mi criatura pequeño
Domesticated animals. If it weren’t for dogs and puppies and kittens and baby creatures and such, I would have to seek hard for objects to fawn over. So many of these creatures ingratiate themselves to me simply with their innocuous minds; their innocence occupies a single, wholesome plane of existence, and I, after being so buffeted with the complicated drudges of the day, find solace in the grumbling purr of a cat, or the abounding leaps of a dog.
I once had a little mixed dog, a little sweet-hearted and humble brown mongrel who meekly followed me and lavished attention to my family. If I sat on the grass in the backyard, head propped on knees in a pensive pose, she would weasel her head under my arms, politely requesting an embrace, or press a wet nose against my elbow, a silent petition for attention. Her simple humility moved me profoundly, and I realized if I, or my family, or humans had the same unconditional impatience and love that these dogs functioned upon, so much peace would exist in households, so much strife avoided, so many misunderstandings forgiven.
She died at only five years, from ingesting some unknown poison, and I was out of town when it happened. My dad found her stiff and cold in the little wooden doghouse he had fashioned for her, and called the animal control. When I returned the next day she was already whisked away into oblivion, and, now that I reflect upon that blurry unreal moment, I think my mom told me the animal control charged a “service fee” for taking my dog’s body away. But of course.
I never contemplated whether I should understand why they did that, or even feel embittered. I had no more sensations left to feel cynicism. The reality had yet to impact my heart- my mind was still trying desperately hard to construe the fact that my creature, my little brown creature was gone.
Even before my heart realized it, my hands understood. My palms ached to rest on her forehead, my fingers to touch her ears. Then, my feet. They ached to run after her racing steps, and chase her around the park. And soon- my mouth, because it couldn’t serve to summon her name.
Finally, my heart began to understand. It understood as I was laying under the covers at night, gripping the edges of my blankets and feeling the warm material- soft and warm like her underbelly.
And yes- it hurt.
I once had a little mixed dog, a little sweet-hearted and humble brown mongrel who meekly followed me and lavished attention to my family. If I sat on the grass in the backyard, head propped on knees in a pensive pose, she would weasel her head under my arms, politely requesting an embrace, or press a wet nose against my elbow, a silent petition for attention. Her simple humility moved me profoundly, and I realized if I, or my family, or humans had the same unconditional impatience and love that these dogs functioned upon, so much peace would exist in households, so much strife avoided, so many misunderstandings forgiven.
She died at only five years, from ingesting some unknown poison, and I was out of town when it happened. My dad found her stiff and cold in the little wooden doghouse he had fashioned for her, and called the animal control. When I returned the next day she was already whisked away into oblivion, and, now that I reflect upon that blurry unreal moment, I think my mom told me the animal control charged a “service fee” for taking my dog’s body away. But of course.
I never contemplated whether I should understand why they did that, or even feel embittered. I had no more sensations left to feel cynicism. The reality had yet to impact my heart- my mind was still trying desperately hard to construe the fact that my creature, my little brown creature was gone.
Even before my heart realized it, my hands understood. My palms ached to rest on her forehead, my fingers to touch her ears. Then, my feet. They ached to run after her racing steps, and chase her around the park. And soon- my mouth, because it couldn’t serve to summon her name.
Finally, my heart began to understand. It understood as I was laying under the covers at night, gripping the edges of my blankets and feeling the warm material- soft and warm like her underbelly.
And yes- it hurt.