The dog question
by Andrea Marcusa
I was prepared to one day tell my two boys not to do drugs, smoke cigarettes or drink underage. It was much harder saying no to a dream, especially one that was as harmless as a lick on the face and a wag of tail.
“I hate you for this. I will never forgive you!” cried ten-year-old Mike as he stomped out of my bedroom.
“And so do I,” called his younger brother Daniel from the doorway.
“Guys I’m really sorry,” I said, following behind them searching their stony faces for a glimmer of understanding. “I’ve thought about this for a whole year and can’t figure a way that a dog will work for our family.”
Mike’s brown eyes filled with tears and his mouth turned down. “But I’ve never wanted anything more than a dog,” he half pleaded, half declared. “I’ll give up my computer and all my video games. I neeeed a dog.” As each word tumbled out, the queasiness in my stomach grew. I wasn’t used to being the bad guy.
During the weeks leading up to the decision, my husband and I debated the dog question late at night when we often find ourselves tackling life’s big issues. “Do you think we should get a dog?” we would ask while lying together in the dark. Fred listed the pros: “Constant companion, way to teach responsibility, fuzzy object with real pulse to love.” Even our pediatrician said dogs were good for kids. As the night wore on, Fred and I would warm up to the idea until dawn broke bringing with it harsh realities. If we were dog owners, one of us would be out the door, leash in hand, headed to the street’s nearest gutter or fire hydrant.
As Mike and Daniel silently gathered their books and coats for school, I longed to reach out to my boys’ sad faces. Today my presence was as comforting as extra homework.
I hadn’t easily dismissed the canine-commitment. With more dog and pet stores in my neighborhood than pizzerias, I’d had plenty of time to watch dog owners fasten plaid coats around their doggies’ bellies and rhinestones at their necks. I’d observed pooches with tongues hanging waiting outside delis for their masters. I loved their forlorn eyes, bushy tails wagging and slobbery dog kisses. But for the full story of life with man’s (or woman’s) best friend, I sought out mutts and masters on stormy mornings and on sub zero afternoons when their furry friends dug their paws into the ground refusing to move.
I discovered a cruel fact. Most people caring for dogs are women. I imagined myself, 12 years hence (84 dog years), chained to a grey whiskered, waddling pooch having devoted untold hours of my life to the creature’s bowel movements.
A few days later, when laughter returned to my home, I thought things had blown over. “What about another pet, one that doesn’t need to be walked five times a day?” I ventured during dinner.
“No! I don’t want any pet if it can’t be a dog!” Mike shouted, wolfing down a chicken finger. His dog desire ran as deep as his aversion to broccoli. Secretly I felt relieved when I saw women lugging sacks of dog food out of grocery stores or, when snow pelted my windows at night and the streets were empty save for a few suffering dog walkers, I smiled smugly and settled into my warm dry bed.
While Mike pouted, Daniel – who often shows wisdom well beyond his eight years said, “Just ‘cause Mike doesn’t want a different pet, why I can’t have one?”
I shut off the water at the sink so I could hear him better. “You’d
get another pet?” I asked, searching his watery dark eyes as they peaked out from under his straight brown bangs.
“I want a bird like you used to have.” His remark brought me face-to-face with my genetic imprint. Only a child who had inherited my twisted mind would consider owning a bird after hearing the morbid tales of my parakeets’ deaths which included one runaway, one beheading in a swinging door, and a feet-up fatal collapse from consumption in the middle of the night. “A bird would be nice,” he announced.
That weekend, Daniel and I visited the pet store and found a family of young Cockatiels for sale. They had yellow faces with bright orange spots on each side for cheeks. Their yellow crowns rose up and down as their eyes followed us.
“They’ll be big enough to go home next weekend,” said the owner. “Do you see one there that you like?”
“That one,” said Daniel, pointing to a speckled brown and yellow Cockatiel with a bright orange tag on its leg. The owner reached into the cage, took out the bird for Daniel to hold. “Hello, birdie,” said Daniel. “ Pretty bird,” he continued stroking the bird’s soft back with his finger. As I watched Daniel, I remembered my own thrill touching a bird’s feathers for the first time. I paid for the bird and would take it home the following Saturday.
“I don’t want a bird!” yelled Mike, as we walked through the door.
“I know you really want a dog, but won’t you at least give this a try? Daniel deserves to have a bird if he wants one.” I said.
“Daniel can have his bird but I don’t want anything to do with it,” he said, switching on his computer.
“Mike, if you change you mind, I’ll get you a pet too.”
He glared at me. “No I don’t want anything but a dog!”
The night before we brought the bird home, Daniel’s eyes sparkled as we set up the cage and hung toys from the perches. “I can hardly go to sleep tonight, Mommy,” Daniel said when I switched off the light.
When we arrived at the store the following morning, Daniel’s bird chirped as we neared her cage. During the drive home, I could hear her feet scratching along the bottom of her cardboard traveling box.
At home, Mike glanced at the bird then returned to his Nintendo game. Daniel cooed to her, while she perched on his shoulder.
The bird stared at Mike, her crown shot straight up in the air.
“Chirp,” she said.
I watched Mike’s face brighten for just a second, then fade. I could feel him thinking, “This bunch of yellow feathers is nixing my chances of ever having a dog.”
She looked at Mike and chirped again. He smiled. “Do you think I could hold her?” he asked.
I placed the bird on Mike’s hand, then crossed my fingers. She sat patiently while he stroked her wings and then calmly met his stare. Slowly and tentatively, the bird stepped up Mike’s arm to his shoulder, then she nibbled at his neck and ear. Hey that tickles!” he laughed, wiggling his shoulders. “She’s cute -- for a bird.”
She could never replace a dog, but our new pet had already made Mike smile. If she turned out to be the type of cockatiel that talked, maybe she could learn the sound of a barking dog, too. For now, my kids had learned that the disappointments could lead to happy compromise and me? I was finally out of the dog house.
Andrea Marcusa is a writer living with her two sons, husband and cockatiel in New York City. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Christian Science Monitor, More, Weight Watchers and The New York Times. She is a winner of the Alabama Poets Society essay competition and her work was named an Entry of Note in the Tiny Lights Essay Competition.
|
