Before I was old enough to remember things clearly, my family lived in a quiet neighborhood with modest lawns and yards measured by how far each resident was willing to drag a lawn mower. We had a cat. The kitchen was small. We had plenty of books lying around the living room. These things I know from hearsay, making inferences from the way my parents speak of these early years. I do however have a blurry recollection of chocolate-brown shutters.
This was also the time of my life when I was the only child in the family, and if the photo albums are any indication, I was showered with affection. But I had no playmate. The cat was fussy, and long before my second birthday, I tested the limits of that feline’s patience: she quickly learned to avoid my heartfelt, if clumsy, embraces. I wonder if two-year-olds can feel lonely. If they can, I think I was.
But fortunately a friend came to me, as it does to many people, in the shape of a dog. My parents told me that the people living next door owned a golden retriever, slowed and sweetened by old age. The dog’s name was Alex, and whenever I tottered into the backyard, calling “Aaaa” because the full name couldn’t quite tumble out of my mouth, Alex would come loping over. We would play in the backyard for hours, the dog wonderfully gentle with me as I rubbed his ears and grabbed his tail. My mother told me that one afternoon a stray dog suddenly appeared in the yard, with a growling bark and a crazy look in the eye. My mother was instantly on her feet, but Alex had protectively stepped in front of me, teeth bared at the threatening dog. Quickly the mongrel retreated, and Alex and I went back to playing, happily, as if nothing had happened.
I don’t remember anything about Alex or the stray dog. I only know what my parents tell me, and they told me that in the winter months, when the cold temperatures and heavy snowfalls sent everyone indoors, Alex died of old age. As soon as the spring emerged, I was back calling for my playmate, “Aaaa,” and it was not Alex the gentle retriever that welcomed me, it was the neighbors’ brand-new, untrained, exuberant puppy that charged at me like a bowling ball and knocked me to the ground as if I were a nine-pin. My parents picked me up, sobbing as hysterically as any toddler can be expected to sob, when she has not only been jumped by a total stranger but has also lost a friend.
To this day, I’ve felt an aversion to dogs of all kinds. I’ve seen many people shower their pets with affection and this has puzzled me greatly. From dogs, all I have received is a wet-nose print on my jeans or a slime-ball in the hand. I have felt this way my whole life, or so I thought. Then my parents told me the story of Alex, wondering if that was the reason I could never connect with canines. But I have no memory with which to corroborate their story. Only a small cry in my heart, reminding me that there are many ways to remember and not all of them are rational.
Hannah Riffell has landed in Lansing, Michigan twenty-three years after she was born there, nineteen years after she moved to Mississippi, seven years after she moved to Northern Michigan, and two years after she graduated from a university in Grand Rapids. You probably can’t find her because she’s either exploring the state, wandering around her city, or just lost in her own head.
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You’ve captured a lovely melancholy here. Beautiful writing – well done.
Hannah, this is wonderful–and me and my dog will be here if you ever decide to change your mind 🙂