Their Perennial Memory

When I was born, I was the wrong color. I had to stay in the hospital for weeks. When I came home, I discovered three beautiful dogs in my new home. I would sleep with my mom at night, and the dogs would lick my toes with their slobbery tongues.

When I was a few months older, I sat in my bouncy chair and they would come up to me full of kisses. The Good Dog would go fetch my blankets and stuffed animals; he was my favorite of the three dogs.

Years later, the dogs would still fight over food; they snapped at each other and wrestled in our muddy, untamed backyard. Even in their old age, the two dogs we had left still stayed active and ferocious. Without the Good Dog, most days were mayhem.

The two always thought they were bigger than they actually were, and nothing could knock them down. I remember trying to move the Soft Dog from my parents’ bed so that I could lay down. She growled at me, and I ran away.

Sometime later, we only had one dog to hold close. The back door was peeling and spotted from the Excited Dog getting scared of the car alarm, or of a thunderstorm. Jumping up and down, creating a sporadic percussion with her beautiful doe eyes bulging and her fur matted in places. There was a time when I found her sequestered in my closet, scared. And I sat down with her because I was scared too.

~ Kate N.