it always goes, I said hello to the dogs and made myself a snack. Nothing out of the ordinary. If today was so normal, why was it so different? My mother walked into the cramped kitchen, weary as ever, same dusky shadows under her eyes. We were quiet for a while, but I could tell she wanted to speak to me. "What is it?" I ask. We are always direct with each other, and I was concerned. It's not like her to hold things back. She opened her mouth to speak several times, but the words seemed to leap back down her throat and she had to drag them back up. When she finally spoke, it came in a rush. "Kay...Kay, do you remember when I complained to you about people not buying as many puppies as they used to?"
"Yes," I began warily, an icy feeling spreading to the tips of my fingers. "They all want genetically engineered dogs now."
"Don't get me wrong, Kay, we're not going out of business. People are still buying puppies...it's just that the freak dogs perform better, make better pets, in their opinions." She always referred to genetically engineered dogs as "freaks", often refusing to speak when I brought them up. "You know the cost of dog food, and it's just that...well, we can't afford to feed dogs that aren't giving us profit in return. The non-breeders." Not comprehending at first, I reached down to scratch Harris' ear. "You mean feed them less? Mom, that's not--"
She cut me off, not meeting my eyes."No, Kay, we're going to have to get rid of them." The truth hit me in the face, breaking me out my happy, relaxed, after-school state like a splash of icy water in the face. My grip tightened on Harris' fur, curling into the silky white strands. I thought of them. Maria, who had a twisted hind leg. Romeo, with a cleft palate. Aia, the hound who is afraid of squirrels...Harris. Harris, the deaf double merle. Harris. I didn't allow her to finish her thought; I pulled on my shoes, called Harris, and departed. I could hear her calling plaintively after me, a mother bird trying to call her fledgling home. I didn't turn back.
I make another gasping sob, a pitiful sound. Angry at myself, I resume my walk through the trees, trying to leave the pain behind. I try to reason with myself. I'm being childlike; we've lost plenty of dogs before, more than I can count. It's just part of life. Once we lost two whole litters and one of the mothers to a disease.
But this is Harris. Harris. Ten years old, he's been with me since I was a clumsy four-year-old, begging my mother not to get the pretty white puppy put to sleep. He is my brother, father, and friend rolled into one. I'm sure that would sound ridiculous to some people, but it's just how it is to me. I don't mind that my best friends are dogs, I don't mind that I don't have many "real" friends, I don't mind that I don't seem to fit in at school. I have always had my mother and my dogs for company, and Harris has been my constant companion, through good times and bad. He's much smarter than me and always has a knowing look in his eye.
As we continue our walk, under the mockingly bright sky, various scenarios play through my mind, each more ludicrous than the last. What if I ran away with the four dogs, into the woods, learned how to hunt? I could support us. I could, just give me a chance. What if I tried to find other homes for them? No, no one would want a crippled dog in our world of perfection. What if their parents had never been bred; what if I had failed to convince my mother that they deserved to live?
I stop and take my dog's head in my hands, looking into his eyes. Though he normally would have pulled away, he seems to go soft in my arms. I can do this. I can.
We keep walking, all the while trying and failing to convince myself that he's just a dog, like I knew my friends would say when he was gone. Doesn't matter, he's just a dog.
It was just this afternoon, coming home from school. My feet traced the same path as always; I set my backpack where it always goes, I said hello to the dogs and made myself a snack. Nothing out of the ordinary. If today was so normal, why was it so different? My mother walked into the cramped kitchen, weary as ever, same dusky shadows under her eyes. We were quiet for a while, but I could tell she wanted to speak to me. "What is it?" I ask. We are always direct with each other, and I was concerned. It's not like her to hold things back. She opened her mouth to speak several times, but the words seemed to leap back down her throat and she had to drag them back up. When she finally spoke, it came in a rush. "Kay...Kay, do you remember when I complained to you about people not buying as many puppies as they used to?"
"Yes," I began warily, an icy feeling spreading to the tips of my fingers. "They all want genetically engineered dogs now."
"Don't get me wrong, Kay, we're not going out of business. People are still buying puppies...it's just that the freak dogs perform better, make better pets, in their opinions." She always referred to genetically engineered dogs as "freaks", often refusing to speak when I brought them up. "You know the cost of dog food, and it's just that...well, we can't afford to feed dogs that aren't giving us profit in return. The non-breeders." Not comprehending at first, I reached down to scratch Harris' ear. "You mean feed them less? Mom, that's not--"
She cut me off, not meeting my eyes."No, Kay, we're going to have to get rid of them." The truth hit me in the face, breaking me out my happy, relaxed, after-school state like a splash of icy water in the face. My grip tightened on Harris' fur, curling into the silky white strands. I thought of them. Maria, who had a twisted hind leg. Romeo, with a cleft palate. Aia, the hound who is afraid of squirrels...Harris. Harris, the deaf double merle. Harris. I didn't allow her to finish her thought; I pulled on my shoes, called Harris, and departed. I could hear her calling plaintively after me, a mother bird trying to call her fledgling home. I didn't turn back.
I make another gasping sob, a pitiful sound. Angry at myself, I resume my walk through the trees, trying to leave the pain behind. I try to reason with myself. I'm being childlike; we've lost plenty of dogs before, more than I can count. It's just part of life. Once we lost two whole litters and one of the mothers to a disease.
But this is Harris. Harris. Ten years old, he's been with me since I was a clumsy four-year-old, begging my mother not to get the pretty white puppy put to sleep. He is my brother, father, and friend rolled into one. I'm sure that would sound ridiculous to some people, but it's just how it is to me. I don't mind that my best friends are dogs, I don't mind that I don't have many "real" friends, I don't mind that I don't seem to fit in at school. I have always had my mother and my dogs for company, and Harris has been my constant companion, through good times and bad. He's much smarter than me and always has a knowing look in his eye.
As we continue our walk, under the mockingly bright sky, various scenarios play through my mind, each more ludicrous than the last. What if I ran away with the four dogs, into the woods, learned how to hunt? I could support us. I could, just give me a chance. What if I tried to find other homes for them? No, no one would want a crippled dog in our world of perfection. What if their parents had never been bred; what if I had failed to convince my mother that they deserved to live?
I stop and take my dog's head in my hands, looking into his eyes. Though he normally would have pulled away, he seems to go soft in my arms. I can do this. I can.
We keep walking, all the while trying and failing to convince myself that he's just a dog, like I knew my friends would say when he was gone. Doesn't matter, he's just a dog.
