bite anybody, which would have been his right.
He was Tank, as we had hoped, but he was not indestructible. He seemed like nothing could bother him, nothing could ever get at him, but you find whenever you think that, you were wrong. You find that you had overlooked something. You find that you never really knew the whole story from the inside, and maybe you never can.
Because at some point something bothered Tank. He stopped eating. His food bowl sat there, and the vegetables went from crispy to soft, from soft to shrunk, from shrunk to decomposed. We cleaned the old stuff out and put in new crispy stuff that then also decomposed.
We let him roam around much of the time, like we did, but he got harder and harder to find. He would stay in closets, under furniture, behind the refrigerator. So many times I pulled Tank out of someplace and found him totally covered in dust bunnies, looking like some kind of very adorable mutant hybrid turtle kitten that got caught in the dryer.
But he wouldn’t eat. We tried everything. Warming him up. Cooling him down. Keeping him in his box more, letting him roam more. Bathing him. Walking him. He didn’t even take the occasional nip of a blade of grass, which he loved to do on his walks through the yard.
He wouldn’t eat. And we couldn’t force him. Some creatures you can force-feed. Ever try and force a piece of lettuce into the mouth of somebody who can suck his whole head into his body?
All I could do was watch. He shriveled. You couldn’t see him losing fat, because everything about Tank went on inside, in his shell, his house, his protection. Where nobody could see, where nobody could get to him. His protection and his fault, the same thing.
But his legs shriveled, his head looked smaller. He would be lost for days at a time, and when I found him he would have one less toenail, one less toe, one less foot. Months he lived without a bite. And other than the decaying away, you could swear that he was fine with everything. He wasn’t bothered. You would swear it.
The last time I found him, I knew it was the last time. I picked him up and dusted him off and held him to my ear. He stretched his neck, put his head in my ear.
Huh-huh-huh, he said, like always.
This time I didn’t giggle. This time, for the first time, I decided he was trying to talk to me. He was trying to tell me things.
He had always been trying to tell me things, I decided, but I couldn’t hear his little voice. Like in Horton Hears a Who.
I would have figured it out. We would have worked it out. I would have heard him. I would have understood him.
We just ran out of time.
Everybody’s Walls
I NEVER, EVER LIKED the nighttime, even at the best of times.
No kind of a night owl, me. Morning owl, which wouldn’t be right, I suppose. Morning sparrow? Morning dove?
I would like to be a morning cardinal, if I had my choice and if it didn’t sound a little weird. They are the most beautiful birds, the brightest, most livid vivid birds, always visible, always there, always special. Never seen one alone, though, I don’t think. Strictly in pairs.
Anyway, it’s not about the birds—it’s about everything else. I am suspicious about the nighttime, about the shadowiness of what and who is up and out there. Suspicious of what prefers not to be seen, which couldn’t be a good sign—not wanting to be seen. There is just so much more hope in mornings, in the breaking light rather than the retreating kind.
I lay there in my bed, in the dark, when the August dark finally decided to arrive. I lay there listening. Smelling, breathing in the scents of the house and the sea, the scent of the darkness itself, which of course has its own odor. And listening, listening.
Stupid idea, stupid thing anyway. Bonfire night. No adults. Who needed it? It was dark, it was night. Bed was the place to be. You should always be in the place to be when it is time to be there. No place like bed.
The house whistled. Darned if Dad
He was Tank, as we had hoped, but he was not indestructible. He seemed like nothing could bother him, nothing could ever get at him, but you find whenever you think that, you were wrong. You find that you had overlooked something. You find that you never really knew the whole story from the inside, and maybe you never can.
Because at some point something bothered Tank. He stopped eating. His food bowl sat there, and the vegetables went from crispy to soft, from soft to shrunk, from shrunk to decomposed. We cleaned the old stuff out and put in new crispy stuff that then also decomposed.
We let him roam around much of the time, like we did, but he got harder and harder to find. He would stay in closets, under furniture, behind the refrigerator. So many times I pulled Tank out of someplace and found him totally covered in dust bunnies, looking like some kind of very adorable mutant hybrid turtle kitten that got caught in the dryer.
But he wouldn’t eat. We tried everything. Warming him up. Cooling him down. Keeping him in his box more, letting him roam more. Bathing him. Walking him. He didn’t even take the occasional nip of a blade of grass, which he loved to do on his walks through the yard.
He wouldn’t eat. And we couldn’t force him. Some creatures you can force-feed. Ever try and force a piece of lettuce into the mouth of somebody who can suck his whole head into his body?
All I could do was watch. He shriveled. You couldn’t see him losing fat, because everything about Tank went on inside, in his shell, his house, his protection. Where nobody could see, where nobody could get to him. His protection and his fault, the same thing.
But his legs shriveled, his head looked smaller. He would be lost for days at a time, and when I found him he would have one less toenail, one less toe, one less foot. Months he lived without a bite. And other than the decaying away, you could swear that he was fine with everything. He wasn’t bothered. You would swear it.
The last time I found him, I knew it was the last time. I picked him up and dusted him off and held him to my ear. He stretched his neck, put his head in my ear.
Huh-huh-huh, he said, like always.
This time I didn’t giggle. This time, for the first time, I decided he was trying to talk to me. He was trying to tell me things.
He had always been trying to tell me things, I decided, but I couldn’t hear his little voice. Like in Horton Hears a Who.
I would have figured it out. We would have worked it out. I would have heard him. I would have understood him.
We just ran out of time.
Everybody’s Walls
I NEVER, EVER LIKED the nighttime, even at the best of times.
No kind of a night owl, me. Morning owl, which wouldn’t be right, I suppose. Morning sparrow? Morning dove?
I would like to be a morning cardinal, if I had my choice and if it didn’t sound a little weird. They are the most beautiful birds, the brightest, most livid vivid birds, always visible, always there, always special. Never seen one alone, though, I don’t think. Strictly in pairs.
Anyway, it’s not about the birds—it’s about everything else. I am suspicious about the nighttime, about the shadowiness of what and who is up and out there. Suspicious of what prefers not to be seen, which couldn’t be a good sign—not wanting to be seen. There is just so much more hope in mornings, in the breaking light rather than the retreating kind.
I lay there in my bed, in the dark, when the August dark finally decided to arrive. I lay there listening. Smelling, breathing in the scents of the house and the sea, the scent of the darkness itself, which of course has its own odor. And listening, listening.
Stupid idea, stupid thing anyway. Bonfire night. No adults. Who needed it? It was dark, it was night. Bed was the place to be. You should always be in the place to be when it is time to be there. No place like bed.
The house whistled. Darned if Dad
Similar Books
