The House Dog
Spot
Most people believe I am stupid; a dim creature that will bend to commands and empty promises. And maybe they are not completely off in their assumptions; I am a beast without a voice, who bows for bread but will accept the crumbs. I am simple, I will admit, and there is no place for greed in modesty.
I cannot recall how long I’ve lived, how many years my soul has embraced the air. I do not live by years, but by memories, and of those I have plenty. The scent of rubber scraping against asphalt, the ugly sound of a tire’s swerve and then pain, limbs succumbing to something much heavier than bone; all of this I remember. And I can picture the fateful night as clearly as the ocean had once reflected the sky.
There was his face, hard and wasted but so very young. A boy with a soul that reeked of anger and rot, yet with enough heart to handle something broken.
.
.
.
He never lingered on my lost leg, the stub that jutted out from beneath me. but could never fully reach the sanctuary of earth. And I will always be grateful that I had been found by someone who did not see me as any less for something as trivial as flesh.
He had a mother with soothing hands and a ghostly, hollow sort of beauty. She called him Matthew and every word she spoke was toned like an apology; her love for him was obvious, her stolen glances were only wishes that he could live a better life.
They were good people; I did not judge by what I saw but by what I felt; the salve that cooled the bone-stump of my leg, the gentle prodding towards a bowl of water. But there was no air or light in the walls of their home; it was stained with sorrow and loss that opened no doors to the solace of the sky. It was hell and haven with no escape, white-washed and void of fresh breath or color. It suffocated me in ways that I could only imagine ashen fires and mist licked by embers could, and maybe, I realized, that that had been it.
.
.
.
When he walked me he never restrained me with straps of silver and leather. I was free to prance along the curves of pavement, and when I felt the earth crumble from beneath, he caught me. I never could understand how trust, simple as the sun and mildew of the grass, could be made to be so complex and yearned for in the minds of men. It is as plain as a boy guiding a fallen creature through the maze of street and cement.
Why should you bite the hand that feeds? There may be false intentions, but there is never sanctuary for those who choose to starve.
.
.
.
My master was a boy ashamed of himself. He would walk me to the park where we would amuse ourselves with the sweet nothings of morning, play races and catch-games. I am a humble animal and there are some concepts I will never learn to grasp, such as the ability to bestow upon piles of metal the power of flight, of floating in the sea. And then there is the human mind, so different from the plainness of my own.
“What is that?” a girl had said, nose scrunched in distaste; a folded lily. Her fingers were jutted in my direction. “Is that your dog, Matthew?”
And then it was like he looked at me for the first time since he had taken me in. He didn’t see the companion that curled up at the toe of his bed, the friend who he played with. No, he stared down at me with moon-creased eyes that squinted stardust; angry, an ocean suddenly shallower. I felt a jab in my side and I whimpered, crumpled to the ground like new fallen snow.
The girl giggled, and I noticed how his gaze lingered on her with a distant tenderness. She held out her hand to him.
“C’mon, let’s go, the other kids are at the swings.”
He nodded once and turned to me, his whisper harsh and clammy: “Don’t come home, boy. Ever again.”
And then he ran after her, and that was the first time I ever broke his wishes.
.
.
.
I limped all the way back to the worn home, my body an angry mess of muscle and bone. When my paws slipped no one was there to catch me; no one heard my moans against the biting wind. Nightfall wrapped it’s arms around me in an inky embrace; I would have not have made it had I not heard the voices.
“Where’s Spot, Mattie?” it was his mother; her voice gentle as a whisper as she spoke our names. “I thought he went to the park with you.”
He gestured ‘yes’ with his neck. “Yeah, he came with me,” his voice trembled as he spoke. “But then, I went off with Madison for a few minutes and he ran away! He lost his way.”
I heard the softness of her voice break pitch and go rigid, his shoulders bent in shame. I find my legs drag themselves in the opposite direction, and it was as if I was enchanted. He lost his way. I heard him say it over and over and even now as I wander without aim I have only a single thought to that:
No, (How I wish to speak, how I wish the words would come to me.) you have.
I cannot recall how long I’ve lived, how many years my soul has embraced the air. I do not live by years, but by memories, and of those I have plenty. The scent of rubber scraping against asphalt, the ugly sound of a tire’s swerve and then pain, limbs succumbing to something much heavier than bone; all of this I remember. And I can picture the fateful night as clearly as the ocean had once reflected the sky.
There was his face, hard and wasted but so very young. A boy with a soul that reeked of anger and rot, yet with enough heart to handle something broken.
.
.
.
He never lingered on my lost leg, the stub that jutted out from beneath me. but could never fully reach the sanctuary of earth. And I will always be grateful that I had been found by someone who did not see me as any less for something as trivial as flesh.
He had a mother with soothing hands and a ghostly, hollow sort of beauty. She called him Matthew and every word she spoke was toned like an apology; her love for him was obvious, her stolen glances were only wishes that he could live a better life.
They were good people; I did not judge by what I saw but by what I felt; the salve that cooled the bone-stump of my leg, the gentle prodding towards a bowl of water. But there was no air or light in the walls of their home; it was stained with sorrow and loss that opened no doors to the solace of the sky. It was hell and haven with no escape, white-washed and void of fresh breath or color. It suffocated me in ways that I could only imagine ashen fires and mist licked by embers could, and maybe, I realized, that that had been it.
.
.
.
When he walked me he never restrained me with straps of silver and leather. I was free to prance along the curves of pavement, and when I felt the earth crumble from beneath, he caught me. I never could understand how trust, simple as the sun and mildew of the grass, could be made to be so complex and yearned for in the minds of men. It is as plain as a boy guiding a fallen creature through the maze of street and cement.
Why should you bite the hand that feeds? There may be false intentions, but there is never sanctuary for those who choose to starve.
.
.
.
My master was a boy ashamed of himself. He would walk me to the park where we would amuse ourselves with the sweet nothings of morning, play races and catch-games. I am a humble animal and there are some concepts I will never learn to grasp, such as the ability to bestow upon piles of metal the power of flight, of floating in the sea. And then there is the human mind, so different from the plainness of my own.
“What is that?” a girl had said, nose scrunched in distaste; a folded lily. Her fingers were jutted in my direction. “Is that your dog, Matthew?”
And then it was like he looked at me for the first time since he had taken me in. He didn’t see the companion that curled up at the toe of his bed, the friend who he played with. No, he stared down at me with moon-creased eyes that squinted stardust; angry, an ocean suddenly shallower. I felt a jab in my side and I whimpered, crumpled to the ground like new fallen snow.
The girl giggled, and I noticed how his gaze lingered on her with a distant tenderness. She held out her hand to him.
“C’mon, let’s go, the other kids are at the swings.”
He nodded once and turned to me, his whisper harsh and clammy: “Don’t come home, boy. Ever again.”
And then he ran after her, and that was the first time I ever broke his wishes.
.
.
.
I limped all the way back to the worn home, my body an angry mess of muscle and bone. When my paws slipped no one was there to catch me; no one heard my moans against the biting wind. Nightfall wrapped it’s arms around me in an inky embrace; I would have not have made it had I not heard the voices.
“Where’s Spot, Mattie?” it was his mother; her voice gentle as a whisper as she spoke our names. “I thought he went to the park with you.”
He gestured ‘yes’ with his neck. “Yeah, he came with me,” his voice trembled as he spoke. “But then, I went off with Madison for a few minutes and he ran away! He lost his way.”
I heard the softness of her voice break pitch and go rigid, his shoulders bent in shame. I find my legs drag themselves in the opposite direction, and it was as if I was enchanted. He lost his way. I heard him say it over and over and even now as I wander without aim I have only a single thought to that:
No, (How I wish to speak, how I wish the words would come to me.) you have.