Ugly Cry

My father became a stranger to me the night of the storm. I was still in my Spiderman underoos
when he dragged me out of bed half-asleep onto the linoleum floors and aging white appliances. The
gentle aroma of spices and love still lingered from dinner. I stood high on my tippy toes a I often did
when the air pressure shifted around my father.

He faced me, chest heaving, “The Gutters!?” Then he punched me like a man. It felt like lightening in my cut. The moment everything would change, although I had no way of knowing this at the time. He developed, in an instant, to the brutality of his own youth, brutality all men are capable of, that exists in our lizard brain. I struggled to catch my breath like a fish out of water gasping desperately for life. Blood rushed to my ears; I could feel them burning against my head. Lump in my throat. “How could you forget to put the gutter extensions back on,” he demanded to know, “how many times have I told you?” Words were foreign to me. I had forgotten how to speak. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t hear me past his own anger. “Mulatto is swimming in the basement. What the.” He stopped short. Eyes on fire. When he noticed the tears building in my eyes. I swallowed hard, but the tears threatened. “Don’t you
cry. What have I always told you? Men don’t cry.”

I stepped back trembling as mama bear glided in, instinctively I made my way to her side still lingering in that place between dreams and reality. She positioned herself between my father and I, thousands of words unsaid but understood – a bit of his bravado left his shoulders.

The next thing I knew I was back in bed, tucked away staring at the beige ceiling wondering,
what was that man? He looked and sounded like my papi, but that wasn’t him. I closed my eyes
imagining my father standing motionless watching the rain stream down our kitchen window before
rushing into the basement to try and salvage the furniture. I wondered if he knew it was the beginning of the end?

Over the years, I forgot how to cry or maybe my tear ducts simply sealed from lack of use. There
was a time, especially after funerals, that I was sure I was no longer even capable. My father had flipped
a switch in me that night, but I guess men raised in violence never learn to live without it, but that’s a
story for another day.

Fast Forward 10 Years

“Two weeks max,” breath like a dumpster in August explained as if he was ordering lunch.
Congenital. Nothing to be done. The sooner the better. “What are some of his favorite things?” the vet
continued. As a man, he wasn’t much to look at: belly, khakis, and heavy mouth breathing is all that
comes to mind. “Beach, chasing squirrels, hot dogs, and sleeping on my pillow,” I explained as I rubbed
my Buddy’s head. “Everything but the squirrels” backfat muttered as he hustled out of the white sterile
room. “Make an appointment for two weeks with the receptionist,” he told me as he closed the door
behind him.

Well, fuck you very much. I thought to myself as I scooped Buddy up in my arms and placed him gently back on the floor. I felt my eyes burn. I fought against it – the same way I had my whole adult life. I felt the room pushing in on me, for a second everything went hazy. I fought to catch my breath. Buddy
brought me back with a happy scratchy lick to the back of my hand.

I adopted Buddy (short for Budweiser – cause in college, I was THAT guy) half Benji/half Lassie
when I got my first off-campus college apartment. As a pup, he was all paws and eyelashes and hopped
like a bunny when he got excited. He refused to be left along and often followed me into the shower, shivering but with an ever-watchful eye from the corner of the tub. As he grew, walks became a full body workout. Born with strong herd-in-open-pastures DNA, I once found him four miles from our house after chasing a Honda clear across town. Buddy loved to run until the day he didn’t.

He stopped running. He got winded quickly even while merely walking. The day I had to carry
him home from the park I made an appointment with the local vet.

Then I regretted everything. See, I wasn’t a good dog owner. Not really. Too cheap to spring for the tasty canned food. Too selfish to walk longer than absolutely necessary. God damn, I hated myself. But Buddy held nothing against me. He saw something in me that was close to adoration. How I wished I could be the man he thought I was – the man I simply couldn’t believe existed. I promised myself I would be that man for him in his final weeks.

On the way home from the vet we stopped for McDonald’s, even on his deathbed he scarfed it
down as if protecting it from foreign invaders. I knew I would regret it later that night. The only thing
louder than his stormy night howling was his silent assassin gas. But I would never scold him; all good
boys and tummy rubs till the end. But we didn’t have that long.

Buddy’s eyes were as big as saucers, he was desperate to tell me something as he rested at the
foot of my bed that night. His breathing became choppy and labored. I swear he winced, regardless, it
was enough to scare me into action. I rushed hi to another white sterile room while wearing two
different shoes.

Dr. Green Eyes exuded kindness and otherworldliness. Her stretched frame and gentle features
sparked something in me but now was not the time. This room was smaller and brighter than the last
room with a green cloth loveseat in one corner – for what? I had no idea. It smelled like the inevitable, I
could taste it coming. She assured me Buddy wouldn’t suffer, but that the time was upon us. She handed

Buddy some brownish snack from her lab coat pocket. He sniffed at it uninterested, the silence was
fierce. This was so fucking wrong. The fogginess returned, the tightness in my chest squeezed and
screamed. This is not happening.

Two needles, one clear another with a blue cap. The blue on, I already knew somehow. Pretty
Face told me the first needle was for the pain. Into the catheter. Buddy’s whole body unclenched in my
arms. Peace swam over his face. Does he know? I wondered to myself. Green Eyes read my mind, “He
understands what is happening. Say your goodbyes. I’ll be back in a minute.” She gently squeezed my
shoulder as she walked past and out of the room.

I bended over to kiss his dry nose. His bushy eyebrows twitched as he nuzzled into my shoulder.
He was free from suffering that much was clear, the only pain left was the guild hanging around my neck. I whispered all the things I should’ve said to him long before. I apologized for all my shortcomings and promised him no one would keep him locked in a cage for eight hours a day anymore. He would be
chasing squirrels in heaven soon. I thought I saw his tail try to wag, but I couldn’t be sure of anything
anymore. Years passed. I caught myself imagining the vet would return and let me know there was a
mistake. Files were mixed. So sorry, Buddy is fine. It’s just a bad case of gas. Oh Buddy, you silly god. The door opened and our bubble burst.

“This one will stop his misshapen heart,” the vet whispered (maybe she said that, maybe she didn’t, the memories are getting murky again.) I nodded. “Stay still Buddy. ” I whimpered and for once, obeyed. I closed my eyes as the needle went in. I bowed my head and trying to pray, for what exactly I couldn’t tell you, but how else do we deal with that which is out of our control? He became perfectly still, but I couldn’t stop stroking his neck. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I wanted to remember Buddy in his chasing prime, strong and brave. The food stealer. The midnight silent farter. The howler in the storm. That’s the Buddy I saw then, and the Buddy I remember today…the rest is a blur of signed documents and swiped credit cards.

I stepped into the dark empty parking lot and stuffed his dog tags deep into my pockets. The light had that 2am spooky sorta washed-out look. My head pounded, my feet sore, the pain seemed
to be moving through me. It was trying to tell me something, something I didn’t want to hear. I tossed
his leash and collar into the large silver trash bin next to my car. I sat in my car spinning – it seems the
right word – spinning with sadness, anger, disbelief, frustration; how many words are there for grief? I
swallowed hard but something primitive had been cracked and the damn was about to burst.

I checked myself in the rearview and had to chuckle, ugly cry personified. Eyes bloodshot,
rimmed bright red. Lashes dark with tears. I ran my wrist under my nose, like a toddler. Even after ten
years of death and disappointment without shedding a single drop, this damn dog, my body
remembered everything.