Good With Animals
Alysia Li Ying Sawchyn
My first dog was a small thing, more mop head than animal. On Christmas morning, my tiny hand reached into a wicker basket. The lid slapped down; I shrieked in delight. He was a dog bred for temples with a name that meant good fortune. Outside, magnolia blooms yellowed on the earth. I remember none of this: The dog bit me so we did not keep him. In his next home, he ripped open a sleeping boy’s face.
I am not built for liking dogs, and today I watch the man I love cup and hold another dog’s ears—between his palms, the space of an entire world. I cannot stand to see them together, this Norman Rockwell fantasy: a light-haired man in a button-down shirt with his bear-pawed companion. Have you heard the joke about an animal’s perfect love? Lock your wife and your dog in a trunk and see which is happy to see you when you open it back up.
The dog does not love me, though everyone denies this. The man points at me and asks, Who is that? using the same tone reserved for food and walk and other words that indicate the arrival of great happiness. The dog takes two steps in my direction, eyes never leaving the man’s face, before running back to his soft hands for a reward.
When the man leaves the house, the dog lies down and refuses to move. This is untroubling until work extends the man’s absences—overnights and then weeks and then months—until I am lying down next to the dog, looking into his wishing well eyes like I finally understand.
