When I Was a Child, I Wished I Was One of Mother’s Dogs

How playing with my new puppy makes me remember a childhood trauma

Sky with stuffed flamingo — photo by author

I grab the dog toy, a pink flamingo, and swing it in the air. Sky, our little ball of fur, jumps to bite it. I lift the toy higher until she can’t reach it, and she falls backward onto the living room rug, then she rolls over to try again.

She wants more play, so I give her play. The crackle of the flamingo leg gets her excited. Her little tail, which is not really a tail because she’s an Australian Shepherd pup, twitches back and forth like a stubby energizer bunny.

I let the leg of the flamingo land on her white paw. She dives down to snatch it, and I pull it away.

Again and again, she misses the mark while I keep taunting her with a prize.

It’s fun to have control. I lord over her, and I tease her. Yet she doesn’t seem to mind. She keeps trying because she is convinced she will someday catch the flamingo.

I am tired out by her needs. She needs to be taught right and wrong, good and bad, where to poop and where not to poop. I chase her around the house screaming “no!” “bad girl” “good girl!” “that’s good, that’s bad”.