Milestones

I'm not going to bury the lead on this one. Today would have been my 12th wedding anniversary.

I really wanted to write something deep and profound about milestones in our lives--how significant dates can commemorate the good and the bad--but all of the thoughts I had seemed to be pale and weak compared to the emotions that were behind them, and I knew that whatever I wrote wasn't going to be relevant or even interesting to anyone but me anyway.  So I'm going to write this for my own sake.  No childhood memories here, or moral to the story at the end--just me getting some stuff off my chest because I want to say it, even if I shouldn't any more.  It's how I feel, and I've had enough of holding that back.

I was never going to be one of those husbands that forgot his anniversary; July 28th was as important to me as my own birthday, maybe even more so, because it symbolized to me that someone was invested enough in me as a person to commit to being with me "as long as we both shall live" and all that jazz.  I didn't always have the greatest ideas for a gift, or activity to celebrate the occasion of our anniversary, but I always remembered, and always did something from the heart.  So even given the new circumstances of my life, I have to acknowledge the date in some way.

I wasn't home on our 10th anniversary, because I had to be out of town for work.  I know it probably wouldn't have changed anything, but even to this day I still wish that I'd been with her that night.  It bothered me then, and does so even more now, knowing that it was a milestone in its own right, and one of the last we'd have together.

I won't get into all of the drama of what happened to us, or who was at fault--we both hold our own share of the blame, and some of my own has been revealed on here before.  I know I can't go back, or start over--the papers are signed, the deed is done, the die has been cast, blah, blah, blah.  There are no do-overs in things like this.  There are too many moments that I'd have to go back and fix anyway (they keep me awake at night), but if it was at all possible, I'd sure as hell try.

All I can do is try to move on and forward as she has/is.  I'm a little behind the curve when it comes to that, and truth be told, a huge part of me didn't (still doesn't--let's be honest) want to.  At least not when it comes to letting her go.  As much as we've hurt each other emotionally, it hasn't changed what's at the core of me.

I have and will always love her. 

Bleating Heart

It was dark and cool in the building, but it was far from quiet.  Among the rows of cages stacked two and three high, dozens of dogs were whining and whimpering with manic intensity as a rapid scratching came from one of the larger cages on the floor.

None of the cages could be seen—there were no lights on in the long, rectangular building, and any moonlight that normally would have filtered through the window of the single door at the end of the building was blocked by the dark clouds that were dumping a heavy rain onto the tin metal roof, thrumming over the top of the nervous sounds coming from the animals inside.  A monsoon that had moved into the area in full force had already turned the dirt floor of the desert into an ocean of mud.

Over the top of the sounds of the dogs, a baby goat could be heard bleating incessantly in the darkness.  The goat was not in a fully enclosed cage; instead it was inside a small, portable wire fence that had been set up inside the shed to keep the goat dry from the rain that poured outside.  The fence was 3 feet high, and lightly built.  The only thing that kept it standing up was the octagonal shape that it had been configured into, the angle of the corners acting as the sole support.

The scratching coming from the cage continued; a constant and rapid scrape-scrape-scrape-scrape that was punctuated by the rattle of a thin metal door as the head of the dog inside smashed into it on occasion while it tried to find purchase on the stainless steel floor with the long nails of its paws.  With each crash against the cage door, the semi-circle of the latches that kept it locked wobbled and shifted, loosening minutely with each blow.

The scrape-scrape-scrape continued as the bleating from the goat and whining and barks from the pack of caged dogs grew louder and more frequent, until, with a small snap, the lower latch of the cage popped loose as the vibrations that had been assaulting it finally took their toll.  The Doberman inside pushed its head through the small opening at the bottom of the thin metal door, still not able to make it through the gap, but now using its whole body to push and pull against the door, shaking the remaining latch with more and more intensity, until it too popped free. 

The door of the cage flew wide with the force, slamming against the front of the cage next to it as the escaped Doberman raced across the room, toenails now scratching the worn wooden floor instead of the smooth metal they had been scratching at moments before.  The dog reached the low wire fence that enclosed the restless goat, and slammed into one of the wire panels, knocking the pen out of the octagonal shape that had been keeping it upright.  The baby goat bleated again and again as the Doberman pawed and bit at it through the unstable fence, until the small pen collapsed under the weight of the dog. 

The goat tried to run, but had been tangled up in the wire of the fence as it buckled to the floor, and could not get away from the snarling, snapping jaws of its attacker.  Among the roar of barking from the full kennel of still-caged and fevered dogs, the goat’s bleating gave way to inhuman screams as the Doberman ripped it to shreds.      

Inside a small house that stood many yards away; the rain and distance prevented the sleeping family inside from hearing the frantic sounds emanating from the building that housed the animals.

          The next morning, a thin sixteen year-old boy slept in the top of the bunk bed in the room that he had until recently shared with his younger brother, who had moved out to live with their older brother.  The bedroom had been built by the sleeping boy himself, one of two additions to the previously one-bedroom home that his family had moved to four years prior.  The roof leaked into a bucket that sat on the bare cement floor, and the heavy, solid door to the room led out into backyard where a cinder pavestone path connected the bedroom to the back door of the main part of the house.

The door slammed open, smashing against the small shelf that held the teen’s stereo; a cheap shelf system with a turntable and dual cassette deck that he’d saved for years to buy.  The young man woke up to the sound of the crashing door, sitting up straight and staring wide-eyed at the doorway where his mother stood, yelling his name.

Even though he had woken quickly, his eyes were still blurry from sleep, and he could not see what his mother was holding in her hand as words were spat from her mouth; ‘cage, not locked, dead, stupid’.  He’d barely had time to register what she was saying, or what she was holding in her hand when she threw the object at him.  Shock and disbelief paralyzed him as the gory projectile came hurtling across the room toward him, landing squarely next to him in his bed.

He looked down into the dead eyes of the baby goat’s head that was now his bed-mate as his mother spewed another blue-streak of hate at him before slamming the door shut again.

The boy jumped from his bed, his bare feet landing on the cool cement floor, and quickly changed from his pajamas to a pair of jeans that he’d grown too tall for, and a t-shirt that had begun to wear thin in many places.  As he put on a pair of socks and the Red Wing boots that he’d been given for his Boy Scout hiking trips two years before—the only pair of shoes he owned—he forced himself not to look up into his bed, at the grisly wake-up call that he’d received….

                                                              *****

Author’s Notes:

I wrote this for two reasons beyond the expected cathartic benefit of getting it out:

1) I mentioned this event in a very vague way in a previous blog post, and felt like I needed to tell the story for that reason.

2) I simply wanted to try a writing exercise of building tension in a scene—hopefully I did OK.  I’m trying to develop my skills as a writer and storyteller, and they tell you to write what you know.  This was something I know.

I obviously wasn’t in the building when the dog attack occurred, but I had seen the very dog that killed the goat that night rattle its cage door loose in this same way before.  It was my “job” or “responsibility” during most of my teenage years to tend to my parents’ 30+ dogs morning, noon, and night, so I knew only too well how they behaved—it’s easy for me to imagine what happened.  And I don’t remember why the goat was in the building with the dogs, but the monsoon rains were usually the reason my parents did something like that, so it’s a safe bet.

My bedroom door slamming open and my mom accusing me of leaving the dog’s cage door open as she threw the head of a dead goat at me did happen, although I have to admit that I don’t recall the details of what she said, only the general content.  I also don’t remember what happened after I got out of bed and got dressed—at some point I’m sure I had to dispose of the goat’s head, but how and when are blocked from memory.

Neither of my parents believed me about the dog being able to shake its cage door open; just one of many instances of them not hearing the truths I told them.  Making up stories became easier--it didn't hurt as much as telling the truth and not having it believed or understood.