Young Writers Society

So, this was a 'personal narrative' for an English class, but my professor absolutely hated it.   It's been awhile since I wrote it, so I changed the last paragraph to reflect present circumstance, but other than that, it's just the same.  Thought I'd get the input of some other writers.  I didn't think it was that bad, but maybe I'm just biased since it's my work.  

.............

I was seated with my mom in the gray waiting-room style chairs facing in around a red-orange rug. We were in the training room. The trainer, Deb, was over at the crates, getting out the next dog. The two I had previously interacted with: a small red female, Stella, and a handsome blonde male, Duncan, were lying therein, asleep or feigning the like. Something clattered, and I realized Duncan was chewing on a chunk of ice in his water bowl. It was a hot day in late June, and the first of many I would spend in this room.

The latches on the red plastic crate snapped open, hinges creaking, and the wire mesh in the front banged loudly against its lid as it opened all the way.

“Ready?” Deb asked. I realized she was talking to the dog. “Mack. Hey, pup-pup-pup,” she called in a singsong voice as she hunched to peer in at him.

The blonde behemoth nestled in the crate cracked an eye; golden lashes parting to reveal a warm brown iris.

I would come to know these eyes, and see them filled with an indescribable love. I would also see them filled with mischief, pleading, and joy. All of these, I would see there, as I would look into what some would call the soul of another living creature, but mostly, I would see love.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Deb continued, cajoling him. She moved quickly to the chair where she had been sitting, and grabbed a well-worn woven nylon leash. I heard the click and jingle of Mack’s collar as she clipped it on.

She took a couple steps back from his crate entrance, leash in hand, and said, businesslike, “Let’s go.”

Any reservations about leaving the crate put aside, Mack rose, stretching like one might expect of a large cat.

Then he shook. The rings and tags of his striped red collar jangled. His ears buffeted the air as he shook, making an odd noise from the movement.

A slow, sweeping tail wag began as he seemed to properly realize there were visitors in the room.

Deb said “Release,” as she unhooked the leash from his collar, letting him stroll over to where we sat.

“He’s just waking up from his nap, so he’s pretty sleepy.”

He visited my mom first; he came and leaned his head on her knee, his tail still fluttering in small, happy movements. She rubbed his head briefly, then smiled, saying, “You’re sweet, but you’re supposed to meet Kayley.”

I called out to him, “Hey, Mack,” my voice warm with the anticipation of getting to know him. He ambled over to me, now standing at my knees. He sniffed my hand quietly, tail wagging harder. It was fairly clear he wanted me to pet him; I touched the top of his head, my fingers finding his ear. The fur at the sides of his face, around and under his ears, was long and silky, luscious to the touch. He leaned in as I scratched his ears, a thoughtful look crossing his face, as if he appreciated that I knew where to scratch. Soon his eyes were closed entirely, and he leaned in against my knee, his chin resting on my leg. We sat thus for several minutes, completely content, a slow elation growing inside me with each passing moment.

We were connecting, in a way unlike the other dogs had with me. They had been nice, of course, well-mannered, but not like this. Deb interrupted our quiet bonding with a question.

“So, do you want to see if you can figure out what his favorite toy is, like we did with the rest of the pups?”

“I guess we can. But he doesn’t seem to want to play. He just wants love.” I said.

“Oh, he’ll wake up soon enough. He really is quite sleepy this afternoon,” she replied.

“Okay,” I assented. I rose, ready to go to the other side of the room where the toys were. He was at my side as I took a step, feeling the all-too-familiar contortions distorting my gait. I was bending floor-wards. The same strain overtook me as each time I tried to walk, my hand searching for my cane. I realized it had fallen under the chair I was sitting in some time ago. I couldn’t reach it, but that didn’t mean I needed it any less.

My fingers brushed something soft beside me, firm but supple. Mack was looking at me, I saw, as I looked down at him. He gazed up at me as if to say, “Take your time.”

My hand resting on his shoulders, I righted myself, and took another few steps, buoyed by a new sense of hope.   

This same hope would propel me through the next three years, with him at my side, my hero, my baby, my best friend.   We would traverse strange new places together; high school, Tourette's Camp, London and Paris on my senior year summer, then college in the fall.   College was a venture that didn't quite take, yet brought us to new heights. From there, we took radical leaps of faith in experimental neurosurgery, which would bring us to New York, and now, into the present, which holds more hope than ever.    All of this, of the opportunities and experiences I've had, I know, were made possible by his devoted support.   The only uncertainty of our relationship remains a silly rhetorical question: whether it's possible for one of us to love the other any more.