already torn and dirty. I glared at my reflection, sniffed and stalked from the room.
When I came back that night, the man had covered the mirror with a sheet. The next day, he introduced me to soap, shampoo,scissors and nail clippers, along with a huge bowl of steaming jambalaya. I deigned to let him do what he wanted with the soap and scissors while I ate.
When he finished, he smiled and made a move to pull the sheet from the mirror. My growl stopped him. As long as I was in the room, that sheet was staying up. No amount of personal grooming was going to make me anything but a scrawny little kid, and I preferred to keep my illusions unshattered.
During this time at the motel, I was also reintroduced to language. Since it was more a matter of remembering than learning, it didn't take long for me to pick up the basics. Soon I knew enough nouns and verbs to understand the gist of simple sentences. Saying the words was harder.
After two years of being asked to do nothing more than growl and yip, my voice box complained at the strain of speech. I preferred to listen and spoke only grudgingly. During one of our first lessons, I volunteered to speak just once and only because I recognized the information was too important to withhold.
We were sitting on the floor near the door, before the time when I'd come farther into the room. The man was pointing to furniture and naming it. When I refused to repeat the words, he changed tactics and would instead say a word and I'd point to the appropriate object.
After exhausting every item in sight, he started opening drawers, looking for more things. I pointed at him. He paused and lifted his eyebrows. I jabbed my finger toward him, rolling my eyes when he didn't catch on immediately.
After a second, he pointed at himself and said “Jeremy” hesitantly, as if unsure this was what I wanted. I recognized the word as a name and nodded. He smiled. Then he pointed at me.
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. A surge of panic raced through me. I couldn't remember the answer. Quickly, he turned and started naming the items in the room, trying to change the subject. It didn't help. My brain spun frantically. I had to know this. I had to. Finally, the answer bubbled up from my subconscious and came out before I even realized I was speaking.
“Clayton,” I said. I jabbed my chest. “Clayton.”
He stopped. A slow smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. He reached out, as if to touch me, then caught himself and pulled back.
“Clayton,” he said.
I nodded. He smiled again, hesitated, then resumed checking the drawers for more items to name.
While the motel room seemed like a perfectly good shelter to me, it eventually became apparent that it wasn't Jeremy's home. His home was far away, and he planned to take me there.
Figuring this out was a long, involved process. While I knew perfectly well what a house was, the concept of home was too abstract. For me, home meant shelter and shelter could mean a house, den, bush or any convenient place. Since this motel was as convenient as any, I couldn't understand why Jeremy wanted us to go somewhere else. On the other hand, since I felt no particular tie to this motel room or this city or this bayou, I had no compunction about leaving. I'd follow the supplier of food and provider of shelter wherever he wished to take me.
However, there was one problem to be overcome. Wherever Jeremy wanted to take me wasn't accessible by foot and as long as I refused to be shut into a room, much less a car, we couldn't go. So, Jeremy continued working with me, building up trust.
To pass the time, he also coached me on other things that Ideemed a complete waste of brain space—useless skills like table manners and rules of public behavior. Stand up straight. Speak clearly. Don't eat with your hands. Don't growl at people. Don't piss on the furniture. And above all, don't sniff
anything.
Jeremy didn't work miracles with me. In the end, I think
When I came back that night, the man had covered the mirror with a sheet. The next day, he introduced me to soap, shampoo,scissors and nail clippers, along with a huge bowl of steaming jambalaya. I deigned to let him do what he wanted with the soap and scissors while I ate.
When he finished, he smiled and made a move to pull the sheet from the mirror. My growl stopped him. As long as I was in the room, that sheet was staying up. No amount of personal grooming was going to make me anything but a scrawny little kid, and I preferred to keep my illusions unshattered.
During this time at the motel, I was also reintroduced to language. Since it was more a matter of remembering than learning, it didn't take long for me to pick up the basics. Soon I knew enough nouns and verbs to understand the gist of simple sentences. Saying the words was harder.
After two years of being asked to do nothing more than growl and yip, my voice box complained at the strain of speech. I preferred to listen and spoke only grudgingly. During one of our first lessons, I volunteered to speak just once and only because I recognized the information was too important to withhold.
We were sitting on the floor near the door, before the time when I'd come farther into the room. The man was pointing to furniture and naming it. When I refused to repeat the words, he changed tactics and would instead say a word and I'd point to the appropriate object.
After exhausting every item in sight, he started opening drawers, looking for more things. I pointed at him. He paused and lifted his eyebrows. I jabbed my finger toward him, rolling my eyes when he didn't catch on immediately.
After a second, he pointed at himself and said “Jeremy” hesitantly, as if unsure this was what I wanted. I recognized the word as a name and nodded. He smiled. Then he pointed at me.
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. A surge of panic raced through me. I couldn't remember the answer. Quickly, he turned and started naming the items in the room, trying to change the subject. It didn't help. My brain spun frantically. I had to know this. I had to. Finally, the answer bubbled up from my subconscious and came out before I even realized I was speaking.
“Clayton,” I said. I jabbed my chest. “Clayton.”
He stopped. A slow smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. He reached out, as if to touch me, then caught himself and pulled back.
“Clayton,” he said.
I nodded. He smiled again, hesitated, then resumed checking the drawers for more items to name.
While the motel room seemed like a perfectly good shelter to me, it eventually became apparent that it wasn't Jeremy's home. His home was far away, and he planned to take me there.
Figuring this out was a long, involved process. While I knew perfectly well what a house was, the concept of home was too abstract. For me, home meant shelter and shelter could mean a house, den, bush or any convenient place. Since this motel was as convenient as any, I couldn't understand why Jeremy wanted us to go somewhere else. On the other hand, since I felt no particular tie to this motel room or this city or this bayou, I had no compunction about leaving. I'd follow the supplier of food and provider of shelter wherever he wished to take me.
However, there was one problem to be overcome. Wherever Jeremy wanted to take me wasn't accessible by foot and as long as I refused to be shut into a room, much less a car, we couldn't go. So, Jeremy continued working with me, building up trust.
To pass the time, he also coached me on other things that Ideemed a complete waste of brain space—useless skills like table manners and rules of public behavior. Stand up straight. Speak clearly. Don't eat with your hands. Don't growl at people. Don't piss on the furniture. And above all, don't sniff
anything.
Jeremy didn't work miracles with me. In the end, I think
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