Bring Your Pet to School Day

I had been working with my pet for months, training him. We had almost gotten to the point where he surpassed the expectations I had when I got him as a gift, especially in intelligence and speaking more or less the same language.

Now was our time, I thought, as I stepped into the crisp, liberating air outside the school. I had brought him with me that day, as per the school’s instructions in calling it “Bring Your Pet to School Day” and couldn’t wait to show off some of the tricks we had worked on.

A line of pets, mostly dogs and mostly purebred, stretched across the sidewalk. Parents stood in line to help manage the animals and make sure they were complying. Teachers did the same for kids.

They held their breath when they saw me and my pet, all of them. Teachers and, by proxy, parents, had learned from experience that I wasn’t really fitting their mold of a perfect Christian school kid. I confused them because I made great grades and won second place at the art fair, losing only to the headmaster’s daughter. They had to acknowledge what I did right, if reluctantly, and I had one of those fabled 3rd grade teachers that scribbled on one of my papers that I should be a writer when I grow up.

I proudly walked out with my submission and lay him on one of the tables because he was only a pound or two, at best. I have always been a dog person, but for whatever reason, we didn’t have a family dog at the time, probably because my mom and dad never got over the days we wept over a violent dog we had to put down when I was 6 or 7. We sobbed for days, missing work and school.

“Come on, boy!” I said, “We’ve been working on this for months!” He didn’t say anything. His hard beak was immobile and his big googly eyes stayed shut. We had even talked this morning: This hadn’t happened before. And right in time for the Show and Tell. I was going to show them, and he was ready to tell them off, following my instructions and highlighting our rapport.

But the instrument of my silent rebellion still wasn’t speaking. I smelled the plastic he was made of for the first time, barely noticing all the adorable fur and completely shut out from his cute expressions. I felt true isolation from this little monster I had talked to for months. I don’t remember how judgmental people were — their faces. I just remember his lack of one, sitting there impudently blank and quiet.

I was so hurt by my failed project anticlimactic mutiny that I called my parents about going home. I begged to stop at a toy store on the way home to buy an identical Furby, but to no avail.

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