Runt of the Litter
Dogs trump cats, everybody knows that. So when my seventh-grade buddy Chuck bragged that his cat Felicity landed on all fours from a two-story fall, gracefully walking away, it was no-brainer to show him that Stachti, my ash-colored puppy could do just as well. If cats could do it, dogs surely could do it better.
I opted for the third floor.
On the way to Chuck’s home, pulling Stachti along was like tugging Chuck’s dad’s yacht at the harbor—on my own. Stachti’s gripe wasn’t the wetness of the soil after the first October rain, I knew that; Stachti loved mud, as did I. No. Stachti must have known what was in store.
The only other place Stachti ever resisted going to had been the “bark park”. Stachti feared other dogs, large or small—scars of growing up with five bigger siblings when he was a puppy.
“Stachti can do better than Felicity,” I proclaimed when I found Chuck in his bedroom browsing the Internet, then presented the plan: Walk over to the house under construction by Chuck’s house, gently push Stachti down over the unfinished balcony. He would land on all fours and walk away.
Chuck laughed. “Yeah? That cement brick?”
I had met Chuck two years back, the day before Halloween. Within hours we were up to our first mischievous activity. We carved skulls on pumpkins and threw them over from a terrace, timed to explode feet from a passerby—a spectacular spilling of pumpkin brains on the pavement.
“Nice spread,” Chuck said pointing to a porn site on his PC. The only porn I ever got to see was at Chuck’s home; a computer was a luxury my family could not afford. We would take turns guarding against his mom and their maid. For my household, forget about computers, maids and yachts, even Stachti was a luxury. I got most of my clothes (even underwear) hand-me-downs from my younger cousins. Yes, when I was little I was little. Along with enjoying mud, I had that in common with Stachti as well. I too was the runt of the litter.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I said impatiently. My fingers pushed apart the blinds covering Chuck’s window, and I saw Stachti staring right up into the room. His brows pulled downwards, and his lips hung to the side, apprehensive and perhaps paralyzed.
Eventually Chuck agreed to come along. “But that wimp aint gonna jump, for sure” Chuck said and put on his white-and-red Adidas shoes. Brand new, never seen them before. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as dad would say.
The house under construction where Felicity had performed her acrobatics was one house away from Chuck’s. Pulling Stachti up the cement stairs was even harder than tugging that yacht; Stachti resisted with all his might, whimpered even once or twice. By the third floor I had broken a healthy sweat.
It took even more effort to pull him three feet from the balcony edge. I pulled on the leash, but Stachti lay flat on the wet floor and barely moved.
“Let me show you how to do this,” Chuck said and grabbed the leash from me. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled, but Stachti barely moved.
Chuck let the leash loose for a second, then yanked Stachti with all his strength. Stachti gave in, and slid towards the edge.
But Stachti wasn’t the only one to move. Neither Chuck nor I had thought of the dangers of wearing brand new sneakers on a wet balcony.
Chuck must have screamed on his way down, in fact I know he did, because his mom heard him and ran out screaming seconds later. But I don’t remember any screaming. No, I don’t remember that at all. What I do remember is a different sound. I remember a singular clunk; yes, the sound a pumpkin makes when it hits the pavement spilling its brains all over as if before unsuspecting passersby.
When I looked down I saw Chuck wrapped like a pretzel, head malformed, blood gushing out of his mouth by the gallons like an unattended garden hose, eyes staring up, and the left foot twitching.
Then it stopped.
Stachti—lucky that Chuck let go of the leash when he slipped—curled up in my arms. He looked over the edge, then up at me, as if telling me, some are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but sometimes it’s best to be the runt of the litter.
I opted for the third floor.
On the way to Chuck’s home, pulling Stachti along was like tugging Chuck’s dad’s yacht at the harbor—on my own. Stachti’s gripe wasn’t the wetness of the soil after the first October rain, I knew that; Stachti loved mud, as did I. No. Stachti must have known what was in store.
The only other place Stachti ever resisted going to had been the “bark park”. Stachti feared other dogs, large or small—scars of growing up with five bigger siblings when he was a puppy.
“Stachti can do better than Felicity,” I proclaimed when I found Chuck in his bedroom browsing the Internet, then presented the plan: Walk over to the house under construction by Chuck’s house, gently push Stachti down over the unfinished balcony. He would land on all fours and walk away.
Chuck laughed. “Yeah? That cement brick?”
I had met Chuck two years back, the day before Halloween. Within hours we were up to our first mischievous activity. We carved skulls on pumpkins and threw them over from a terrace, timed to explode feet from a passerby—a spectacular spilling of pumpkin brains on the pavement.
“Nice spread,” Chuck said pointing to a porn site on his PC. The only porn I ever got to see was at Chuck’s home; a computer was a luxury my family could not afford. We would take turns guarding against his mom and their maid. For my household, forget about computers, maids and yachts, even Stachti was a luxury. I got most of my clothes (even underwear) hand-me-downs from my younger cousins. Yes, when I was little I was little. Along with enjoying mud, I had that in common with Stachti as well. I too was the runt of the litter.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I said impatiently. My fingers pushed apart the blinds covering Chuck’s window, and I saw Stachti staring right up into the room. His brows pulled downwards, and his lips hung to the side, apprehensive and perhaps paralyzed.
Eventually Chuck agreed to come along. “But that wimp aint gonna jump, for sure” Chuck said and put on his white-and-red Adidas shoes. Brand new, never seen them before. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as dad would say.
The house under construction where Felicity had performed her acrobatics was one house away from Chuck’s. Pulling Stachti up the cement stairs was even harder than tugging that yacht; Stachti resisted with all his might, whimpered even once or twice. By the third floor I had broken a healthy sweat.
It took even more effort to pull him three feet from the balcony edge. I pulled on the leash, but Stachti lay flat on the wet floor and barely moved.
“Let me show you how to do this,” Chuck said and grabbed the leash from me. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled, but Stachti barely moved.
Chuck let the leash loose for a second, then yanked Stachti with all his strength. Stachti gave in, and slid towards the edge.
But Stachti wasn’t the only one to move. Neither Chuck nor I had thought of the dangers of wearing brand new sneakers on a wet balcony.
Chuck must have screamed on his way down, in fact I know he did, because his mom heard him and ran out screaming seconds later. But I don’t remember any screaming. No, I don’t remember that at all. What I do remember is a different sound. I remember a singular clunk; yes, the sound a pumpkin makes when it hits the pavement spilling its brains all over as if before unsuspecting passersby.
When I looked down I saw Chuck wrapped like a pretzel, head malformed, blood gushing out of his mouth by the gallons like an unattended garden hose, eyes staring up, and the left foot twitching.
Then it stopped.
Stachti—lucky that Chuck let go of the leash when he slipped—curled up in my arms. He looked over the edge, then up at me, as if telling me, some are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but sometimes it’s best to be the runt of the litter.
posted by Astrapo | 6:00 PM
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