Content Warning: animal abuse
A Pedagogy for Lesser Bodies
My husband kicked our dachshund puppy out the back door
because she peed a quarter-size puddle on the living room carpet.
At less than a few months old, this mishap is to be expected.
Nevertheless, he rustled her out, scooped her up with his foot
and threw her into the snow shouting profanities
that are later described to our two children as easily forgivable
frustration. They forgive him, of course, and hug him as,
through a window, I watch the puppy shiver and circle
until she finds a spot where she feels safe enough to pee.
She needs to remain outdoors, he says to the children,
to become accustomed to the cold. She needs to adjust, he explains,
a lesson she should have learned by now. He is right.
She needs to learn—and learn quickly. But she doesn’t. Instead,
she becomes more nervous and pees indoors frequently.
Finally, he takes her to the vet, where she is diagnosed with bladder
malfunction, and he tells the children, so easily, that this
is a pre-existing condition, explaining we cannot afford
the medication to treat her. She is promptly shot in the head
and buried in the woods. Afterward,
he consoles our children, grieving together over her grave.
I stay in the house and watch a boiling pot of spaghetti noodles
go from stiff yellow limbs to limp white tentacles, the steam bathing
my face in faux sweat, stirring rigorously as though
this transformation demands all my attention. And, in fact, it does.
