Teaching My Dog to Walk
My dog is an asshole. I love the little guy, but he is THEE asshole. He just refuses to do anything but pull when on a walk. I'm stubborn and dead set on teaching him, so our walks consist of about a five foot radius death match of will power. He pulls. I stop. He stops, and I pet him and walk about 3 steps before stopping again. Repeat cycle. Until I get truly annoyed and call him a dick tickler or something. He wags his tail because apparently he's proud of himself or some shit. End walk. So I'm sitting outside with a smoke and a beer contemplating it. It's like teaching a toddler. But that's a bit fucked. I wonder how much of my framework is based on a similar manipulation. How much of me is the product of conditioning? How many times did I wag my metaphorical tale because I inadvertently bent to the will of another? I doubt any one of us want to know the actual answer to that question. End of the week thoughts I suppose. More terrifying still, is how many times have I been guilty of such a thing? How many stones lie within the foundational concrete of hearts and souls, placed there by my own hands without knowing the ripple affect of my actions? A laugh too fake. An expression that got away like a blade and cut more than realized. A generic answer that made someone feel small. Or spacing out and not catching or appreciating the gravity of the moment. Nothing terrifies me more than knowing how many scars my fingerprints have framed. All because my dog is an asshole.
Scars and Bruises
I hide them. Under a sleeve or skirt.
Scratches that I have earned over years.
They burn and bleed.
They pull and tear.
I spend extra time every day trying to hide.
I don't want to show my bruises and scars.
Most people show them in pride of the battles they've won.
Yet I don't, I'm shy.
A scar down my heart. A bruise that I've brandished.
I trust nothing, it turns into hurt.
My face blushes when I look for a second to long.
Scared to meet other eyes that bore.
Maybe they wonder whats underneath the long robes.
Sometimes I wonder to. Only for a second.
They told me when I was young that I'm ugly.
One said that only scars could ruin the only beauty I have left.
So they hide. Under fabric, under a mask, under make up.
It's all a fake reality. One meant to hide the pain.
To hide the tears behind a smile.
But it never quite reaches the eyes.
You would know its fake if you look closer.
Only problem is, nobody does.
Nobody confronts the truth. They don't look at details.
They marvel at beauty as a whole.
Not beauty in one place.
I never knew, but that's why I'm ugly.
They never cared to look at tiny details.
Only the whole picture at once.
If they had looked at details they would have noticed.
My thick lashes, the way my lips curve in a smile.
He said that the curl at the end of my hair was beautiful.
He said that my eyes were enhancing.
He said never to fear the scars.
They just show that you survived, they show the battles.
A scar shows that you beat what tried to kill you.
So world, here are my brandished scars. And there meant for you to see.
I'm not hiding anymore, nothing is going behind the scenes.
Real beauty comes from what is there. Not what you are putting up.
Not the make up reality that you have.
You don't need to wonder what 's underneath now. Because here it is.
Off
Choose a path. If wrong it's okay.
It'll meet up to the true path again.
If I doesn't somebody you love will shove you to it.
Whether there are brambles or thickets. They help you through.
You may be discoursed but you'll get back.
Every time you fall over somebody's going to help.
Only if they don't have other motives.
People who love you help you.
So when you get discoursed you get two things out of it.
You find who loves you, and who doesn't.
Then you find the right path.
Blushed
My eyes divert from what's in front of me.
Years of offering what I want to others takes it's toll.
My cheeks turn red.
I've never wanted something so bad.
That's why I turn away.
I know it will hurt some how.
After time if something goes wrong it will burn.
Not wanting to get hurt is the way I've lived.
Never reckless and uncontrollable.
But those people stop caring after awhile.
They've got better coping skills than me.
My shield and armor are weaker.
And so here I stand, uncertain.
Double Scoop
Have you ever received so much ice cream that you had to change your clothes? Because I have.
One sweltering summer day, I decided as any other lower middle class American with minimal disposable income would to beat the heat with a frozen treat. I got my shoes on and off I went to my local ice cream vendor. It was just half a mile away, most of which was on a biking/pedestrian path, so I decided to walk. The smothering intensity of the heat became apparent as soon as I stepped out of my building. The sun beat down and seemed to stay there with no clouds to offer any relief. All I needed was some sour cream and chives and I would have known exactly how it felt to be a baked potato. What I didn't notice at that time was just how windy it was that day.
When I made it to the ice cream place I encountered the next dilemma of the day: what flavor to get. There were about fifteen to choose from all with unique zany names that sounded more like cocktails and didn't really tell you anything about the flavor, forcing you to read the descriptions of each one before you could make a selection.
Midnight Sunrise? That doesn't even make sense.
Snoopy's Day Off? How is that ice cream?
I decided to get a cup with half strawberry cheesecake and half zanzibar chocolate. I ordered a single serving and expected to get two half-size scoops in a single scoop cup. What I was given was two colossal scoops in a single cup. I had also grossly overestimated the size of a single scoop cup. The disproportionality in the sizes between the amount of ice cream and the cup it was crammed in could be visualized by imagining what it might look like if you tried to give a St. Bernard a bath in the kitchen sink.
My original plan was to get the ice cream and walk home as fast as I could to limit the melting and enjoy it in the comfort of my apartment while watching a movie. I intended to stick to that plan. After grabbing three napkins as a precaution I started my return journey. I'm not sure if the cup was even visible to other passersby; they may have thought I was bare-handing the ice cream like some kind of maniac.
My hopes to avoid excessive melting proved to be foolishly ambitious. The sun went to work immediately and droplets of chocolate ice cream were soon running down my fingers. I had no choice but to start frantically licking the sides while I walked, otherwise the comically large pile of ice cream might just slide off and splat on the sidewalk.
To add to the issue, I was walking directly into the wind, which caused the drops of melting ice cream to be blown onto me and splatter on my clothes. The coordination of the sun and wind's efforts made it feel like I was getting picked on by two schoolyard bullies. It was mother nature's version of "why are you hitting yourself?" The result was that I experienced the highest level of frustration that one could reach while holding an enormous stack of ice cream.
By the time I made it home my hands were covered in chocolate drippings and my clothes looked I had been standing behind a revving dirt bike in a patch of mud. It took me a couple minutes to turn the doorknob and get inside because my hands kept slipping, but when I finally did I rushed the remaining soupy ice cream into the freezer. Then, I changed my clothes.
Hug on a plate
“I’m sorry… I messed up. Again.”
He glared at me through the food portal and said something rapid in his native tongue that made the younger cook laugh and shake his head. Some sentiments need no translation to be understood.
I hadn’t been working at the restaurant for very long. The old cook was irritated with me and my wrong orders. My face at the food portal was the harbinger of extra work. Months passed. I got the hang of my job as a server, eventually. I also learned some colorful words in a new language.
One afternoon there was a rare lull. As I waited for customers, the cook gruffly motioned me to the kitchen. I immediately felt defensive, given our past. As I rounded the corner, he greeted me with a plate of pancakes. There was a fork stabbed right in the middle. I was confused.
“Eat.” He demanded, pushing the plate toward me.
I shook my head.
“No good,” he motioned my thin frame up and down. In a more gentle tone, he repeated, “Eat.”
I took the plate from him but looked around. Occasionally, an order was made in error or a pancake was too misshapen to plate. Food that was considered unsuitable to serve was thrown out. Company rules forbade employees from partaking in any.
He saw my gears turning and gestured to himself, using my old line, “I messed up.” With a wink and a shrug, he walked back to the grill.
I sat at a small table in the makeshift break room. Beneath a bulletin board plastered with safety data sheets, I pondered life of late. School almost completed, I was now in the midst of my internship at the hospital. Long hours there, followed by work here, I was on my feet for most of the day. I tend to lose my appetite when I’m stressed or busy, and I knew it was starting to show.
That first bite was a soft, pillowy piece of heaven. The pancakes were soaked in whipped butter and enveloped in thick maple syrup. I wasn’t quite sure pancakes had ever tasted this good. Perhaps I had just forgotten how good food could taste.
I fought back tears as I savored the entire short stack. The kindness of the old cook had taken me by surprise. He saw my need and met it the best way he knew how. The food was warm and sweet and tasted like a hug felt: wonderful.
From that day on, I made the effort to eat more regularly and to eat better quality foods. No more skipped meals. No more junk food swallowed hastily in my car as I was driving from one commitment to the next. My health and well-being became a priority again.
And at work, the old cook would tilt his head and shake his spatula at me with faux sternness, as to query if I was eating. However, this was always done with kindness in his eyes. I would smile and give him a thumbs-up. I was good.
Wadelyn Lane
I told him that I hated walking his dog.
The Bernese is strong and excited about everything and the leash is quite useless if a squirrel is stupid enough to show itself. The muscles in my arms and shoulders ache from every simple stroll through the neighborhood, and my throat stings from the constant begging and pleading and bargaining. His white and brown face, droopy and slobbering, always gives me that look over his shoulder until I give in and dig into my coat pocket for one of those bacon treats. A nightmare, indeed.
I complained about the task once more this morning, groaning about the frosted, slick sidewalks and that elderly woman south on Wadelyn Lane who always fusses about making sure that Baxter doesn't "conduct his business" in her grass. The winter was finally starting to take hold of our small town, and I despise the season and all of its freezing, windy facets. But Sam listened to every word, patient and amused, and just smiled warmly before kissing the line where my skin ends and soft curls begin. He told me he loved me and that he'd be back soon, and that he promised I wouldn't have to walk Baxter anymore once the snow arrived. And then he left.
Left me with the stubborn old giant that I swore gave me a mischievous smile through those floppy chops and waited at the door, bushy tail swishing. I glared at the muddy bootprints Sam left behind and prepared for the biting temperatures with my beanie and a thick jacket. And with reluctance, I grabbed the fraying purple leash hanging on the hook by the front door, clipped it onto Baxter's collar, and prayed that it would last another day before beginning the perilous half-mile journey around our suburban community.
The cold pierced through every pore in my face as soon as we walked down the driveway and past the tire tracks leading in the opposite direction. Baxter huffed happily and trotted, that tangled tail of fur wagging lazily and upright. Already, I could feel him taking advantage of the fact that I was his chauffeur as my torso was tugged ahead of my legs. My breath puffed out little clouds in front of me when I grumbled his name in warning, tilting my head to the sky beseechingly. But he acted as if he didn't hear me as he carried on, lifting his nose in the crispy air to take in all of the wonderful smells. My own nose twisted after we passed a pile of fresh, steaming dung on the sidewalk; I could only redirect Baxter's attention to a lilting bird's song and some sirens in the distance at that point.
Eventually, we passed the elderly woman's house, and she was conveniently seated on her porch with a mug of coffee giving off grey tendrils of warmth. Her eyes were narrow with sternness and judgment while she watched us pass. I just took my free hand out of the comfort of my pocket and offered an awkward wave with a tight smile. She didn't repay the gesture, but apparently found it in herself to nod.
But of course, the ever-argumentative mountain dog had to stop to sniff the dying blades of grass. My eyes widened at the unexpected audacity--even Baxter doesn't edge the widow's temper. I gave a gentle tug on his leash, which gave no assistance as he kept his snout down, inhaling whatever could possibly be so interesting in an aggravated neighbor's yard.
"Sorry!" I shouted. "We're working on his manners!"
She just stared at me expectantly, one leg crossed over the other while she waited for me to make Baxter obey. I grabbed at the side of his collar, making him look me in the face. I spoke through gritted teeth:
"You are embarrassing the hell out of me. Let's go."
He looked at me blankly, unmoving when I went to guide him along. I growled.
"Baxter, now."
Nothing.
I sighed, pursing my lips so hard they went numb in the freezing air.
"Okay, I will give you two bacon treats if you listen to me. Two. Treats."
The strange look the old woman gave me from across the lawn didn't go unnoticed, but I pretended not to see it, instead savoring the small victory when Baxter's tongue fell out in response to the bribe. He may be a dog, but he is fluent enough in a few select words to know when he's getting a good deal.
By the time the rest of the walk was complete, and Baxter received both of his treats, I was satisfied with the amount and difficulty of the challenges presented. The house was quiet and levels more pleasant than outside. I rewarded myself with a hot shower, breakfast in bed, and a hot cup of lavender tea while Baxter munched on his bed in the corner of the living room. Hours passed, and I prepped dinner: alfredo and garlic bread. I waited on the couch until six o'clock with my favorite reality show playing in the background.
And when he was late, I called to ask when he'd be home. I was only met with that welcoming, clever voicemail of his.
When another hour came and went, I worried about dinner, and how it was getting cold.
And finally, he knocked on the locked front door, and I was already scolding him about not answering my calls and letting a perfectly good meal go cool before I opened it for him.
But I found another man on my doorstep, all dressed in black and blue and holding his hat with both hands in front of him. He wore a pitiful face, and his eyes gleamed with exhaustion.
Baxter walked much slower to my side after my knees slammed into the muddy bootprints on the hardwood floors. He whined next to me after I screamed a cry so loud that other doors across the street opened. He laid down, pressing into me for comfort as the stranger in blue, who I'd never met before, knelt down and gave me his condolences and apologies for my dead fiance.
It was slick on the roads, he said.
It wasn't his fault. There was a young girl learning how to drive with her father.
None of them made it.
It wasn't five minutes from home.
I'm sure he was a good man.
And all of this talk in past tense...the words bit much colder than the winter that would come.
The last thing I'd said...
I told him I hated walking his dog.
-------
I never cleaned the hardwood floors by the front door.
I let the tire marks fade on their own, never parking in Sam's place.
I walked Baxter in every snow, every flurry, every blizzard.
And he never pulled or tugged or bothered the old woman's grass again.
Her name was Judith, I learned. And she loved her husband very much. He died of colon cancer in his forties, and she'd never felt so rotten and alone after the fact. But even so, after she'd heard of Sam's death, she brought freshly baked pies and home-cooked meals to that front door. And she talked for hours, every so often even sneaking a small bite of lasagna or bread to Baxter under the table. And I listened, not often speaking or necessarily kind, but Judith didn't seem to notice.
I never sold the house, and I slept alone for many years after.
But when the couple down the road moved in, I watched the young woman walk their German Shepherd, and I laughed every time she struggled to make him listen or relax. I kept bacon treats next to the mailbox--with a sign that said take one. And I bought salt every winter.
Spreading it on every home's driveway before the sun rose on Wadelyn Lane.