Autumn's Dog

Several years ago I was bitten by our dog. When I returned home from the emergency room hours later, he was gone. Today, I do not remember his face. I do not remember ever petting him or playing with him. Memories prompt recollecting his presence at key events but no character traits. Though I remember his name, it sounds foreign on my tongue. A name and a scar is all I have to remember he existed and he was ours.

The bite itself happened so fast. I recall more about the surrounding events and subsequent effects than the bite or the biter. When I concentrate on that moment, I do not see teeth or feel any pain. There is silence and shadows. Within a nanosecond there is vivid red blood gushing on to my hands and my scream competing with the sound of my parent's footsteps. The next second jumps to the several hours we waited in the emergency room: mom running one hand through my hair the other holding a towel to my face, the weight of the bright lights, the smell of cleaning products effectively cutting off any late-night appetite. I can recall in detail the nameless doctor who stitched me up, and the feeling of the thread through every point despite the anesthesia. When we were released, mom asked several times if I was absolutely certain I wanted to go to school that day. She knew I was adamant about my perfect attendance record, but still she tried (unsuccessfully) to keep me home. I'm not sure if it was because she expected exhaustion to kick in, because she wanted to save me the social awkwardness of being stared at for having stitches on my face, or because she didn't want to let her little girl out her sight.

When my sister was born some years after that, our former family member was forgotten - his toys replaced with hers, any remaining echoes of his maturing bark overwritten by her fresh giggles. No discussion, no anger, no longing. It just was. As I now run my hands through her hair, I wonder how soft the dog's fur was. Did this expression of affection also lull him to sleep? Did he sigh when content? Do these answers even matter?

It is said that those truly feared or truly loved are unforgettable. Yet, the faculty of one's mind is not that transparent. At times I long to remember. Doesn't he deserve to be thought of? To have his existence confirmed as something of value? Other times I long to erase all memories, a selfish attempt to ease my guilt for not thinking "what if" and being indifferent to his absence. Most times neither thought crosses my mind. The few times I look in the mirror, my eyes overlook the scars. What should be an permanent imprint is nothing more than an ephemeral glimpse at a vague past that has no clear personal connection to the present. Simply, he is not with me. I just am. And that's okay.