Words of Innocence and Experience

The elementary school I attended was near my house, so my mother and I often took strolls there on weekends. The campus, where plants grew wild and butterflies and bees flew unfettered, was relatively spacious compared with those of other elementary schools. Before tall buildings were constructed to accommodate more students, the almost savage gardens scattered on campus were paradise to energetic youngsters and insects rarely found in the busy city. Amid the fields of green not only children like me but also other animals thrived.

Even inside the picturesque campus some ugly spots existed that blurred the overall beauty. On a scorching, lackluster Saturday morning, my mother and I happened to pass through the dark, damp staircase, where barren walls stood horridly, stained with grey dirt. Normally we would get past the hideous area without any willingness to linger, yet on the special day something, or to put it in a better way, someone, from under the staircase, caught my eye. I stopped pacing forward to take a closer look at the lovely animal—a small puppy who might have merely come to the world for several weeks. The white puppy snuggled closely to its mother and the two dogs lay peacefully on the terrazzo floor. It seemed to have sensed my presence when I crouched down and it abruptly left the comfort of its mother. To my amazement, it slowly crawled to me and clung onto my leg; its watery eyes shined as if wanting me to take it way, to leave the ghastly staircase. My mother was obviously fascinated by the unusually mercurial puppy as well, and after minutes of discussion, we have decided to take “him” home. Holding the puppy tightly, I was overjoyed to be able to have a pet, yet his eyes still shined with faint tears, contrary to my exultation.

Since bringing the shiningly white puppy was not on our original plan, we found a crude cardboard box for his accommodation. Putting him down lightly on the red-bricked floor in the yard, he looked around the surroundings with naked curiosity. Watching his every motion with marvel, Mother and I agreed that it was “lucky” of us to have found him and “lucky” of him to flee the destiny of becoming a stray dog. Thus, “Lucky” became his name. The scene of him infiltrating the yard was evocative, for his small body and the gentle movement of his paws showed fragility, yet his apparent enthusiasm displayed juvenile sprightliness. We found a small baby’s bottle, which Grandma once used to care for one of her diseased cats, and filled it with milk to feed Lucky. The sweet smell of milk must have been intoxicating to Lucky, as he rushed to the bottle and started voraciously sucking the tiny pacifier.

However, we should have been skeptical whether he considered himself lucky or not. Lucky began howling melancholily in the middle of the night; each sound thrust into my heart like needles. Having watched dogs crying in movies, it was bloodcurdling to really listen to it in real life. Mother and I went by the cardboard box he slept in and caress him softly, and his weep gradually died down. Mother asserted that his missing his mother at the elementary school staircase was the cause of his sorrow, yet I felt otherwise since it is difficult for us humans to interpret animal languages. Whatever was the reason that ripped Lucky’s heart, he gradually adapted himself to our family and ceased to cry at night.

Lucky grew up at an unbelievable speed, and soon he did not need the baby’s bottle anymore and began eating dog food. Having been carefully taken care of by us, the lost look on his face when he first came had disappeared. His eyes, although still watery, blazed with life, and his white fur, frequently cleansed by us, shined like silver under the perennially violent sun in Taiwan. Every day when I arrived home from school, he would waggle his thick tail at me, fawning on my appearance. Nevertheless, even though his high spirits satisfied us, his excessive energy turned out to be danger for his companions in the yard. One day Mother was furiously surprised finding him having torn all the bonsais that were within his reach.

It was when we discovered that we were deceived by his innocent face and failed to notice the wicked glow surging behind his perpetually moist eyes. When clothes were hung in the yard to be dried by sunlight, he would pull them all of and cut them to shredded pieces with his growing, sharpening teeth. His devilish mischief never seemed to wane even though he had been ruthlessly whipped numerous times. In addition, he attempted to run out all the time whenever we opened the front gate. At the beginning we were able to catch him before he made his way out. Yet, with his legs gradually gaining their power, it had become an impossible mission to prevent him from fleeing. At last, we gave in and granted him the freedom to venture when he felt like so.

He embraced the freedom we offered him with extreme ardor. There was a large park across from the alley where our house located, and the park proved to be tempting for Lucky’s search for excitement. Yet, the road that divided the ally and the park looked risky for Lucky to cross, as there was no traffic light to occasionally stop the oncoming cars. To ensure his safety, I followed behind him to the park, watching in amusement when he sniffed everything inquisively. Mother and I were inappropriately convinced that his going out was not harmful for his own good, so we no longer gave the incident the attention it deserved.

Always being obsessed with being a hound, Lucky carried some loot in his mouth every time he returned home from his quest. To our amusement, there was no wildlife appearing in the city park, so the only preys he could capture were plastic bags, empty cans, or lunchboxes. It filled me with odd and improper pride that my dog was capable every time I caught him with booty. Nonetheless, Mother punished Lucky severely whenever the sound of clanking cans or sizzling plastic bags hit her ears, knowing he had brought garbage home once again.

Eventually, his abandoning domestication would become his charm as well as his own destruction. Shortly after Lucky reached one year old, he ran out of the house once morning, wishing to escape from the bonds of the yard, as usual. Shaking my head at his excessive zeal, I watched him running away in haste. Just as I planned to go indoors to have breakfast, a keen sound of car break along with one alarming of sharp cry destroyed the pure silence in the still alley where our house lay. I quickly dashed outside and finally found Lucky, lying on the stony ground, his white furs stained with dust. As soon as he saw me, he produced a series of pleading whimpers, similar to the sound of baby crying. The poignant sound raised my goose bumps, and I squatted down to observe his condition, realizing he could no longer walk.

After some disastrous bustle, Mother and I put the lifeless and vulnerable dog on the backseat of the car and rushed to the hospital. On the way, Lucky produced harsh sounds of chocked breathing now and then. I felt a burning urge to caress him and distract him from the sharp pain he must have been suffering, yet stemmed by my fear of touching his broken legs, I could not move a finger. Frightful tears unconsciously began falling down from my cheeks. The journey seemed to have taken an eternity, with Lucky’s difficult breathing, my sobs, and discordant car alarms suffusing the air.

To my astonishment and grief, Lucky’s life on Earth ended on that very day. The doctor told us that many organs inside his body were severely damaged; to relieve his pain, the most ruthful way was to let him go. After Lucky was vaccinated the euthanasia liquid, he looked at Mother and me in oddly consoling eyes, as if he was in a dreamy state. With the medicine gradually showing its effect, his watery eyes narrowed to lines, and were afterwards closed forever without saying farewell.

After Lucky was gone, Mother found a new dog in an attempt to solace the painful loss. The newcomer, who was black, young, and spry, was named “Lucky Junior.” However, I never liked him as much as my first Lucky.

Several months had passed and zephyr spread its wings to the world, mildly dropping the temperature. One night in autumn, strangely for a 12-year-old girl, I suffered from insomnia. I put on a coat to protect myself from the chills and stepped outside to stare at the sky, something I had always taken a liking to do. In the dark and deep sky, some extremely brilliant stars made their stubborn appearance under the threats of the street lights. Then I noticed Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, twinkling warmly at me. The glowing splendor suddenly reminded me of Lucky’s watery eyes and his eagerness of becoming a hound. He always hankered after running wide in the pasture without any restriction and was obsessed with bringing some preys home, even though the only victim he could find in the city was trash.

I focused my gaze at Sirius, and in the bleak night, he seemed to be aware of my presence and was anxious to salute me with naughty winks, like the day I found Lucky under the school staircase. Or could Lucky be Sirius, who fell to the Earth by chance and was destined to meet me? Miraculously, my suffering over losing Lucky was alleviated, for I came to realized that he was not typical dogs who would find satisfaction in closed cages or fenced yards. He belonged to the sky, to Orion, who would take him hunting in the wild and care for him as a master. After bowing at the star once more, I retuned to bed and had dreams of running on my vast campus.