My Little Dog
By Qiawen Liu
In 2017, on a sunny spring afternoon, I finished a 14-hour journey returning to China from Los Angeles feeling exhausted and depressed. For a long time before that, I was so filled with pain. I couldn’t see the sunlight outside the window because the black dog of depression was tearing my soul apart, trying to drag me into the depths of hell. And I knew who was at the end of the rope holding this black dog; she was my perfectionism.
For a long time, I would attribute my misery to my horoscope; I was born in September, Virgo, which meant I was destined to be a perfectionist. It seemed like a good excuse, and I was raised to do things well, to be a good child, to get excellent grades, and have a moral code. If I could not be perfect, I always thought my existence was “wrong,” “meaningless,” or even “cumbersome.” Thus, most of the time, I could not accept my mistakes, failures, and inability to do things perfectly. Reason and calmness take up a large part of my behavior. When I realized that I could not withstand the state of “everything must be the best,” anxiety and frustration almost swallowed me up. It was like a giant wave crashing down on me, and the only thing I could hold on to was a piece of driftwood.
These heavy emotions were suppressed in my heart for an extended period, enveloped by grayness and pain. I thought I would live like this, wearing the mask of “perfection” until I died. However, when the day I came back, my cousin came to the airport to pick me up for dinner at his house because he wanted to show me the three puppies his dog had just given birth to last month. Among those three half-month-old puppies, I saw that ear-missing one, smaller than the palm of my hand, with grey-black fur, puffing out a small red tongue, scrabbling at the comfort-filled box, wagging her tail at me desperately.
For the first time, I saw the light of life in a creature’s eyes. The bond between us has completely changed my mind about how to live.
That’s how I met my dog that day, a poodle with only one ear, who shed new light on my life. I cannot imagine the pain she went through when she was born; her mother bit off her left ear at that moment, and her howl lasted for a whole night. Usually, such a calamity would have affected her personality and filled her with fear about the outside world. But surprisingly, the expression in her eyes shows openness, tolerance, and expectation, like an angel who is full of love. Her warm tongue licked my finger, responding to my touch. She captivated me. As the bright sun of the afternoon shone on her body, the reflection of the orange light looked as if she was wrapped in holiness. She accepted me completely for no reason, healing me with her warmth and dispelling the darkness and loneliness in my heart.
When my family heard that I wanted to adopt a puppy, they all urged me to choose a healthy, faultless one. They separated my dog, who was wounded, from her two sisters, calling them robust and regarding them as a more valuable choice.
At that moment, when they tried to force me to choose the healthier one, I suddenly wondered if perfection was so essential that I must ensure everything was flawless, and I also wanted to know what it means to be imperfect. Is there mutilation, a difference in intelligence, a difference in ability, or a difference in species that defines the perfection of an individual? I don’t think so; all living creatures in this world should be perfect and satisfactory, living in their original form of existence.
Since I was three years old, I have always been a good child, trying to make my parents proud of me, keeping my teachers from being disappointed in me, and handling all my relationships well. I felt like I was becoming an accurate instrument, calculating how I could be better from the moment I open my eyes in the morning to the moment I fall asleep. In the process, I have forgotten how to have expectations for my future life, my original dream, the meaning of living, and the fact that everyone’s life can blossom. This feeling of being nailed to a goal is like a beast in chains, a bird confined by a cage, a fish out of the water, and a human carrying a boulder on his back.
This should not be me; it should not be me who is in bondage; it should not be me who is timid and cowardly; it should not be me who is scared and afraid. I should be a beast running in the wilderness, a bird flying in the sky, a fish swimming in the sea, a man climbing a mountain. These should be what I am.
Then, I think about the infant. I look at my ear-missing puppy as if gazing at the infant. The baby’s loud cries, waving their arms and legs like a symphony played to celebrate the newborn. This infancy should be the hope of humankind when she/he was first born into this world. I can feel that fearless, unreserved love of life of the babies, just like my dog; though her body is handicapped, her soul is complete.
Human and animal instincts should drive them to live more pleasurably, follow their heart, and let themselves be open to possibilities. Life should not be like a precise machine. Differences, flaws, and inspirations make all people shine in different ways, allowing for a wide variety of positions and talents in society. Because of those differences, fate is the coexistence with occasionality and inevitability. Everything we experience, the good or the bad, will shine in their light one day and be part of the achievement of our own lives.
Ultimately, I chose her steadfastly, my ear-missing puppy. Her enthusiasm for life and living affected me as she grew up daily. And I am trying to control myself not to be sad and anxious because of my inability. With the company of my dog, my depression was gradually cured. I began to accept my shortcomings and other people’s flaws, such as people with bad tempers and friends who like to be late. All of them are so unique and present different personalities. So do I. I am so grateful for the presence of my puppy. I gave her the name Joy, hoping she would always be happy. She is like the rising sun in the morning, with a red, tender but not blinding light that gently and consistently warms my entire soul until the end of our life.
Dog on the Move
By Maddie Cincala
My dog stands on small paws, daintily trotting as if on tiptoe. He’s a dapper little man, with a black tie to boot, and attitude to seal the deal. Sheep wool fur flounces and bounces, concealing little black beans, paws padding softly with each step. Nails click-clacking on worn wooden floors and tags jingle-jangling from his collar, announcing his presence politely. This dog’s going places. Four fluffy pillars provide piston-powered speed, letting him fly like white lighting across the overgrowth of grass, from wall to wall, fence to fence. Such little paws for a dog, romping and stomping around the block.
Gecko
By Ambria Richardson
Small leopard gecko, eyes like gems in the moonlight, silent predator.
Kat
By Gabriel Lyra
Pointy ears as its grayish mustache, eyes so green, vicious, staring at me like emeralds lightning the ceiling of a dark cave, mirroring my iris as if my body was just a mere abstract concept while the soul solid as a rock. The tiny ruler doesn’t want to be touched, especially by the hands of intruders to his realm between four huge walls, so he deflects fingers as fumes running freely to the sky, smoothly swerving every single hand coming his way while his dense black fur dances around the legs of wooden chairs and tables, near the fragile vases on the top shelves of my long corridor; The mysterious and confident creature still doesn’t quite know his true name; he once named himself wind, when his pawns were unafraid to walk through the streets and buildings; Months later, he named himself fog, when his pelage started to disguise in the dark to avoid tumults; When I found him he started naming himself dream, and that may be his true name until this very day Since all he does in the mornings is wait upon the bottom of the gigantic window in my living room while his olive eyes look at the sky, wishing to go back to the time when he used to run freely looking for shadows, rainbows in a broad never-ending city; And all he does at dawn is wish for it to be the night in which he remembers how he used to yowl like a mountain lionto the bright Moon above. His true name is still a fading thing, but he lets people approach him as “cat,” or more specifically in my household as “Leaf.”
My Cat
By Ambria Richardson
Eyes of clear amber profoundly omniscient, astute. Your back arched—you sneezed.