lick her empty hands.
“What do you want from me?” my mother would shout. “You’re a dog! You’re supposed to eat dog food!”
Pee would be in an absolute frenzy, running around in circles and barking up at my mom.
“Oh, okay,” my mom would say. “You can have brisket tonight, but this is the last time.”
My mom was almost always the last one out of the house in the morning. When she would leave, Pee would press her face against the kitchen window so that if my mom turned around, even for an instant, she would see Pee staring at her.
Please don’t leave me all alone, Pee’s expression would say. Or at least that’s how my mom interpreted it. And so my mom, racked with guilt, would abandon her plans and return inside.
“We have to give Onomatopoeia away,” my mom announced at dinner one night.
I stopped eating mid-bite, a forkful of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks dangling in the air. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The Singletons have a huge farm and four dogs. Onomatopoeia will love it there.”
“You’ve already talked to them? Dad, do you know about this?”
My father looked a little embarrassed. “Your mother feels guilty leaving Onomatopoeia cooped up alone in the house all day. She’s right, Shakespeare. Onomatopoeia will be happier with all that space to run around and all those dogs to play with.”
“And you can visit her whenever you want,” my mom added.
I shook my head vigorously. “No way. I’ve never asked for anything in my life except a dog. You can’t just give her away.”
“I can’t go on feeling like a prisoner in my own house,” my mom said.
“What do you go to therapy for?” I screamed.
“Maybe now isn’t the best time to talk about this,” my dad said.
Over the next few weeks, both my parents tried to broach the subject, but I was adamant. Pee was my dog, and I would not give her up.
In June, my mother went to Boston for the weekend to see friends. On Sunday night, she called and said she was going to stay a little longer. My father called me into his room.
“Your mother has decided not to come home until you agree to give Onomatopoeia to the Singletons.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
My father shook his head. “This is really a big deal to her, Shakespeare.”
I guess I was too shocked to be very angry. Was my mother serious about not coming home? Had she been planning this all along or had she just decided to do it when she got to Boston? I had been to the Singletons’ a few times. We had even brought Pee once, and she had galloped around the farm and played happily with the other dogs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible for her to live there. But there had to be something init for me.
“What do you think?” my dad asked.
“I think Mom is crazy.”
My father smiled. “Maybe, but the house feels kind of empty without her, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me think about it for a few days.”
My father looked around and realized there was no alcohol in sight. “I like the dog, too,” he said, “but a man gets lonely without his wife at night.”
“Don’t start that,” I said. “That’s playing dirty.”
He smiled. “Your mother does this little thing—”
“AAAAH, I’M NOT LISTENING!” I screamed.
“Are we giving the dog away?” he asked.
“YOU’RE A HORRIBLE MAN!”
“Are we giving the dog away?”
“This is child abuse.”
“Shakespeare, I’m about ten seconds away from telling you things that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
I’ve blocked what happened after that, but I remember that at some point my mother reappeared in the house, my dog vanished, and I had a second naked-woman picture hanging on my bedroom wall.
DECEMBER
So I’m currently working on the thirteenth draft of my real college essay. That’s not an exaggeration. I told you my parents are crazy.
I’m also working on the twenty-sixth draft of a poem for Celeste. That is an exaggeration, but
“What do you want from me?” my mother would shout. “You’re a dog! You’re supposed to eat dog food!”
Pee would be in an absolute frenzy, running around in circles and barking up at my mom.
“Oh, okay,” my mom would say. “You can have brisket tonight, but this is the last time.”
My mom was almost always the last one out of the house in the morning. When she would leave, Pee would press her face against the kitchen window so that if my mom turned around, even for an instant, she would see Pee staring at her.
Please don’t leave me all alone, Pee’s expression would say. Or at least that’s how my mom interpreted it. And so my mom, racked with guilt, would abandon her plans and return inside.
“We have to give Onomatopoeia away,” my mom announced at dinner one night.
I stopped eating mid-bite, a forkful of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks dangling in the air. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The Singletons have a huge farm and four dogs. Onomatopoeia will love it there.”
“You’ve already talked to them? Dad, do you know about this?”
My father looked a little embarrassed. “Your mother feels guilty leaving Onomatopoeia cooped up alone in the house all day. She’s right, Shakespeare. Onomatopoeia will be happier with all that space to run around and all those dogs to play with.”
“And you can visit her whenever you want,” my mom added.
I shook my head vigorously. “No way. I’ve never asked for anything in my life except a dog. You can’t just give her away.”
“I can’t go on feeling like a prisoner in my own house,” my mom said.
“What do you go to therapy for?” I screamed.
“Maybe now isn’t the best time to talk about this,” my dad said.
Over the next few weeks, both my parents tried to broach the subject, but I was adamant. Pee was my dog, and I would not give her up.
In June, my mother went to Boston for the weekend to see friends. On Sunday night, she called and said she was going to stay a little longer. My father called me into his room.
“Your mother has decided not to come home until you agree to give Onomatopoeia to the Singletons.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
My father shook his head. “This is really a big deal to her, Shakespeare.”
I guess I was too shocked to be very angry. Was my mother serious about not coming home? Had she been planning this all along or had she just decided to do it when she got to Boston? I had been to the Singletons’ a few times. We had even brought Pee once, and she had galloped around the farm and played happily with the other dogs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible for her to live there. But there had to be something init for me.
“What do you think?” my dad asked.
“I think Mom is crazy.”
My father smiled. “Maybe, but the house feels kind of empty without her, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me think about it for a few days.”
My father looked around and realized there was no alcohol in sight. “I like the dog, too,” he said, “but a man gets lonely without his wife at night.”
“Don’t start that,” I said. “That’s playing dirty.”
He smiled. “Your mother does this little thing—”
“AAAAH, I’M NOT LISTENING!” I screamed.
“Are we giving the dog away?” he asked.
“YOU’RE A HORRIBLE MAN!”
“Are we giving the dog away?”
“This is child abuse.”
“Shakespeare, I’m about ten seconds away from telling you things that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
I’ve blocked what happened after that, but I remember that at some point my mother reappeared in the house, my dog vanished, and I had a second naked-woman picture hanging on my bedroom wall.
DECEMBER
So I’m currently working on the thirteenth draft of my real college essay. That’s not an exaggeration. I told you my parents are crazy.
I’m also working on the twenty-sixth draft of a poem for Celeste. That is an exaggeration, but
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