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"Leala"
There are three cinder blocks, side-by-side, marking the spot: just before the lush, green lawn gently begins its soft, angled ascent into cobbled walkway and the swimming pool circumscript. This spot lies beside the empty shade of the great, felled tree’s subtle mound of earth (slowly blending with the lush, green grass slowly starting its soft, angled ascent). This spot is thirteen feet (measured out by my shoes) orthogonal to the smaller, actual tree grown against the perimetral fence. The sun is warm and the light slides softly into this geometrically pristine scene. I was at work when I learned of Leala’s death.
I can picture her struggling, drowning. Feeble limbs kick aimlessly. Failing eyes miss the steps in the shallow end she was trained to find when she was strong enough to paddle that far. High-pitched yelps are washed out by the chlorinated water splashing like thunder over and into her wet ears. Alone, thirteen years old, she sinks to the bottom after some small number of seconds, finally finding the automated pool cleaner she was probably trying to bark at in the first place. Her blood is cooled by the thousands of gallons above.
It’s Sunday, just four days prior, and I’m visiting my parents. Perhaps I don’t come over enough, a source of much frustration when I consider Leala’s age and declining health. What if it happens during one of these selfish sabbaticals not having seen her in weeks? I’m sitting on the kitchen floor. She wobbles over, legs shaking, across the rugs carpeting the tiles to keep her from slipping. I hold her on my lap, holding her, holding her. . . I have no idea it’s the last time, but it couldn’t be more idyllic. We’re both smiling. I hold her tight and stroke her neck; she twists her head—stretched forward—and narrows her eyes. Her panting ceases momentarily only to pick back up again when my hands return to the fur on her back.
She can’t see very well; she can’t stand for too long. Most of her time is spent prostrate on the floor or in their bedded cage. The single step leading up from the backyard is sometimes too much for her. She growls at Lacey but can’t really fight back—no longer the alpha of her pride. A nervous tick: her neck twitches as she looks up at us in hopeful expectancy. . . again and again and again and again. . .
We’re all at my apartment: me, Leala, and her progeny (the three L’s: Leala, Lizzie, and Lacey). Have to walk Leala separate from the other two because she can’t keep up. But the more I walk her, the better she feels and the more she wants to walk. She swims in the air as I ascend the seven porch steps. She nestles underneath the covers down by my feet, between my legs at night, just as she did when we lived together. . . always.
I’m living with my parents. I seem to be taking my time in college. At home I’m smothered under smiling beards and lapping, pink tongues. Lizzie and Lacey are obsessed with me: two inverse shadows of light grey and blinding white. Leala shows a greater proclivity towards my mother. Her crotchety demeanor can crack with a sway of the wrist. With masterful artifice, she will shake with wrath as she snuggles closely up against your feet. Lately she’s been having trouble making her way up the stairs to the second floor, so I usually have to carry her if I want her to sleep with me at night.
A litter is born. Generations distilled down to the pure white of one tiny newborn. We keep her (Lacey, the last in a line of alliteration) and my sister takes a boy (Shiloh, cloaked in a darker grey of his grandmother’s fur). Leala watches these babies with greater attent than their own mother: cleaning, protecting, warming. She is proud and impressed: flock under her wing, she guides across the carpet to (and away) Lizzie’s teats.
Lizzie claws my face when I don’t give her enough attention. Leala sits patiently by my feet. With each hand I stroke their necks and the areas just beneath their ears. The days pass quietly save for the barking. Leala is especially eager to protect the house from the roving cleaner at the bottom of the pool.
Then there’s the death of Leala’s first grandchildren. In an unarranged twist of foreshadow, they all drown in a bathtub. It’s a new bathtub. The faucets on the old one had been on the inside, towards the wall; now they are on the outside. Newspaper lines the bottom, transforming it into a pen for the burgeoning infants. It’s an evening my family is not at home and the matriarchy breaks their way into the cordoned bathroom (Lizzie is especially adept at sneaking out of [or into] most barriers barring her way), eager to rejoin their diasporate young. My sister is the first to return and find the tub overflowing with water and the tiny, still bodies afloat the flood. Alone and hysterical, she mops the floor and dries the soft, cold down. Later on, the smallest mass grave is dug in the backyard.
We wait, enshrouded in joy and anxious of the new life being brought into this world. Leala is giving birth. Leala is a mother. I watch each newborn arrive—slick with vermeil mucus—minutes apart; the whole ordeal lasts over an hour. Each babe about the length of a finger, I hold them all one by one and return them to nurse on their smiling, exhausted mother. The one with the cleft palate only lives a few days. A couple were stillborn. We give them each a small grave out back in the yard. Four survive and we keep the one with the light hair—vectoring white from its dark origin.
Late at night she cuddles with me in bed. Earlier in the day she’d torn open a bag of cream-filled balls of chocolate, eating about a pound. I roll over in my sleep, my hand settles into the sense of a slimy, wet warmth. My favorite t-shirt is covered in vomit [my first of what will be fifteen concerts of my favorite band/rare, limited design]. I rush to the sink and then the washing machine, superseding the need of clean sheets. Over a decade later, I will have the same shirt: a faint, brown spot in the middle speaking more significance than any concert or any music or any design in my obsessive, record-collecting existence.
I’m out of town on a camping trip when the tornado hits. I don’t hear the wind as it roars like a train and the air raid sirens sound in alarm. Amid the din, afore the flying debris, Leala stands guard at the window barking at everything in an undirected spasm of excited joy and solemn regard to inbred duty. Moments before the climax impends upon the house, my sister grabs her and rushes to the small cube of hallway in the center—the only shelter from window on the downstairs floor. She reaches over holding her down as glass implodes in every room in the house. Thick, stiletto shards embed inches deep into walls and wooden furniture—erected laterally in spined outcroppings.
Nothing gets past Leala: the squirrels in the yard, the blowing leaves, neighboring cats, visitors, sometimes even nothing. All fall prey to her fierce bark. . . keen eyes, sound ears. A high yap peals the background of our days. A warmth melts my chest at the sound of this shrill grate.
At other times she lies on the floor in idle. She has grown fond of our feet—those times we’re too lazy to reach down to pet her or lift her onto our laps. My sister and I sometimes hold her over the balcony in play, gripped tight in our hands. She clings desperately to our shoulders when we pull her back.
I start taking her to obedience class on the weekends. We miss the first lesson so she’s a little behind the other students. . . that and her obstinance. She learns to sit and stay and come and down. . . usually when she feels like it. On occasion she’ll heel, sort-of. I hold her down, recite a single word, offer a piece of food, and hope she doesn’t run off sniffing and barking.
My mom is still working full time so during the day, with everyone at work or in school, Leala is left alone, shut inside the laundry room. She cries when we leave and yelps and dances when we return, running to the back door, ready to go outside. My mom eventually cuts her hours down to part time, eventually leaves her job altogether. Leala’s lonely days come to a close.
Now that we’ve settled into our new house, we’re ready to adopt a new member. She’s so small, eyes barely open. She’s covered in short, dark wisps of fur; pitch soon gives way to pepper. I christen her after one of my favorite songs [popular, unplugged; I’m fresh into high school]. . . misspelled by my dad on the certificate. She is Leala. She fits snug to my palm and thus I hold her, stroking her soft back with solitary fingers. She is Leala, and I hold her, hand raised reaching up to the light. And as long as I’m alive, there she will remain pointing upwards always in this temporal forever, slowly moving forward ready to grow and to live and to await that first day when I will call her name, ears perked in understanding.
I can picture her struggling, drowning. Feeble limbs kick aimlessly. Failing eyes miss the steps in the shallow end she was trained to find when she was strong enough to paddle that far. High-pitched yelps are washed out by the chlorinated water splashing like thunder over and into her wet ears. Alone, thirteen years old, she sinks to the bottom after some small number of seconds, finally finding the automated pool cleaner she was probably trying to bark at in the first place. Her blood is cooled by the thousands of gallons above.
It’s Sunday, just four days prior, and I’m visiting my parents. Perhaps I don’t come over enough, a source of much frustration when I consider Leala’s age and declining health. What if it happens during one of these selfish sabbaticals not having seen her in weeks? I’m sitting on the kitchen floor. She wobbles over, legs shaking, across the rugs carpeting the tiles to keep her from slipping. I hold her on my lap, holding her, holding her. . . I have no idea it’s the last time, but it couldn’t be more idyllic. We’re both smiling. I hold her tight and stroke her neck; she twists her head—stretched forward—and narrows her eyes. Her panting ceases momentarily only to pick back up again when my hands return to the fur on her back.
She can’t see very well; she can’t stand for too long. Most of her time is spent prostrate on the floor or in their bedded cage. The single step leading up from the backyard is sometimes too much for her. She growls at Lacey but can’t really fight back—no longer the alpha of her pride. A nervous tick: her neck twitches as she looks up at us in hopeful expectancy. . . again and again and again and again. . .
We’re all at my apartment: me, Leala, and her progeny (the three L’s: Leala, Lizzie, and Lacey). Have to walk Leala separate from the other two because she can’t keep up. But the more I walk her, the better she feels and the more she wants to walk. She swims in the air as I ascend the seven porch steps. She nestles underneath the covers down by my feet, between my legs at night, just as she did when we lived together. . . always.
I’m living with my parents. I seem to be taking my time in college. At home I’m smothered under smiling beards and lapping, pink tongues. Lizzie and Lacey are obsessed with me: two inverse shadows of light grey and blinding white. Leala shows a greater proclivity towards my mother. Her crotchety demeanor can crack with a sway of the wrist. With masterful artifice, she will shake with wrath as she snuggles closely up against your feet. Lately she’s been having trouble making her way up the stairs to the second floor, so I usually have to carry her if I want her to sleep with me at night.
A litter is born. Generations distilled down to the pure white of one tiny newborn. We keep her (Lacey, the last in a line of alliteration) and my sister takes a boy (Shiloh, cloaked in a darker grey of his grandmother’s fur). Leala watches these babies with greater attent than their own mother: cleaning, protecting, warming. She is proud and impressed: flock under her wing, she guides across the carpet to (and away) Lizzie’s teats.
Lizzie claws my face when I don’t give her enough attention. Leala sits patiently by my feet. With each hand I stroke their necks and the areas just beneath their ears. The days pass quietly save for the barking. Leala is especially eager to protect the house from the roving cleaner at the bottom of the pool.
Then there’s the death of Leala’s first grandchildren. In an unarranged twist of foreshadow, they all drown in a bathtub. It’s a new bathtub. The faucets on the old one had been on the inside, towards the wall; now they are on the outside. Newspaper lines the bottom, transforming it into a pen for the burgeoning infants. It’s an evening my family is not at home and the matriarchy breaks their way into the cordoned bathroom (Lizzie is especially adept at sneaking out of [or into] most barriers barring her way), eager to rejoin their diasporate young. My sister is the first to return and find the tub overflowing with water and the tiny, still bodies afloat the flood. Alone and hysterical, she mops the floor and dries the soft, cold down. Later on, the smallest mass grave is dug in the backyard.
We wait, enshrouded in joy and anxious of the new life being brought into this world. Leala is giving birth. Leala is a mother. I watch each newborn arrive—slick with vermeil mucus—minutes apart; the whole ordeal lasts over an hour. Each babe about the length of a finger, I hold them all one by one and return them to nurse on their smiling, exhausted mother. The one with the cleft palate only lives a few days. A couple were stillborn. We give them each a small grave out back in the yard. Four survive and we keep the one with the light hair—vectoring white from its dark origin.
Late at night she cuddles with me in bed. Earlier in the day she’d torn open a bag of cream-filled balls of chocolate, eating about a pound. I roll over in my sleep, my hand settles into the sense of a slimy, wet warmth. My favorite t-shirt is covered in vomit [my first of what will be fifteen concerts of my favorite band/rare, limited design]. I rush to the sink and then the washing machine, superseding the need of clean sheets. Over a decade later, I will have the same shirt: a faint, brown spot in the middle speaking more significance than any concert or any music or any design in my obsessive, record-collecting existence.
I’m out of town on a camping trip when the tornado hits. I don’t hear the wind as it roars like a train and the air raid sirens sound in alarm. Amid the din, afore the flying debris, Leala stands guard at the window barking at everything in an undirected spasm of excited joy and solemn regard to inbred duty. Moments before the climax impends upon the house, my sister grabs her and rushes to the small cube of hallway in the center—the only shelter from window on the downstairs floor. She reaches over holding her down as glass implodes in every room in the house. Thick, stiletto shards embed inches deep into walls and wooden furniture—erected laterally in spined outcroppings.
Nothing gets past Leala: the squirrels in the yard, the blowing leaves, neighboring cats, visitors, sometimes even nothing. All fall prey to her fierce bark. . . keen eyes, sound ears. A high yap peals the background of our days. A warmth melts my chest at the sound of this shrill grate.
At other times she lies on the floor in idle. She has grown fond of our feet—those times we’re too lazy to reach down to pet her or lift her onto our laps. My sister and I sometimes hold her over the balcony in play, gripped tight in our hands. She clings desperately to our shoulders when we pull her back.
I start taking her to obedience class on the weekends. We miss the first lesson so she’s a little behind the other students. . . that and her obstinance. She learns to sit and stay and come and down. . . usually when she feels like it. On occasion she’ll heel, sort-of. I hold her down, recite a single word, offer a piece of food, and hope she doesn’t run off sniffing and barking.
My mom is still working full time so during the day, with everyone at work or in school, Leala is left alone, shut inside the laundry room. She cries when we leave and yelps and dances when we return, running to the back door, ready to go outside. My mom eventually cuts her hours down to part time, eventually leaves her job altogether. Leala’s lonely days come to a close.
Now that we’ve settled into our new house, we’re ready to adopt a new member. She’s so small, eyes barely open. She’s covered in short, dark wisps of fur; pitch soon gives way to pepper. I christen her after one of my favorite songs [popular, unplugged; I’m fresh into high school]. . . misspelled by my dad on the certificate. She is Leala. She fits snug to my palm and thus I hold her, stroking her soft back with solitary fingers. She is Leala, and I hold her, hand raised reaching up to the light. And as long as I’m alive, there she will remain pointing upwards always in this temporal forever, slowly moving forward ready to grow and to live and to await that first day when I will call her name, ears perked in understanding.