Doogie And The Rumble Strips

Your mother was a wild thing. She was beautiful, with silky hair the colour of honey, and eyes like glacier silt. We couldn’t tame her, and I loved her for it. When she ran, her ears folded against her head aerodynamically, and the wind whispered through her fur, almost lifting her from the ground. She was made for the forest, the mountains, the hunt. When she left us, I saw her in your lean body. I watched you jump up the embankment to our house, and for a moment, I was blinded by the ghost of her.

Your father was too good for this world. He was bear-like and wolfish, with a brindle coat that engulfed me when I embraced him. He was also beautiful, but it was unmatched by his kindness. He was made for people, for children and their adoring hands. That was how they took him. They came during the day, when nobody was home, and your father didn’t know any better. The strangers took your father, and we never saw him again.

You were born soon after that. It’s unbelievable how small you were—a bundle of whimpers that curled up in my palm and fell asleep. Do you remember me placing you on my chest and lifting your feet as if you were a puppet? It’s okay if you don’t. That is my first real memory of you, and I was nine years old.

I sometimes wonder what your first memory is. It could be anything—chasing your siblings around the house, terrorizing your mother, ripping the pants from my legs (that’s a fun story). Maybe you remember watching your brothers and sisters leave, one by one, in the arms of our friends and family. Whatever your first memory is, I do know that we were there with you. From the moment we broke open your sac with kitchen scissors, we were there.

I would call myself an only child, but I wasn’t; not really. We grew up together. And like any sibling, you annoyed the living hell out of me. Particularly in the truck, when we drove down the highway and my parents accidentally drifted over the rumble strips.

You know exactly what I’m talking about. The grooves in the centre of the road that send vibrations throughout the entire vehicle, jolting the driver awake and alerting them of danger. Whenever we drove over the rumble strips, you would lose your mind and jump on top of me. I always got injured in some way. A scratch here, a bruise there. It didn’t matter if you were leashed; you would do anything to get in the front seat. You would even choke yourself. I learned to grab you the instant I felt the rumble, knowing that in a moment’s time, you would launch yourself at me, and the both of us would get hurt.

If it thundered, you would sit on my feet beneath the eaves of my desk, shaking like a little kid. You really hated thunder. Once, during a terrible storm, you broke into the bathroom and hopped in the shower with me. Your fur stuck to my body like glue. I had to pick you up and carry you out of the bathtub. A big, heavy, shivering lump that cut my shower short and coated me in hair. I ended up more dirty than I was when I got in.

But don’t take it personally—you weren’t annoying all the time. I grew to depend on you.

I was a social recluse, addicted to my computer. I struggled making friends, and I was mature enough to be left at home while my parents worked. As a child, I was pulled out of school three times due to bullying; I was not allowed to participate in classes, and I spent most of my school days sleeping behind the bleachers. I turned away from people, certain that if they got too close, they would break me. Then we moved across the country, thousands of miles away from that town and my family. In a new province, with a new school, surrounded by accents I often couldn’t understand, it would have been easy to feel like an outcast.

But I was never truly alone. You were there with me. A friend to return to, while I learned how to socialize again. When I broke up with my first real boyfriend, you kissed my cheeks and held me while I cried. We sat on the couch together until my parents came home. You were there at my grandpa’s funeral; my first encounter with death, loss, and grief. In the pictures of my prom, the man I will marry is tying a flower around my wrist, and you are sitting between us like a disapproving brother. During my graduation, you cocked your head at me while I draped a red gown over myself, adjusting my cap in the mirror.

All my life, you were watching over me, protecting me. I was born into a family of dogs. You were the trusted disciple of my previous guardians. Looking back, I never realized how much I needed you; I never considered that, without you, I would have crippled beneath the weight of my own isolation: a flower left unattended, wilted and petrified.

It was the year I would leave for college. You sat outside, tethered to the porch, beneath the darkness of a setting sky. Thunder was coming. The light above the door flickered orange, humming with electricity. Droplets of rain splattered against the hot tub lid. Crickets sang in the trees. I sat beside you, gazing down at the lump that had swollen in your chest and belly. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”

You turned around and kissed my nose, as if to say goodbye.

I graduated college last year. I have a best friend who means the world to me, a dojo that replaced the family I moved away from, and a partner who loves me more than anything. I’m twenty years old now and I no longer need you. That’s what I tell myself, anyway—but like anyone else, there are moments where I still feel lonely.

Loneliness is lethal. It’s a demon as large of a health risk as obesity, smoking, or alcoholism. But you see, I’m lucky. Whenever I feel its black tendrils creeping toward me, I simply drive over the rumble strips. The hairs raise on the back of my neck, and my body tenses, preparing for you to pounce. The kiss you gave me was not a goodbye; it was a promise. The demon is chased away, and I am comforted by the fact that you’re still here, still protecting me.