When I was a boy, I hurt my dog.
His name was Buddy and he was only a puppy.
I remember playing with him in the backyard when I started kicking a chunk of wood at his shin. He thought we were just playing.
He bounded up to me, all excited to get the wood and run away, as puppy’s do, but when he got close, I kicked the wood into his shin. He leapt back, tilting his head with a curious look, and then tried again.
He didn’t see me as the threat I was.
When he returned, hoping to get the wood from me, I kicked the wood even harder, right into the same shin. We kept doing this until he began to cower and he gave up, limping to the backdoor for one of my sisters to let him in.
…
Buddy
Buddy was my favorite dog.
He was with us when my parents got divorced, spanning both sides of our family, the before and after marriage years. After my dad left, I stayed with my mom and three sisters.
But my mom wasn’t around much. She spent most of her time, especially weekends, at her boyfriend’s trailer out East on Long Island. My two younger sisters spent most weekends with my dad or at my aunt’s rowhouse in the city, while my older sister liked to go to my grandma’s apartment before she eventually went to college.
This left an unsupervised house and I took full teenage advantage, throwing massive parties, and Buddy became our party mascot.
Instead of water, he’d drink beer from his bowl. He loved humping, too, showing he was truly one of us, teenagers. Yet, Buddy took humping to an extreme.
He’d hump anything he could latch onto. He humped human legs and table legs.
In fact, he died when he humped a horse’s leg.
Buddy had run out the front door during one of our parties and raced through woods to a nearby horse barn, where he slipped into a stall and mounted a horse’s leg. The horse promptly kicked him in the chest, tearing his diaphragm.
Over the next few weeks, the tear spread and eventually his stomach rose into his lungs, suffocating him.
…
Teddy
Teddy was our first dog.
We had left behind our apartment and extended family in Woodside, Queens, moving into a real house off Exit 64 on the LIE.
My dad took our only car every day back towards the City to his job as a cop. One day, a stranger parked a car in front of our home, walked into our backyard and grabbed Teddy, who was a big fat furball.
They threw him into their car and drove off.
My mom ran outside, but it was too late. She just watched Teddy looking out of the back window as the car disappeared down Cherry Lane.
There was nothing my mom could do.
…
Spats
Spats was a stray in one of the homes being built on our street. It was the early ’80s and we were one of the first families in this suburban development. New homes were in varying degrees of construction up and down Cherry Lane.
I was exploring the studded skeleton of one of these houses, climbing its open stairs and balancing across the rafters. Jumping from one floor down to the next, I heard a dog whining in the basement.
I dropped a two-by-six in the empty stairwell and balanced my way down like a pirate on a plank. Spats stepped over to me as though he were mine and, once in my arms, I brought him home.
Yet, Spats didn’t like domestic life and he took off whenever he could. Maybe he got spooked.
I remember catching a neighborhood boy hanging him in the air by his leash.
He would have killed him if I didn’t show up. So, Spats was understandably a runner.
He’d dig holes under our back fence and be gone.
Trying to keep him in, we filled those holes with rocks, metal Tonka trucks, even a pink flamingo lawn ornament, but nothing worked. Spats would just find a sandy spot, dig it up in 10 seconds or less, flatten himself through the hole and pop out into freedom.
One time he ran away and never came back.
…
The German Shepherd
We had one dog we never asked for. It just came into our lives. A man needed a place for it.
I don’t know why we did this guy any favors after what he did when we were children. But I can’t speak about that.
All I can talk about is his dog and it was as dangerous as he. When my dad was around, he behaved, but once my dad left, he always seemed to be planning his next attack.
My dad tied him to a tree in the backyard to keep him away from us, but we were curious children. I would stare at the German Shepherd, watching him carefully as he paced back and forth, chewing on the rope that controlled him.
I’d even pretend to stalk him, walking around the tree from a distance, as the German Shepherd jumped at me.
Once I got too close, stepping inside the dog’s radius, and he knocked me on my back. He was about to jump on me when I scurried out of reach. The rope snapped taut as the German Shepherd lunged at me.
Another time, the dog broke its rope and ran for me.
I froze, knowing he would maul me, but the strangest thing happened. He sped by me and leapt over the backyard fence, disappearing on the other side.
I went from feeling terror to being thrilled. I felt like I had been spared and instinctively I started to cheer.
…
The Big Dog
My dad liked to tell a story about the Big Dog. He and his partner were in their patrol car when they saw a big dog watching a little dog.
As I remember the story, the big dog was a stray and the little one was tied to a tree and barking like crazy. The big dog remained calm, though, and started walking in circles around the tree as the little dog followed, yapping and yapping, even jumping at the big dog, which just kept walking in circles.
My dad said he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The big dog’s circles got tighter and tighter until the little dog had wrapped himself right up against the tree, unable to move. This was when the big dog walked over, nice and slow, lifted his leg and pissed all over the little dog.
Really sprayed it down. Even pissed in its face.
The little dog couldn’t do a damn thing but wait for the big dog to finish. When he did, the big dog turned his ass to the little dog and walked off, going slowly down the sidewalk.
My dad and his partner were in hysterics as they drove off in the same direction, leaving the pissed-soaked little dog behind.
…
My Father’s Dog
My dad had a Doberman Pinscher that he liked to say would leap through a glass window to protect him. My dad was the only one who could discipline his dog and he would make him cower.
Standing six foot two and over 250 pounds, my father’s presence alone would make his dog cringe and back away.
With my dad, the threat of violence was always on display, like an exposed gun in a holster.
Yet, when my dad was at the precinct, his Doberman ran the house. And, like Buddy, he loved to hump, but he was more threatening.
He’d chase down my little sisters and mount their backs. Being the big brother, I tried to protect them, but my dad’s dog would turn on me. Showing its pointed canines, he’d step towards me, growling. I’d jump up onto the dining room table until he stepped away.
Then, one day, my dad was roughhousing me when his dog attacked.
My dad had pressed his elbow into my chest, pinning me to the floor, while he punched my thigh with his other fist. I was around 12 and my father and I had started fighting each other more viciously.
This time, as my dad punched me, I heard a snarl coming from over my shoulder. Then, his dog jumped in, sinking his canines into my thigh and tugging on the flesh. My father immediately dropped a sledgehammer of a fist onto the back of his head, sending the dog squealing away.
I was left with two bleeding holes and a massive bruise spreading across my thigh like an oil spill.
My mom, who was watching from the kitchen, yelled my dad’s name: “Pat!”
But my father barked back in defense, saying his dog was protecting me.
“He saw me punching him. He was trying to bite my arm. To stop me. But he missed and he accidentally bit Paddy’s leg. All he was trying to do was help.”
My mom said nothing.
Maybe there was nothing my mom could do.
I said nothing.
I limped to the couch, curled into a ball, and closed my eyes.
…
Silky
We called my father’s dog Silky because of his smooth Doberman coat, which shone under the light. Two weeks after Silky bit me, I was in the backyard when my friend Jimmy burst through the gate.
Silky saw him and attacked. He knocked Jimmy down and bit his ankle, dragging him around the corner of my house.
Terrified, I climbed a tree.
I could hear Jimmy’s cries and I screamed, too. My father was upstairs sleeping, after having worked a midnight shift, and he ran outside in his tighty-whities, chasing after Silky and Jimmy.
By this point, Silky had sunk his teeth into Jimmy’s chest. Later Jimmy said Silky was trying to bite his neck, but he was able to block the dog with his arms, which were also chewed up.
My father rescued Jimmy, pulling his dog off of my friend.
Jimmy ran home, screaming, and the next day, Jimmy’s parents gave us an ultimatum: Put Silky to sleep or get sued.
Taking me aside, my father told me that Jimmy should not have come running into the backyard without an escort. I should have walked my friend into the yard. If I had, this would not have happened. Silky was just doing what he trained him to do: protect his territory.
Nonetheless, my dad had Silky put to sleep. He told my sisters and me that Silky was now a security guard in heaven.
My three sisters stood around my dad, crying.
…
Living with Dogs
My dad once explained to me why Silky would sometimes bite. I think he wanted me to know it wasn’t Silky’s fault.
Dogs, my dad said, live by a code, which has to do with status.
They’re pack animals and they are constantly competing for a place in the pack. Naturally, my father was the alpha, which means the Top Dog, my dad explained. My sisters and mom were at the bottom of the pack because they were girls, and that left me.
Silky saw me as competition, my dad said.
He felt we were about the same age and we were fighting for the position right under my dad. Silky wanted that spot and he wanted me to know that I couldn’t have it.
This is why he would threaten and sometimes bite me, my dad said.
After Silky was euthanized, I remember watching my dad cry and feeling sad, perhaps for my father but I’m not sure. Later that night, my mom told us not to speak to my dad. She told us to give him some space because he was upset and didn’t want to be seen.
About three years later, my mom would tell my dad she no longer loved him and he would have to leave our house. Before he left, my dad tossed our kitchen table and I shattered a glass against the wall.
He yelled at my mom and so did I, saying I was going to live with my father, which wasn’t true.
Although I felt sad and angry about losing my father, I felt something else, an unspoken feeling that was more deeply felt than sadness and anger. I felt relieved.
It was as if my body was thankful.
Just like Spats all those years earlier, I had escaped. Or, maybe, like with the German Shepherd, I had been spared. Either way, I felt safer.
Yet, an old fear remains.
When I was young, something in me was striking out, violently at times. Buddy saw that side of me and I am ashamed for intentionally hurting him.
Not only did I hurt his body, I attacked his vulnerability and trust.
I saw him running around the backyard, with his tongue flapping and tail wagging, waiting for me to join in — and I put a stop to it. I changed his joy into pain and I don’t know why I did it.
I know such vulnerability was smacked out of me as a child and, among other things, Silky’s teeth chased away trust.
Maybe I was doing the same to Buddy. Maybe, just as my dad said it wasn’t Silky’s fault, it wasn’t mine either.
But the truth is, my 13-year-old self can’t explain why he did what he did nor can my 48-year-old self. Maybe there’s something dark and animalistic in me. Maybe it’s in all of us.
It’s just that some of us have lives that flesh it out. Maybe Silky and I were similar in that way. I don’t know.
All I know is I am lucky. Instead of making me worse, life made me better. I changed. Years of therapy, good friends, a loving marriage, and two sons of my own healed me. I am no longer what my father said I was.
I’m not an animal competing for my place.
I walked away from my father’s pack.
Yet, as I said, an old fear remains. In fact, these words I write terrify me because they expose me.
They pull me back into my living room and pin me to the floor, where I hear a snarl just over my shoulder.
I wait, fearing what’s coming next.
I am open and it is scary, but I’m choosing to remain vulnerable, experiencing whatever it is that follows.
[Author’s Note: Before publishing this essay, I sent a copy to my family. My father, mother and two of my sisters asked that I not publish it. Their reasons differed. My sisters said that their personal experiences were different from mine, and one sister said my description of my father is myopic. They felt the essay was malicious and harmful. My mother’s reasons were less clear, although she did say I was creating drama. My father simply said he was saddened by the way I described him and that I should “do what I must.” I am choosing to publish this essay for reasons that some people might see as selfish. The truth is I need to save myself. I need to feel less shame about my past by recognizing my struggles, highlighting their causes and explaining how I have changed. My childhood and teenage years shattered my identity. Writing about those shards helps me put my life back together. I hope my story will help others or, at the very least, give comfort to people who have had similar experiences. About personal writing, memoirist Ann Lamott said, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” I’m choosing to take her advice. — Patrick ]
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Gytis M on Unsplash
