Understanding Dogs

One of my puppies is hurting. I don’t know why.

Understanding dogs is a lot like writing. You are trying to figure out what they are thinking and feeling, but really you have not a clue. You can try and put yourself in their shoes like you do when you are writing through a character’s eyes, but, in the end, you are left with your own projections rather than actual information. The dog and the character are still a mystery.

So you touch here, rub there, and generally feel your way around until you get a reaction. It is frustrating. And leaves your heart in your throat with worry. That is also like writing.

Trying to put the unexplainable in words. Trying to give voice to the voiceless. Authors and pet owners have been struggling with this for millennia. With varying degrees of success.

I am not having much success today. 

Kidnapping

Amy struggled to breathe.  There was a hand clasped over her mouth and another wrapped tight around her waist.  She was being carried toward a big black SUV parked next to the curb.  She kicked and tried to wiggle free, but the arm around her waist only held her tighter. 

She really needed to breathe.  Her heart was racing and tears streamed down her face.  She tried to scream against the hand, but only a muffled sound came out.

“Shhh,” the man hissed in her ear. 

The door to the SUV swung open and the man threw her inside where another man grabbed her and covered her mouth again.  Her whole body was shaking. 

The SUV peeled away from the curb.  She was buckled in between the two men.  They both wore ski masks.  The driver did not have anything on his face, but he wouldn’t’ look at her so she didn’t know what he looked like.  She was sobbing now.

The man who had carried her to the car growled at her to shut up, but the other man smoothed her hair and talked gently to her.

“Amy, I need you to stop crying.”

She wiped her eyes and tried to stop crying until all that was left were the gasps and shudders left over from a hard cry.  “How do you know my name,” she asked between gasps.

“Amy we are not going to hurt you.  We are friends.”

“You are not my friends.  Mommy said strangers are dangerous.”

“Amy, we are not strangers.”

“Then who are you.  Take off your mask and let me see.”

The angry man chuckled.  “Smart kid.”

“Amy,” the nicer man said taking her hand.  “We are not strangers.  We are friends of your father.  We are taking you to him.”

“But I don’t want to see Daddy.  I want mommy.”

“You can go back to your mommy.  Your daddy just wants to see you for a little bit.  He has a surprise for you.”

Amy bit her lip.  She hadn’t seen Daddy in two years.  Mommy had said they would never see him again.  Amy had almost started to believe that was true.

“I want to go home.  Tell Daddy I didn’t want to see him.”

“But he’s your daddy.  Every little girl loves their daddy.”

“Well, I don’t.  Please turn around and take me home.”

“Can’t do that, little girl,” the mean man said.  “Your daddy wants to see you, whether you want to see him or not.”

Amy forced herself not to cry.  Mommy wouldn’t cry.  She had never cried in front of Daddy.  Even when he hit her.  She would just bite her lip and glare at him. Amy glared at the back of the driver’s head.

For two years they had been happy.  She was going to a new school, she had new friends, and Mommy had a new job.  Mommy helped her with her homework and they ordered pizza and watched movies every Friday.  Mommy smiled now, and Amy wasn’t afraid of the dark.

But now it was all changing as quickly as it had two years ago when they snuck out of Daddy’s house at three a.m.  She could not stop the tears now.  She wiped them away with an angry hand as she remembered that night, dark and cold.  Mommy hadn’t turned on the car, just kind of let it roll back down the driveway.  She had been bundled up in the front seat.  It was her first time up front.  Mommy had been quiet.  When they were all the way out in the street, Mommy turned on the car.  They had driven all night and most of the next day to Aunt Beth’s house.  Then they took a very long bus ride all the way to Arizona.

“Are you taking me back to Virginia?”

“No.  Your Daddy is here.  He’s come a long way to find you.”

The SUV was slowing down.  Looking out the window, Amy realized they were in a parking lot.  There was only one other car there.  The SUV stopped and the nicer man opened his door.  “Come on,” he said gently pulling her out after him.

A man got out of the other car.  In the dark, it was hard to make out his face, but Amy remembered his shape outlined against her nightlight.  She shivered.

“Hello, Amy,” Daddy said.  “I’ve missed you.”

Amy was too frightened to reply.  She wanted her Mommy.

Daddy put a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed.  “Did you miss me, honey?”

Amy thought about running, but his hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Amy, I asked you a question.  Did you miss me?”

She nodded, it was all she could manage.

“Good.  Now let’s go home.”

“Please, I want to see my Mommy.”

Daddy ignored her and helped her get into the car.  As he buckled her in, his hand trailed across her chest.  She shivered again.  He kissed her on the forehead like he used to.

“You are mine now,” he said.  He closed the door and the car beeped as he locked it.  He turned back to the kidnappers.

Blue

The walls were the same blue as the sky.  Danielle assumed this was to give one the feeling of not being in this room.  However, it failed.  As she lay on her back, her feet in the stirrups, and a cold sensation between her legs, Danielle was absolutely certain she could not pretend she was anywhere else.

Her hands rested on her stomach, left one balled under the right.  She pulled them into the soft flab of her abdomen, willing herself to think of anything else.  She closed her eyes.  But even in the dark, there was no denying it.

It all started innocent enough.  Boy meets girl.  They fall madly in love and live happily ever after.  Only ‘ever after’ had not been so terribly long.  Three years to be exact.  Then the fairy tale crumbled around them.  Work got in the way, then friends.  Finally, it was like sleeping next to a stranger every night.  They had clung to the charade.  Forcing, willing, things to be like they were.  They had even tried counseling.  But one look at the therapist and Danielle knew they were doomed.  They decided to end it amicably.  He was carrying out the last box of their life together when she had suggested wine. Just a glass.  Then just one more.  Soon two bottles were slipping out of an overfull trashcan and she was slipping out of her panties.

The sex had always been amazing.  The many nights she sat awake dissecting their marriage, it was the one thing she kept coming back to.  The one thing they seemed to have in common.  The night he moved out put all the rest to shame.  And when she woke, he was gone.  It seemed the perfect end.

Until three weeks later and she was late. 

Danielle could hear the doctor’s tennis shoes speak on the tile outside her door.  There was a short, quick knock and he entered, followed by a nurse in bright pink scrubs.  Danielle’s legs twitched, trying to cover up her nakedness, but the stirrups held her in place, exposing her most intimate parts to the sky blue walls.  

Coffee

Some days he felt he ran solely on coffee. If he slit his wrist open, coffee, not blood, would pour out, hot and black. The automatic drip went off at 5:30 every morning. By noon he was brewing a second twelve cup pot that would hopefully get him through till midnight.

The drafting table looked as frazzled as he felt. The eraser crumbs covered the floor and felt like soft sawdust under his feet. With only a few days left before the deadline, there was no sleep, only pots and pots of coffee.

He looked over the design, sipping a cold mug of last hour’s coffee that either had coffee grounds or eraser crumbs in the bottom. His soul on paper. The culmination of years of education,study, and hard work. His chance to make a name for himself as an architect. But all he could see were mistakes.

Spring

It seemed no one told the weather that today was the first day of spring.

Marcella sighed. She flicked on the reading lamp at her desk. The only thing worse than studying calculus on a Sunday afternoon was studying calculus on a dreary Sunday afternoon. 

Xena

Growing up, I loved Xena: Warrior Princess.  I would play it in the backyard with my sister and cousin.  Of course, I was always Xena.  Always.  Sister was usually Gabrielle and cousin was Callisto, once they were done arguing over it, but I was always Xena.  We would run around the backyard trying to imitate that famous banshee cry and shooting homemade bows and arrows.  Yes, I realize Xena never used a bow and arrow, but Dad wasn’t real keen on the idea of us using wooden swords.  Looking back, he should probably have been a little more worried about the arrow shooting too, but hey, it was the 90’s.  Xena was such an important part of my childhood.  It gave me a strong female role model.  It inspired my imagination.  It introduced me to the world of pop culture cults and camp.  It was my first introduction to Bruce Campbell, Lucy Lawless, Sam Rami. 

Now fast forward to 2016…  THEY ARE BRINGING XENA BACK!  When I heard the news, I was so excited.  I still am, but the excitement has kind of faded as I realized what this really meant for my beloved, leather-clad warrior princess.  You see, the new Xena won’t be my Xena. 

My Xena lives in the treasured memories of sitting with my sister watching the original series on TV.  Of jumping off the rock wall in our backyard or swinging on the jungle gym pretending to catch an imaginary chakra.  Even re-watching the original series on Netflix strained this personal connection.  I never realized just how campy the show really was!  And the sexual tension between Xena and Gabrielle – yeah, didn’t get that at all as a child.  Now they will be completely remaking the series with a whole new cast.  Can Xena be anyone by Lucy Lawless?  So part of me is exited that young girls will have an opportunity for a strong female role model and part of me is thrilled to get a chance for more of Xena’s story, but part of me is sad for what seems like the death of my childhood hero.  

I have been struggling with this loss of innocence a lot lately.  You would think 30 would be a little late for innocence, but I found I still have a surprising amount.  And what is worse, the loss is way more painful when you actually understand it.  I have reached the time in my life where things from my childhood are starting to fall apart.  Actors, musicians, and other celebrities that shaped who I am are dying.  Franchises that brought me the settings and characters for my make-believe games are being rebooted in fantastic and startling ways.  Wolverine doesn’t wear gaudy blue and yellow anymore.  Gollum isn’t quite so scary when he isn’t animated.  In a way the loss of innocence has allowed me to appreciate more of the nuance behind these things – like when you finally get all the dirty jokes in Animaniacs – but I am also aware of the cost of these revelations.  

Disappear

Friday, March 12, 2012, Jessica disappeared.

At 12:34 she parked in front of the bank. She made a deposit of $1,356.47 to the joint account she shared with her husband, Anthony. Fron there, she walked to the library to drop off some books and checked out the newest Larry McMrutry novel. The librarian had been holding it for her since Wednesday. Then she stopped by the grocery. Amy, the high school clerk, tried to help her find gorgonzola; she wanted it for a recipe. The store didn't have any, but Amy put it on the list for their next order. Jessica headed back to her car. The security camera at the bank watched her pull away. It was the last anyone saw of her.

In cities, these things happened all the time. But in the small, tight-knit community of Jackson, Jessica's disappearance was sensational. People in Jackson had no secrets. When everyone knew more about your business than you did, it was impossible to have any. So how could someone just disappear? 

Stumble

“I – that’s not – It came out wrong,” Josh called after her.  But it was too late. 

The martini slowly soaking into his Doctor Who shirt was cold.  He shivered as a bead dripped onto the front of his jeans.  At least it hadn’t been in his eyes.  She had been kind enough to throw the drink at his chest, not his face.

He rung the hem of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“Dude, what did you say?” Zane asked, handing him a wad of cocktail napkins. 

Josh dabbed at himself with the useless pieces of unabsorbent paper.  “Nothing.  I mean nothing to deserve that.  We were just talking about series seven and I might have said something about Rory getting killed all the time.  But it just happened so fast.”

“Did she even watch Doctor Who?”

“Yeah, that’s why we started talking.”

“Maybe she finds Rory’s immortality strangely romantic.  I mean, it is all about Ami.  Girls did that shit.”

“Maybe,” Josh said, slapping the sodden wad of napkins back into Zane’s empty hand.  “I need a drink.”

“I’ll buy, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Next time you are going to make a complete ass of yourself, warn me so I can get my phone out.  I mean it’s not every day the amazing Josh Wellman falls flat on his face with a girl.”

Western

Only a few days more and they would travel further than anyone had gone before.  What would they find on the western edge of the world?  More ocean, eventually leading around until they appeared again on the eastern horizon?  Admiral Donavan sent a silent prayer to the gods watching from Olympus Monds – anything but that, please.  He would take slow painful death in the stomach of a leviathan over the ‘I told you so’ looks of the other captains.

Donavan collapsed the looking glass and slipped it into the pocket of his huge dress coat.  He had not changed his uniform for two days and it was beginning to smell a bit of sweat an burned whale oil.

Onions

When I was in first grade I had a show and tell assignment.  Each week a different student in Mrs. Puckett’s class had to take home a shoe box, fill it with something they loved, something they hated, and things that represented their family and interests.  At the time, I loved horses – guess I still do, but I digress.  I loved horses, so I had a My Little Pony in the box.  I also had pictures of my family – Mom, Dad, sisters, brother, grandparents.  I was taking dance lessons at the time, so I threw in a ballet shoe.  I liked tap better, but my ballet shoes didn’t smell quite as bad.  I remember that when it came down to picking the thing I hated, I had trouble.

“Daddy says ‘Hate is a strong word,’ and I’m not supposed to hate anything.”

“Well, what about something you don’t like,” Mom suggested.  It was the day before my presentation and we had scattered my items over the kitchen table to rehearse. 

“I guess I don’t like cats.”

“Did you want to put a picture of a cat in here?”

“But I don’t not like them that much.”

In the end, after several suggestions of things that I didn’t not like enough, we came up with an onion.  I really did hate onions – to the point where hate might not have been a strong enough word, but it was all my first grade vocabulary could come up with as the ultimate dislike.  Mom had to pretty much mince them to keep me from picking them out of my food.

The fateful day came, I gave my presentation, everyone agreed that onions were the worst, and then it was Jackson Knight’s turn for show and tell the next week.  My last sacred duty was to take the show and tell shoe box home, empty it out, and then return it the next Monday so Jackson could fill it.  Not going to lie, I was a little nervous about this last part.  So the first thing I did when I got home was to start unpacking the box on the kitchen table.  I left the onion for last, but finally, it was the only thing left in the box.

It was just a regular white onion.  About the size of a baseball.  To this day, I am not sure what possessed me, but as I pulled the onion from the box, I had the overwhelming desire to peel it.  So I did.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I rubbed off the papery beige skin on the outside.  Then I used my nails to claw away the first layer of white.  The smell was overwhelming and soon I was crying.  Mom came over by layer three.

“What are you doing?”

By this point, I was confused myself.  Tears streamed down my face and I just started bawling. 

Fast forward thirty years.  My opinion on onions has changed.  After spending some time abroad, I have even been known to enjoy them raw on salads and such.  My mother cursed me to have a child just like me.  I have two – neither of my boys can stand to be in the same house as an onion.  I have to mince them even finer than she did.  Thanks, Mom. 

I have this theory, why I now like onions.  Yes, they taste good, but I also think I like onions because they make it okay to cry.  When I was in first grade, I hated crying.  I did it a lot, as all children do, but I hated it.  Now, as an adult with children of my own, I find it very hard to let myself cry.  Not because I don’t want to, but because it will upset, scare, or otherwise scar my boys.  Onions are my salvation.  It isn’t the good cathartic cry that we all need – the ugly, sobbing, disgusting cry that is freeing and terrifying at the same time – but it is a form of crying that is socially acceptable and does not cause other adults to ask the dreaded “is everything okay?” It is safe crying.

I think back to my show and tell for Mrs. Puckett’s class.  Now, my box would have pictures of a very different family – much older and much larger.  Ballet shoes would be replaced with mementos from my boys’ various sports and my drafting tools.  I still love horses, but that My Little Pony is long gone.  I would need a much bigger box! 

Of course, there would be no onions in my adult show and tell box.  I think I am finally able to use the word hate correctly, but the things I hate aren’t really things you can put in a box.  Things like self-doubt, deadlines, bills, and the evil that humans are capable of.  

Space

Outside the small, round porthole was nothing. And everything. Jeremey stared out at the great black expanse of space studded with the bright white pinpricks of far away stars.

Space travel was so different from earth travel. He knew they were moving 500 kilometers a second, yet the view from his cabin window never changed. Humans really were so insignificant.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the desk. Although the action itself took much less effort in the ships diminished gravity, it the emotional weight of it somehow tripled.

It wasn’t that he hated his job. He loved being a long distance space freight captain. Or, rather, he loved the destinations. Each new port was a whole new world. He often imagined himself as an ancient explorer, like Columbus, stepping off a creaking wooden ship onto alien soil for the first time.

Each time he sought out every adventure he could cram into his short stop over. He gorged himself on local delicacies, wore through his boots hot footing it to all the regular tourist traps, and tried to soak up the atmosphere of each station, asteroid, or planet through every pore.  

It was a life of whirlwind excitement punctuating long periods of hibernation as he traveled the bleak expanses of space.

Had Columbus ever given up hope, as one day bled into another with nothing to see but more ocean? At least Jeremey knew where he was going and how long it would take to get there. Barring any breakdowns or unforeseen obstacles, of course.

He shrugged on his flight jacket and took one last look out the dark porthole. Still two more weeks before they reached Xerces Station, famous for their spicy cuisine.

Snow

At first, she liked the snow. The way it covered the barren courtyard in a pristine layer of white. It was beautiful. On very cold days, when it was especially sparkly, she could even imagine it was her own field of diamonds.

Sometimes there were tracks, though she never saw a soul. She spent hours making up stories to go with the billowy trails. This one was a lord, sneaking through the dark of night to see his lady. This one was that same lady off on a midnight shopping spree. This one, the one that only made it half way to her window, was a kindly guard stopped on the verge of rescuing her.

But as winter wore on and on and the snow piled higher and higher, she began to hate the stark white courtyard. She longed for just a peep of green. Something to break up the bleak landscape.

Then one day she spotted it. Along the north wall, the one with the most sun, a tiny green shoot. It took her several days to realize it was actually there. But it was.

Each day the shoot peeked a little higher out of the snow. Leaves fell away from the main stalk. The tip swelled as the bloom matured. Each day she stared for hours, hoping and praying for the little bud to open.

A hard knock on the door woke her from a light, cold sleep. Two guards pushed into the room and pulled her from her bed. Their hands were rough and firm through the thin material of her nightgown as they took hold of her arms and started to drag her toward the door.

“Wait, please,” she begged. “The little flower in the courtyard. Please, let me look one last time. It is open. I prayed it would open. I must be open.”

“It’s dark,” the smaller guard mumbled.

“Please. Just a moment. Then I will go with you.”

But the larger guard just pulled her forward.

“No,” she cried. Wrenching her neck, she looked back at the night-dark window.

In the crisp February morning, the smaller guard crunched through the snow of the small courtyard. He found the solitary flower, standing tall against the north wall. A perfect yellow daffodil. It had bloomed. Just not in time.

With a quick tug, he beheaded the flower. He would place it on her grave when no one was looking.