9. BIT

She bit me. Right here, just above the eye, like she was aiming to rip off my eyebrow. I had just leaned over to pet her and she pounced up from her sleeping state so quickly I didn’t even have time to blink. Next thing I knew there was an Afghan Hound hanging from my face. I don’t really remember very much after that, except the warm blood streaming into my eye and down my face. It was pretty worrisome to an eight-year-old. My mom went bonkers. She couldn't ell, through the blood, if my eye was gone. I can conjure up the scent of dog, the warm wet of blood, the piercing of teeth in a wholly unanticipated place. I mean, I’m a pretty vivid dreamer, and I had imagined getting attacked on the arm, or the leg, or even the buttocks in my childhood imaginings. But the eye was never even on the imagination’s radar.

She was my oldest brother’s dog. We called her Crazel; like a combination of Hazel and Crazy.  He had saved up his paycheck money, scooping ice cream at Isaly’s after school. Paid a pretty penny for her, because she was an exotic dog. John always did have sort of exotic taste. He let us brush her long hair. It flowed like a super-model’s when she walked, kind of like she could have been in a commercial for Herbal Essence shampoo. She wasn’t one of those touchy- feely kind of dogs, the sort who snuggle up to you and want their bellies rubbed. She kept to herself, pretty much. But I wanted to be her friend, to show her I loved her, and that I wasn’t too afraid to touch her, though truth be known, I kind of was. And so, when I leaned over to show her my affection, she misinterpreted me. I didn’t know that you were not supposed to go petting animals when they were sleeping. And she didn’t know that little girls with the same colored hair were not very bright. And so that ended our budding friendship. Mom made John sell her. It makes me sad to think about that now. I had never, before now, considered how my innocent stupidity caused him to lose his pet

I’m sorry, John.

So now I have to pretend that I like dogs. I try. Really, I do. And dogs that belong in the family, like Rags and Pi and Kimball and Arlo, have grown on me, though Kimball and Pi have already jumped into the great pet playground above. Rags and Arlo are nice sized fluffy dogs, who do like to have their bellies scratched, and who are kind of irresistible. Only, I really don’t do well with dogs jumping on me, no matter how much they may have charmed me. That’s where I draw the line. There, and at the side of my dinner plate, where little dog tongues are prone to wander.

If I come visit you, or you come visit me, and there is a dog in the picture, I am likely to fake that I like him or her. But truth is, I am probably doing just that…faking it.

I am not proud of this. It is, nonetheless, my truth.

I may like your dog, but only a little…bit.

"...and then there was that time when my brother's
 dog tried to pick my eye out of its socket."

8. PIPE

The late summer moon is brilliant! It hovers up there in the Idaho night sky, so massive and crisp edged. It’s like someone took a giant biscuit cutter to the dough of our existence. The eternities, so packed with light it blinds us to details, lay exposed in a glorious circle against the indigo sky. Beautiful, sparkling August sky, sealing in the heat of the dry Idaho air, aromatic with the scent of someone’s freshly mown hay; silent against the padding of our flip flops as we walk the road out toward Tucker’s farm. The further we get from town, the deeper the darkness, and the brighter the shimmer of the swirl of stars that peek out at us. 

We are rebel souls, our hips have grown into curves that swing when we walk. Sleeping out on the lawn at Aunt Becky’s house in Ucon, Idaho, we have waited until the last light goes out in the house, then we slip from our sleeping bags and tiptoe through the grass to the road, whispering as we move through the quiet night. When we get half way up the road to Tucker’s the air changes. Dry heat gives way to sudden soft coolness. The pipes that stretch across the fields have filled with water. They belch as they spew. Cool streams of water shoot across dark fields, like fly balls hit into deep center field. The pressured streams shatter the dry air, leaving shards of moisture that cling to the hairs on our forearms. The contrast makes me shudder, but I think it divine. It takes a little moisture released from rigid pipes to remind this Pennsylvania girl that she is far from home. Home, where the flora is so thick that there is never, even when there has not been rain for weeks, a dry day.

7. DEED

This little word game works best if you read it out loud.
If you're stumped, or want to check your skills,
the translation is in the comments below.

Deed yew sea duh crewel hand-off thyme leaf hits mar con meet is weak? Eye ham hold! Fifth tea nigh yen! Gall lee! An die um she ring king, two! Eye yum awl must uh hole lynch shore turd den eye you stew bee. Hyundai sore tough wan two taken app peach date who. Am eye fay sis rank old an does kins pay purry. Eyes up pose disses awl butter dandy altar native, dough! Eye cold bead head, ewe no!

Eye use stool of bird haze. Eye wan tad two ghetto elder. Knot hen knee moor! Know weigh! Two mane knee can dulls under bird ache ache.

Whale, eye guest hit wood bee awl rite fie jest sell a bray tad gate ting two lift is lung. Dots duh weight who locket hit, know? 

End deed!

6. SUIT

“Do I HAVE to wear it?”

“Yes.”

“But it itches, and it smells funny.”

“I know.”

“And the arms are way too long.  Who made this anyway?”

“I did.”

He held the suit by its collar, lifting it in front of me while he looked straight into my eyes, nodding slightly.

“I’ve already tried it on and I don’t like it. I think maybe it’s somebody else’s. Can’t you make me another one?”

He smiled, lifted it a few more inches into the air, gently reassuring me,

“You’ll be fine. You’ll grow into it. I made it just for you, and it won’t work for anybody else.”

I turned my back to him, raising my right arm to the square.  He slipped the sleeve over my hand. I shifted, raising my other arm, and the suit dropped its woolen weight onto my hunched back. I shivered and shook until it fell into place.

The heavy suit hung awkwardly, the shoulders poking out inches past my own, my fingertips barely showing under the cuffs. It had deep, deep pockets, and buttons that, though rather beautiful, were hard to push through the buttonholes. Its blood red pant lining left a tint on my foot tops, and stained my undergarments.

When I turned to say something more, the Tailor was gone. He left behind only a small repair kit, tucked into a soft white cotton envelope.

I walked out into the street. The sunlight stung my eyes and the cacophony of sounds confused me, until I found my mother and she took my hand, pushing the cuff of the suit up to my elbows.

“Nice suit!” she said, kissing me on my forehead.

I don’t remember at what point I finally came to accept the suit. On good day’s I forgot I was wearing it. And on really good days I was able to easily button it up; could even dance in it. And it became strangely more supple when I sang.

But on bad days, when it was dark and rainy and cold, I just wanted out of it. But it would not come off. It had attached itself to me. Sometimes I could not breathe under its weight, and the heat was stifling. It took years for me to discover that the repair kit had a fan in it, which I could wave before me, allowing the movement of air to evaporate the sweat of struggle.

I have worn this suit for nearly six decades now. I look back and think about how strange it felt when it was new. So strange. But I had no words to explain it at the time. And in the time between then and now I have pretty much forgotten how it felt to be without it.

My hands hang rather thin skinned from the sleeves. The cuffs are worn, but they sit where they are meant to sit now. And the shoulders are situated right where they should be. I have to remind myself to stand up straight. When I do, the vent in the back lays flat. The pockets are filled with all sorts of treasures, some of them I’ve even forgotten. And those button holes have happily given way to the shiny buttons down the front. I’m afraid my inherited thigh structure has necessitated some re-stitching of seams. I have to stop myself from looking jealously at other girls whose legs let light shine between them when they walk.

Sadly, the pocket over my left chest keeps opening up, and the lining pokes out in an uncomely fashion. I try and try to stitch it up, but the threads come loose and my heart peeks through.

I have not seen the Tailor since the day he put this suit on me, though I’ve seen his handiwork and have heard he is still in business. Sometimes I talk to him, thinking that he might be somewhere on the other side of the curtain listening in. I ask him what he was thinking when he designed this custom-fitted suit of mine. I might have preferred a lighter one. And maybe one made of double knit fabric, that would give way more easily.

On the other hand, I have worn it long enough to recognize how amazing it is that he would make a suit just for me, according to measurements only he knows. How did he know which way I would grow? Or which portions needed extra padding? Or that my suit needed many pockets for my stuff?

This custom-fitted suit of mine still itches, but mostly at night. It works out though, because he also gave me someone who will scratch my back every time I ask.