Mother, May I

by Karen Schauber

He's peering up at me all honey-eyed, his stumpy little tail vibrating, waiting for me to pick him up. My eyes welling. Warm sticky puppy breath settles on my cheeks as soft tufts of fur twirl between my fingers. The licking never stops. This is the smell of joy.

I glance up. She's staring—hard, harsh, cold—waiting for me to thank her. As if it's going to make up for everything: make up for anything. I draw the puppy in close, cuddle for safety. We are meant for each other. I am in love, melting. She is still towering above me. I hear bits and pieces of instructions, scoldings, threats: the pup will be taken away if I don't feed it, don't walk it, don't do my homework, don't practice my piano, don't keep my room clean, don't do my chores, don't mind my manners, blah blah blah. This pup is in my corner, fixated on me, our eyes locked. We understand one another. He needs me too—we make a pact; understand the stakes.

She is yelling now, yanking on the leash, do you hear me. My heart leaps in fear that this was only a tease, that the pup is not really mine, will never be mine. I shut down, close off my heart, sealing my feelings in my familiar protective wrap. I am again a hostage. Can a hostage have a dog? Her eyes are stone-cold. Is this a test? This is a test. I look back to the pup all doe-eyed, waiting for me. I've been here before. I should have known better. That look, those eyes, that icy heart, waiting for me to take the bait; but that pup, so adorable, here for me to cuddle, hold close to my chest. I lose all sense, drop my guard, just for a minute; but that’s all it takes—and boom.

Will I want the dog more than her. Will I like my ballet teacher more than her. Will I pay more attention to my nanny, my father, my cousins; all lost to me now—punishments. My heart professes tenderness, loyalty to this pup. I go to my numb place, draw the wall around me, don't show how much I already love, need this pup. I get up, say ‘sure’ in a blasé tone, and walk away, trying my best to feign how little importance this animal holds for me. She yells. Come back here. You forgot something. I blurt ‘Yes, ok. I will'. The dog stays outside, she adds. I move my mattress and pillow onto the porch. We'll be a little family, just the pup and me. When I wake up in the morning, the dog is gone. You didn't clean your room you can't be counted on to hold your end of the bargain…