Checkers
Nobody said “I’m sorry.” Nobody said “Thank you.”
The door opened, the little dog ran out as if shot from a cannon and I ran out after him, shoeless, frightened he would be hurt, helpless to retrieve him. I called his name and he ran faster. I imagined the dog (he’s nameless, in my terror) running out of sight, running into a speeding car. Dead. Imagined telling Andrea and Scott. They would have to believe I gave it my everything but I would still feel guilty.
They were looking at an apartment. I was taking one last bag of donations to the car. The goodest boy at the door, the entire afternoon, I praised him profusely. “Your mama will be so proud!” I try not to ask why but it’s my ‘go-to.’ Why did he sit perfectly through 18 openings and closings, to suddenly dart out like a demented devil dog? (he has a troubled past. “Checkered”, if you will).
There are dreams where you aren’t fast enough to escape your attackers. They once disturbed me. The good news is, I can fly like the wind behind a flying dog. Sure, my right leg is a bit iffy this morning, but my performance was impressive.
I caught up with ‘Checkers’ (I yelled at him to Go Home. I think he was experiencing some subconscious confusion about the deeper meaning but he became fairly submissive). I hoisted him off the road, muttering Bad Dog, took him upstairs and closed the door. Then I felt badly he had no light so went back in and he shot out again (Andrea and her mom said he’s their little escape artist). He zoomed downstairs and ran in circles, tail jaunty, having won. And that’s when I got mad. “Oh, you aren’t done until I say so, you little brat,” and since we’ve done this twice before, (the last time he sat proudly on my sacred chair and when I tried to push him off he bit me. Bled through my shirt, even). I wrapped him in a blanket and delivered him back upstairs. Light on.
In a perfect world, I would have asked the kids what they thought of the apartment, instead of leading with the bullet of the dodged bullet, but there is no perfect world. After their dinner, during tv time, ‘Checkers’ comes in to claim his spot on our well-loved sofa and I’m not ready or willing to look at him. “Well then, I’ll just take my self away,” and brought my plate up to my room to read and stew and wait for “Thank You.” Doug came up to take my plate and ask if I was coming down, but he didn’t stay to listen, either. In that place, I cannot ask.
When the men removed my mother on a stretcher, my father stood there in the livingroom, and told me nothing. Alone with my trauma, my questions, my not-knowing, my helplessness, waiting for “I’m sorry.”
LBM 9/24/2021
