Bit

Scarlet gemstones splattered on the floor from the tip of my middle finger and melted into polka dots. I sucked it in my mouth for ten seconds. The metallic reek numbed my tongue. When I took it out, the initial pinprick now oozed a snaking rivulet.

I cursed under my breath.

My right hand grasped for the staircase railing, winced again at the scrape, and switched to use my left. Up on my feet, I flicked off the dust on my navy uniform.

“What do I do with you?” I eyed the khaki furry mass holding on to my backpack.

Yes, that is his name.

Khaki came to the family forty-two days ago. He was my dream come true and my worst nightmare. Due to my twin’s phobia of all animals, I grew up isolated from everything including the cutest doggies and a harmless goldfish self-preoccupied in its bowl. I accepted it. Even though I wanted to squeal when I lay eyes on an innocent puppy, I respected my sister’s fear. Two months ago, I was really proud when she made the decision to confront this fear. We bought two parrots, Otello and Mona. They died of mysterious causes. We buried them, using two pencils as their tombstones.

A caged bird is one thing. A frolicking dog is completely different.

Khaki had great genes. He was claimed to hail from two families of dog competition champions. Really, you could see it in those legs. One month old, he had already flexed his muscles extensively. We bought a cot for him, goat milk, dog food, and a super chewer I tried beforehand. We bought a cage but vowed to never use it.

Khaki was large for a one-month-old, about twice the size of our iRobot Roomba. He dons a stunning coat of… do I need to say it… well, duh, khaki. His had a slightly more flaxen overtone, giving it the occasional impression of a rustling autumn field, kissed by a combination of fire, sunlight, and the loamy soil. But his semi-murky eyes were the epitome of his guileless facade. The term “puppy eyes” must have derived from no other dog, for when one stares into those pair of ebony pupils, cushioned by silvery irises, one forgets their flaring tempers.

He was a handful. A little devil who happened to have found a new best friend in my school bag. Smart as he was, Khaki curled himself into a ball, yet his paws clung to the adjuster straps he tore in our earlier brawl.

Forgot to mention, my sister now locks herself in the room. Khaki had thrice the energy we expected, and an uncontrollable dog quite reversed any progress she made on tackling her fear.

My parents were no better. Dad and Mom yammered on and on that he was our responsibility, but who was I to have known how he has no respect for authority?

I tilted my head up. The hour hand mocked me— 8:30. School had already begun.

I sank back to my knees and watched my source of misery, but a wee newborn baby. Babies needed repetitive scolding to develop principles, but my parents ought to think twice before expecting their middle-school daughter to have the same level of patience. I knew at least that I was the model baby. Hardly ever cried at night. Bloomed into a flower when carried by anyone.

I clutched the top handle and yanked. This time, he didn’t pull back. His small build, only 1/5th of the size he could mature into, dragged across the gray marble floor.

He still refused to let go. His shaggy fur pointed downward like a dirty mop. Golden retrievers were supposed to shine in the brightest glare of the day.

“Buddy, it’s just you and me now.”

He whimpered. He readjusted his paws to claim the backpack straps more thoroughly.

“Oh boy!” I walked to the storage cabinet and fetched an actual broom. “Naughty kids must be disciplined.”

He saw it. And he understood. His oval head bowed lower as his claws loosened. Barely.

My alarm didn’t ring this morning. I scrambled around, getting dressed, eating breakfast, and made it in five minutes. Rushing out the door to catch the bus, Khaki refused to surrender his friend, even though I was its proper owner. I didn’t have the time to banter, so I pulled as hard as I could, but that set him into a frenzy. Teeth, claws, pet barks, and growls of a wild animal.

“Bad dog.” I snapped. I didn’t so much as think before gripping the bag’s middle section.

Khaki retaliated. He pranced for the same spot, and his non-retractable, clacking claws cut through the skin of my finger.

I still remember that one time when I was seven, and I just attended elementary school. Petty jealousy of a friend’s better score prompted me to steal her test paper, but I was found out. Dad made me admit the deed in front of teachers and classmates, then at home, he scolded me with murderous eyes. Trembling, I extended out my palms and took the slap. My hands tingled for a week, but I learned my lesson.

The Bible said that the Lord disciplines those he loves. Well, I loved this disobedient little devil.

The broomstick bounced up and down, swaying like a sideways pendulum.

I swung it high. It traveled half an arc and froze as Khaki, now on four legs, barked. I peered at him in confusion then looked to my right, unable to contain a beam from taking over my mouth.

The bristled end grazed the streamlined vase, cyan and ivory interwoven porcelain, standing on the console table. I could close my eyes and envision it in varied sizes pieces, my mom screeching in hysterics in the background.

“I should call you a cunning devil,” I muttered, “Thinking of ways to please me now, hmm? Can I have my bag back?”

He immediately plopped back down protectively over his friend.

“You know, that thing tortures my spine over the day. It’s like Atlas’ boulder. Not the other way around.”

Khaki snorted. Now, I just felt stupid. Talking reason to my dog.

“Well, well, I’ll spare you the spanking this once, considering the favor you did me, but don’t test my limits. You hear me?” I combed through his soft-textured hair.

He woofed.

I scooted closer without the briefest concern that he would injure me again. Khaki wouldn’t. His teary, globular eyes pretty much conveyed the conclusion I reached— It was an accident. He might have been a little too perky, but he liked me, and he would never hurt me intentionally.

“Right, buddy?” I cocked my head and wondered how he would respond this time. I almost yelped as his pink tongue licked over my middle finger, covering it with sticky saliva. Grown dogs had those gummy tongues so wet it could drench you in liquid, but Khaki’s was still petite. Thin and pointy, the light rosy flesh darted out in intermittent intervals, like a dripping hose.

I’ve read about how saliva heals wounds in books. I never knew that it was true.

The stinging nip that fired multiple neurons up to my brain unwinded until only numbness lingered. Nevertheless, Khaki kept at the job diligently. His tongue worked without stopping to the point that I felt he was dehydrated.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Taking that as cue, he finally called it a day. His paws abandoned his passing fancy and rested on my laps. His miniature body, no bigger than a pillow, shuddered as he panted.

Two hours later, Mom saw my message of missing the bus. She drove back home and picked me up. Inside the car, she inquired, “Why are you smiling? What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing.” I shrugged, yet my smile did not wane.

Five months from that day, we gave Khaki away to a friend because we decided to move to the United States the next year. Keeping him longer then saying goodbye would be too cruel. Khaki was the family pet for less than half a year, but even now, we have an unwritten rule—- No one wears the color khaki. To us, it belonged to no other but him.