I never liked dogs. They always reminded me of small bears. Their teeth are large and sharp like daggers, and they trod about like they own the place. When I look into their eyes, I don't see a cute, fuzzy creature. I see a primordial hunter, a loose killer entirely unbound from laws and social norms. A man understands he will be punished if he bites children, but a dog does not. No, there is no place in a dog's savage heart for fear of punishment, nor an understanding that there will be a punishment, and so the dog does what it pleases when it pleases.
So you'll understand that I was not thrilled when my mother bought my family a dog as a child. I remember that wretched morning. My mother came into my room at some ungodly hour, banging pots and pans together while shouting about how I needed to get up. I groaned and moaned for mercy, for sleep, but she didn't care. After a few fruitless minutes of resistance, I accepted my fate and got out of bed.
The drive was a long one. I had no clue where I was going, and all my parents told me was that we were going "somewhere fun." Admittedly, this sparked my childish intrigue. In my mind, I could see it already: a candy shop overflowing with sugary sweets, a toy store with stocked shelves full of my favorite figurines, or perhaps a Chuck E. Cheese, cheap pizza and free Fanta included. I was sorely disappointed when I arrived at some place called an "SPCA." I thought it was maybe like a YMCA, not that I knew what that was either, but the song made it sound fun.
My dread and disappointment grew when we first walked in. It looked like the waiting room at a doctor's office. There was some young woman at a counter who asked my parents if they were the ones who had scheduled an appointment. Anxiety flared in my heart as my mother said the word "yes," and my mind immediately entered fight or flight mode, believing I was there to get a vaccine, a cavity filling or some other painful procedure. My dad tried in vain to calm me as I cried, and took me to sit down while mom and the desk clerk continued to talk.
As I sobbed there, I picked up on a peculiar odour. It smelled coarse and rough, like an assault on my nose. The smell was dirty and gross, smelling like some sort of nasty residue. My mind wandered frantically as it tried to piece together what it was sensing. That's when it hit me: it was the smell of dogs! I remember asking my dad why the doctors' office smelled like the foul creatures, and I remember his response, too.
"Well Hubert," he said with a chuckle as he pushed up his glasses, "it's 'cause we took ya here to get yourself a dog. We thought you'd love it and give ya a lil friend ta hang out with."
I stared at my old man for a moment. He smiled widely beneath his bushy brown moustache. His glimmering blue eyes reflected his immense excitement, though they betrayed something else as well. As a child, I couldn't precisely put together what it was. It looked fake, as though he were disguising his true motives. Something was hiding behind those eyes, that's the impression I got, and if I somehow dug just a little, I'd have been able to find out precisely what it was. Even then it irked me, and it especially does now.
My mother approached from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. She told us that "they" were ready to let us into the back where the dogs were. Dad turned and smiled at her in that strange way too. Now I was really uncomfortable.
"Oh, honey," he said with a desperate tone I had never heard before, "that's great, really, that's great."
Mom flicked her glance over me then back to him. With a confused look on her face, she asked if he was alright, causing his smile to disappear and his posture to immediately stiffen. Instead of responding, my dad turned to me and reached out to grab my hand. He and my mother led me over to some doors by the receptionist's desk. The unbearable stench grew ever stronger as we approached, and passing through felt like entering the seventh circle of hell for my nose.
