Somewhere hidden, and in some place I rarely make time to visit, I want to be a writer. Little excerpt from a new short story, half-memoir, half-fiction: When I arrived home that afternoon, Mona was waiting for me on the front doormat instead of at the gate. The only thing lit up in that dark night for a mile was that adolescent pup, and a pile of duck and blood under a single porch light beam. She wiggled a little more than usual, smelling the dead duck then looking at me, and smelling the duck again. She was such a pretty shepherd mutt, with impossibly expressive eyes and the sweetest face, now spattered with the near-neon of fresh blood. I could smell it on her. Id never had to punish Mona before, not really, at least. She was exceptionally boisterous and admittedly coddled, serving as a spooning partner for most of the colder months, but she was smarter than the rest and knew how to read my face. She knew when I was talking to her, even from across the room, and even without having to say her name. I threw her to her back on that November concrete and shoved my index in her face like a spear, even though I knew that wasnt the most effective way of punishing her. I wouldnt have said as much at the time, but I was still a young girl enamored by some notion of harmony. My emotions had gotten the best of me when I witnessed that rawness of life: the yellow and pale pink organs spilling from the ducks body cavity onto my doormat. I sat on Monas exposed belly and roared at her, disregarding what the neighbors might think until a cat spooked, triggering a second light beam from the barn across the left field. Monas tail was between her legs and she was looking at the disemboweled duck and then back at me. As I yelled, she winced her eyes as though she thought I would beat her. Id never done that, and I wondered where she had learned to wince at me, or if I had taught it to her in that moment. The guilt followed immediately, and I wondered if she understood my anger or if she ever really could at all. My needs were at war with her biology. I had to remind myself that Mona was a dog and I was a human and even though our bond was undeniable, we needed different things. To be a good dog owner, a good alpha, is to behave counter-intuitively. The very tip of her tail wiggled just a little bit at sensing my weakness, so I turned my back to her, turned the house key, and let the other dogs inside, using my small weight and cold shoulder to reject Mona there, under that lonely beam of light, despite my instinct. I only returned for the duck, the first and last bird I ever bothered to dig a grave for.
Posted on: Fri, 16 Jan 2015 03:00:45 +0000
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