When I was six or seven, an older, cool kid castmate in The Velveteen Rabbit (I’ll call him Jake) randomly came up to me during rehearsal one day and asked me to kick him in the shin. I got suspicious about why he had started talking to me in the first place, since cool, older kids rarely ever wanted anything to do with me (something I’d learned from my two older, cool kid brothers) but when Jake kept shaking his head, urging me to do it, refusing to tell me why, I knew it had to be a set up. No one was gonna ask someone to kick them in the shin for the benefit of the kicker.
I figured Jake thought it would hurt me more than it hurt him. But since I already knew that trick I made a choice in the split second between when I said okay and when my foot found flesh. Kick or be kicked. Kick him where he wants, or kick him where he least expects it.
I swear I wasn’t aiming for his balls. I was going for his inner thigh, because hahaha, that would hurt, wouldn’t it, a kick on a soft, flabby part of the leg, far from the shield of his bony shin. But I was a little kid with terrible gross motor skills, and I’ll never forget how he yelped, how he winced with pain, doubled over, shielding himself with his hands.
I mean, I don’t actually know why he wanted me to kick him. Maybe his intentions were benevolent. Maybe he was trying out a new shin guard, or maybe he was trying to teach me self defense. I just know that at six or seven years old, I felt threatened, and instead of saying no, I fought back the only way I knew how. The only way my little kid brain knew to keep me safe. The only way I knew how to gain some of my power back.
Jake didn’t talk to me after that. Pretty soon, all the other kids in the cast started covering themselves with their hands, too, snickering whenever I walked by, like I was some kind of deranged gremlin, like I just went around kicking people in the balls for no reason.
I thought I had taught him a lesson. But somehow, he still ended up hurting me more than I hurt him.
***
My childhood dog, Huey, lived his whole life on a chain. My mother was allergic to dogs, so he wasn’t allowed in the house, and he was always trying to escape from the backyard. I used to go outside all the time to keep him company, standing him upright on his little white paws so we could dance together as far as the chain would allow. Every once in a while, Huey would look up at me with sad eyes and he’d lick me, not like other dogs, all slobbery and sloppy, but twice, apologetically, his tongue barely grazing my hand like he was asking for permission to love. Like he was saying thank you for seeing me.
I used to fantasize about setting him free. One morning, probably a Saturday, he started barking at a quail across the yard, his teeth bared, his collar tightened by the length of the chain. I was worried he was going to choke himself, and I wanted to see what would happen if I let him run free to catch the bird. I don’t remember where my parents were, or if my brothers were home, but no one was watching me, or him, so I told him to be a good boy and unhooked the chain from his well worn collar.
Huey ran toward the quail. Within seconds, he was shaking it in his mouth, his teeth tight around the bird’s neck, his paw on its tail while I stood watching, horrified. What was wrong with me? Of course Huey was gonna go after the bird. What did I think was gonna happen? I guess maybe I thought it’d fly away? That Huey wouldn’t actually catch it?
Or maybe I knew he would, and I let it happen anyway?
I remember thinking that I was a murderer, that something was wrong with me. I grabbed Huey’s collar and dragged him back to the concrete side of the yard. Before I could think too hard about it, I clipped the chain back onto his collar, worried that I really was deranged, like I went around hurting things for no reason.
Like maybe freedom wasn’t safe.
***
“Dakota Harris” was thin and frail, with big, beaver teeth and bony, pale cheeks. She was absent for the first two months of third grade, which was how we all knew her, her seat waiting and vacant, her name tag untouched and pristine, as though she were a ghost.
The day she finally came back to school, Mrs. S took me aside, and told me, in a whisper, that she wanted me to play with Dakota at recess. “I picked you, Heather,” she said, smiling. “Because you’re kind. I know you’ll make Dakota feel welcome.”
On the playground that day, I held Dakota’s hand, careful not to squeeze too hard so I wouldn’t crush her.
“Do you wanna play with my friends?” I asked, looking across the playground toward the spider web thing we all liked to climb on. She shook her head, her voice barely audible beneath her sad eyes.
I didn’t want to make her feel unwelcome.
I played with Dakota every day that week, sheltered in the shade of that yellow tube thing next to the slide, where everyone else was, laughing. Dakota didn’t want to play like that, though. She wanted to talk, or look at cards, and I kept thinking about Mrs. S, how she told me I was kind.
One day, I asked Dakota if I could play with someone else.
“No,” she said, squeezing my hand.
The next day, she took a dog leash out of her backpack. “This is for you,” she said, laughing, as she put it around my neck. I vaguely remember a teacher telling us not to play rough, but nobody told her to stop. Nobody saw me trying to run away while Dakota held on to my leash, her laugh now maniacal and strange.
And she had started to run faster than me.
I didn’t know what to do. Mrs. S had said I was kind. Dakota had been sick. She didn’t like to play like the other kids, and I was there to make her feel welcome.
But I couldn’t stand it anymore.
When Dakota wasn’t looking, I wrestled my way out of that leash. And then I ran as fast as I could, past the tube, past the slide, all the way to the other side of the playground where all my other friends were, waiting.
***
Joxer is sleeping at my feet as I write this, his right paw twitching at a constant 65 beats per minute, his tongue hanging out the left side of his mouth because he doesn’t have any teeth. I don’t know what his first few months of life were like as a newborn puppy in Mexico, but when the rescue found him in a box, lying next to some other puppy (a sibling maybe?), he was covered in ticks, barely able to move, sick with distemper. The other puppy died.
Joxer spent the first few months of his life in quarantine, fighting to survive. When we picked him up in Albany, once he was well enough for adoption, he smelled like a chicken coop, and looked kind of like Falcor from The Neverending Story, a white, scraggly thing with weirdly pink eyes, and a tail that was way too long for his body. He was playful and funny, but with a sad look in his eyes that reminded me of Huey.
Joxer’s eyes aren’t sad anymore. All the things that were causing him pain have been taken out of his body, replaced with long walks, interactive toys, and playtime with dog friends. He wears his heart on his sleeve, so we’re never left guessing, and if we don’t stick to his routine, if we’re not in bed by 9, he gets anxious and boops the bell on the door to let us know it’s time to help him feel safe.
And at night, he kicks us awake in his sleep, twitching, growling, barking, whimpering like he’s having a nightmare. Distemper survivors move more than usual in their sleep. The neurological changes have disrupted his REM cycle. Sometimes we can ignore it, but when it gets bad, when he yelps like he’s in pain, Nataly and I yell “Joxer!” and he stops like he’s being called back home.
Do you know how rare it is for a puppy to survive distemper? It’s basically a death sentence. But Joxer’s a miracle, and I love watching him run free.