13. people turn to pets to cure loneliness

People turn to pets to cure loneliness. For guys, not only do they offer companionship, but they offer you game. An ice breaker with the ladies. That is, As long as it’s a dog. Cause if you walk a cat, weasel, or snake you’d be considered creepy. And as long as it’s a respectable dog, not one you’d carry in a purse or one that has a physical disability. A clumsy dog is adorable while a retarded one is just not right. Society has so many rules. Correction. Society’s acceptable norm. All a bunch of bullshit anyways.

My family thinks I should have a pet. Not knowing I choose to be this way. Don’t matter how many friends I have. I just need a few good ones. Really good ones.

Not sure what a dog would do.

I’m not the type to take my dog to the dog park.

I’m not the type to keep my dog on a leash.

I’m not the type to keep my dog inside my house.

He’s an animal. Just like we are. Deserves to be outside. Roaming free and exploring. Mixing with the other life that’s out there in the world. We’re not caged. Even our ancient brethren. As stupid as they were, they benefited from interacting with dinosaurs. Whether it was good or bad. Dogs should be given the same right.

I had a dog when I was smaller. And by had I don’t mean what society meant. He wasn’t my so-called pet. I didn’t rescue him from a shelter. I didn’t stamp him ours by putting some collar on him. He just happen to wander by and liked our company. My company in particular. In fact, my family didn’t know about him. Only weeks later when he kept showing up in the back of our grocery store by the dumpster. I was giving him food everyday. Yeah. When I look back at it I understand why, but at that time I really thought he liked me because I was me. And I was the only one kind enough to him.

We lived in Texas then. Houston. Within the inner loop. A dump of a place. On paper it sounded great. White colonial house with a fenced yard, sporting massive three bedrooms, two baths, and a two-car garage. All of it Texan style. Large. But in reality, the yard was spotty green, grass if you’re lucky. The house itself was falling apart. Window panes had so many holes mosquito season meant we were an open buffet. And of course, the house was haunted. I was eight. What do you expect? Anything that looked like that house meant it was haunted. So it was no wonder I preferred going into work with my parents. The drive was far off into the countryside, but at least there was air conditioning.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“We should give him one. ‘Junks’ or ‘Junksy.’ He sure like it back there.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think he likes that name.”

“How do you know that? Here Junksy. Come here boy. I got real food for you.”

“Stop it.”

“What? He’s hungry. Junksy… yeah that’s it. It’s food.“

“Stop!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop calling him that!”

I never really forgave Tay for that. Eventually Tay had told our parents about him. Soon enough, Dad deemed him way too dirty to play with. And from that point on, I had to sneak around. Not a good thing when combined with bad parental supervision. I was spending time off in the woods behind the dumpster.

He was a mutt. Some sort of cross between a German Shepherd.

The mutt did smell bad if you were comparing the smell to flowers. But to me he just smelled of his musk. His natural odor. The scent from that nappy brown fur masked with the scent of leaves, grass and wet earth. That identified him to me probably the same way I did for him. Not sure what I smelled like. My parents made me shower often. So I guess my musk smelled more like summer sweat masked by Dial and Bounce fabric softener.

He roamed freely. And I didn’t have to keep him within any bounds. He wanted to stay around. He chose to come see me whenever he wanted to. Some days I thought he forgot me, but days later I’d see him. He was truly free. Probably off visiting other friends on those other days. That was what my thinking was then. I was pretty naive.

Then there was that day.

It was raining. Not too hard. And yet, I was eager to see my friend the mutt; I still hadn’t given him a name. Not cause I missed him. More like I was worried. There was a huge thunderstorm the night before. The reminents of the storm were just clearing out by morning. If you know Texas thunderstorms you would have been worried too. Especially for anyone stuck outside.

By the time I got clear of my parents, I headed out back. The salty smell of the air was its usual. Though at that time there was something else lingering. An oddly familiar scent. The one that gently tingles your nostrils. Gives you a reminder of what happens when you get socked in the nose. Yeah. That rusty iron smell of fresh meat at the grocery store. But in this case, I wasn’t in the store. I was standing over the mauled body of my friend, the mutt. His eyes vacant of life. His scent was gone. Overpowered by the smell of death. People say the vision of death scars the mind, in my case, it was the scent.

And this same scent was bringing me back from sleep.

You know that feeling when you’re in between sleep and awake? Most people fear it because they think they’re stuck. That someone or even some thing was keeping them down. Keeping them from waking up. Well, I was there and this time, I wished someone kept me from awaking.

Cause that was definitely blood I was smelling.