Drops of rain shot from the skies, slamming the grown as though enemy missiles. Puddles formed quickly and streams of dirt poured onto the streets. Auburn leaves drifted by, turning and submerging in the sooty like rapids. The neighborhood transformed into a giant lake; random isles of refuge overflowed with kids drenched by the first autumn rain. The trees took on the role of giant umbrellas, offering protection from the season’s wrath. One by one everyone ran towards their houses across the puddles, splashing water, erupting with high pitched screams of joy and sadness.
I was the only one left hiding under the tree. I stayed there as long as I could; until the moment when the cauldron, my playground, started to overflow with water and I had to take my chances and run. Ducking under the covers of the overhangs of the roofs on the buildings I hurried towards my front door. The door into my apartment building was within reach, when I heard a soft moan. Turning around several times I failed to see anything but the gray buildings, gray asphalt, and the gray sky. Getting ready for another sprint and taking a deep breath while scouting the path ahead of me, I spotted a tiny ball of hair that seemed to wobble slowly towards me. It took me a while to figure out what it was, beneath all the hair and lumps of half dissolved dirt.
“Whose puppy is this?”, I called him over, when I noticed the dirty rag and a drenched cardboard box on the steps of one of the buildings. “What kind of a person would leave him out!?”, looking around and not seeing anyone I knelt down and kept on calling the pooch over. Cautiously he smelled my hands, sticking his tiny black nose into my palms and standing up on his hind legs. I didn t know what to do, I wanted to take him home, but I knew my dad hated dogs. The previous year I asked for a puppy, in return I received an hour lecture about the hundreds of reasons why I couldn t have one. I let go and proceeded to walk, the dog followed me. I started to run faster and faster, and still, he kept up; I was about to open my door and there he was.
That week had been full of unexpected surprises. In the midst of packing, my mom’s back went out and she became bed ridden for a month. Carrying the puppy I slowly opened the squeaky door and peeked my head inside of the living room; my mom was laying on the sofa while my dad was packing boxes. The pooch barked and the attention of the room was centered on me. Suddenly I didn t feel comfortable, it felt hot, even though I was soaking wet, I was out of breath despite the fact that I was wearing a v-neck T-shirt.
My parents spent a great deal of time explaining to me why it wasn’t the right time to get a dog; the fact that we were about to move to US and my mom’s injury compounded on my dad’s obvious dislike of dogs. “This is the last thing we need ” he mumbled while packing the remainder of the china. He turned his back towards me and continued on saying that,” how do you always manage to do this ” I stood there and nodded with eyes of sorrow, creeping out of the room ever so slowly. The puppy ran after me, slipping and falling on the hardwood floor. It was decided that we were going to keep him over night. Although, it would only be one night, because my dad would take him to his friend’s house in the morning.
I went to bed early, trying to maintain my composure I grasped my pillow and began biting it. Determined to remain outwardly calm I remained quiet. However, my eyes seemed to water no matter how hard I tried to contain my grief. Within minutes my bed began to look like I had an “accident”, there were dark wet spots all over my pillows, the bed sheets, and the blanket became a soggy damp mess. I repeatedly asked my self “why did my dad have to hate dogs so much”, I couldn t see it,” how could anyone not like a tiny puppy “. In the background I could hear a soft weepy howling, it was as though my dog already knew its fate.
After several hours of mourning I decided to go to the kitchen and get a drink of water, and check up on the little guy. The scene that I saw in the kitchen has single-handedly changed all of the perceptions I previously held about my father.
Trying to adjust from hours of darkness along with hours of crying I attempted to see what was happening in the kitchen. A dim light beamed down above the table. There was my dad, sitting on a stool with an old baby bottle. He had a large, soft, fuzzy blanket in his hands, the same blanket he wrapped me in whenever I got cold, years ago. A soft soothing murmur filled the room. A part of the blanket fell back and I saw my puppy wrapped in it, my father was feeding him warm milk. He rocked his hands back and forth as the murmurs became less and less frequent. He turned to me and said, “I guess he got cold, and that s why he was making all the noise”, I walked away.
On the way back to my room I remember seeing the clock, it was 3 am. When I went back to sleep I realized that my dad was not the ruthless man that I misjudged him to be. I spent hours that night hating my father, but what could I do after I saw him nurturing my puppy. I didn t say a word to him that night. I didn t say anything to him when he took the puppy to his friend’s house. However, a part of me will always know that even though he can seem unfair and mean sometimes, he does it because he has to. Not because he wants to hurt me, but because I can’t have everything I want. He had the hard burden of carrying out the set rules. Despite the fact that I know this I continue being a pest when I’m prohibited from something. Afterwards, I feel bad, because the suffering I put him through can be avoided if I only remembered that someone has to be responsible.
