#98 - The Ache, and the Salve

The Ache, and the Salve

10/11/06 (#98)

I moved away from my childhood home at age eleven, and of all of the things I left behind, Stephanie Antosca was the most dearly missed. She lived on the next street, though by every measure except geographical location, she was my Girl Next Door.

The Girl Next Door is a mythic role in the American experience, fodder for ten thousand novels and ten million daydreams, the psychic imprint that defines so many men's female ideal. She is the mystery of the opposite sex embodied in a single physical being, and if flaws exist, they are lost amidst the swirl of inscrutable allure. She is often the yardstick used to measure any future partners, a cruel reality considering the misperceptions of the adolescent mind: I recall my first neighbor's yard to be a vast expanse of real estate that required a map and ample provisions to navigate---though I would later learn it was actually the size of a modern double lot; similarly, the measure of Stephanie in my 11-year-old eyes would later lead me to believe she was, metaphorically, nine feet tall and flawless. Who could possibly measure up?

No one, I felt certain, except her. That was my mindset when we returned to Attleboro half a decade later, my emotions having simmered on a back burner for years, a stock thickened with strange new ingredients like lust, self-consciousness, confusion and everything else that puberty had added to the pot without my approval. I had enjoyed silent crushes and occasional dates in the intervening years, but each had in some way felt foreign and unfamiliar. The problem was not what these other girls were, but what they were not, and could never be. My family was returning to Attleboro for other events, a schedule that left only one evening to spend with Stephanie, so I was swimming in anticipation for the six hour drive to Massachusetts and for every minute there. My parents let me use the family car (a large and cumbersome 1974 Plymouth Fury) to drive to from our weekend lodging at my uncle's house to the Antosca's, and it's a wonder that, considering my eagerness, I didn't leave the imprint of the Fury's bumper on half the cars between.

My heart leaped when she opened the door, then plummeted as I realized she was clearly not feeling well. She had contracted some strain of stomach virus and had spent much of the day vomiting, trying any concoction to help her feel better, but no remedy could stay in her stomach long enough to be effective. She soldiered valiantly against the disease, putting on a brave face as we went for a drive and listened to a song I had written for her (poignantly, and ironically, titled "This Close to Heaven"), hoping to overcome her illness by sheer force of will, but the virus proved too strong. Logic told us both that she should be home resting, and while she tried to be a gracious host at her house, it was clear she was in no condition to entertain. I hugged her goodbye, and drove the loneliest ride home I had ever known. While teenagers have a tendency toward the dramatic, the sadness that enveloped me was no pose---quite simply, I felt as low as I could be. Any effort to console me would have been futile and unwelcome, as there was no source of light that could have penetrated that darkness.

I arrived at my Uncle's to find the mood completely contradictory to my own. Massachusetts was on storm alert, and a hurricane over the Atlantic still had an opportunity to change course and blow right into Attleboro. Should the storm become inevitable, my uncle would have to go to his floral shop and raise all of the stock to counter level to avoid flood damage, so the large living room was cluttered with cousins and friends and family abuzz with anticipation, watching the news as if it were a sporting event---berating the storm when it gained momentum and cheering when its path seemed to veer toward any city that wasn't their own.

My folks expressed surprise to see me back so early, and offered their sympathy for my one-line description of the disappointment. I thanked them, then walked though the crowd to the furtherest corner of the room, sat down against the wall between an arm chair and an end table, and tried my best not to display the sadness that had overtaken me. Fortunately, everyone's attention was focused on the television, so amidst the raucous atmosphere I was able to settle into my personal silence and lament the cruel circumstances of the night.

Some minutes later, another arrival appeared in the doorway---the family's oversize beagle. (I had just met him earlier that day, and while he seemed like a charming pooch, I had my mind on other things and didn't take time to bond.) The dog took a couple of steps into the room and seemed to assess the excited scene, mouth slightly agape in an apparent smile, tail wagging gently in response to the room's energy. I stared at him across the room, aching for him to come without my calling, certain that he was uniquely capable of soothing at least some of the night's sting.

The dog stayed near the door, but starting at the couch on his left, seemed to take inventory of everyone present---I could see his head making incremental movements as he logged the familiar faces and unfamiliar voices that populated his usually-quiet living room. His tail continued to swing lazily as his eyes spent a few moments on each subject, eventually settling his gaze on me for the same duration before moving on to the next guest, and the next.

What happened next astounds me to this day, and always will. The dog literally did a double-take, looking back at me urgently as if there was something he had missed on first glance. He didn't bother with eying the rest of the room, instead setting out determinedly through an obstacle course of extended hands offering soft greetings and playful scratches, past a chorus of coaxing "hi boy"s and "hey big fella"s, stepping over bowls of chips and around ottomans until he arrived at my side. Without looking up, he plopped his full weight on the floor beside me and against my outstretched legs, laid his head softly across my thighs and audibly sighed. Tears ran down my cheeks as I rubbed his neck, feeling helpless to express how much his gesture meant to me, though I'm sure he knew. He obviously sensed my need, and I'm sure my gratitude was telegraphed just as clearly. We didn't budge for the rest of the night.

I've heard that some scientists insist that dogs do not feel emotion, that we merely assign meaning to their coincidental actions. But to anyone who has ever known dogs, the assertion is preposterous. Perhaps the existence of a dog's emotions is akin to the question about the existence of God---one might claim science as an exclusive ally for their position, but once you have felt the hand of God personally, science is simply not relevant to the debate. I think the same is true of canine emotions---forgive the turn of phrase, but I have felt the hand of dog in my life, and it made me a believer.

©2006 wpreagan