My step dad criticised my mom for being over weight. Often.
Since his approval meant emotional and physical safety, “do not be fat!” was one of the many relentless standards that were burned into my nervous system.
But I was fat. Actually, when I see photos now, it was nothing. I little bit of a round face and belly. But I felt fat. And I was very self counscious about it.
“Dad, I think I should go in a diet.”
I hoped I could diffuse anger from him if I acknowledged my problem and suggesting a solution. And maybe even make him happy with me.
“You’re just a kid, you don’t need to go on a diet. When you get as fat as your grandma (my mom’s mom), then you can go on a diet.”
Fuck. That seemed to have irritated him. My plan backfired again.
In my house we didn’t talk about nutrition, or portions, or go on walks as a family or bike rides. In fact, he gave me adult sized portions and I had to always clean my plate.
One time he, my mom, the dogs, and I went jogging in the hay field next to our trailer. It was fun. He was in a good mood and I loved doing something together.
“It’s time we get more healthy.”
I was excited at the idea of a regular activity we could do together where he was in a good mood.
But that was the one and only time. After that he told me to run laps by myself.
“I want you to jog around the field. Go to all four corners. Don’t cheat. I’ll be watching.”
It felt like punishment and the message I took was being fat was not okay, and I was indeed fat.
After runs I’d sit, sweaty, on the toilet and hit the outside of my thigh. A ripple went across that leg, to the other, then half way back again.
“God, I wish I could get rid of this fat. What’s wrong with me?”
I felt desperate.
My lap running was also a convenient way for my step dad to have the dogs get exercise, which they got at no other time.
“From now on when you run I want you to take one of the dogs with you.”
“Yes. Dad.”
He always had four or five dogs. He chained each dog to a tree in the back yard, build it a dog house, and took them off the chain once a year to go hunting.
That was his only interaction with them other than shooting off firecrackers to stop their barking. They were just another piece of hunting equipment.
His mom lived across the street and always complained about their barking.
“If something ever happened to you what would you want done with those dogs? Put them to sleep?”
“I don’t care. I’ll be dead.”
When I approached a dog for a run, they were out of their mind with excitement. Desperate for attention, they jumped all over me licking my face. When I unclipped the chain from their collar, they happily followed me into the field and we’d run together. They were in heaven.
I loved our dogs and they loved me. They were my best friends. I didn’t see other kids very often. We lived out in the country and we seldom left the house. I always felt like it was me, and only me, up against this 10 story, angry, screaming, recurring tornado. But the dogs always loved me back and I felt less alone.
But one day, with one of them, as soon as I unclipped the chain she was gone. Around the corner of the trailer and out of sight.
I walked around and around the yard and trailer calling her name, but whatever smell she was chasing was a more enticing choice.
We had enough dogs over the years for me to know she wouldn’t come back before she was ready. I was happy for her to have some freedom.
So I ran my lap. I could always run the whole field without stopping, even with the rough tilled ground in the spring or the knee high hay in the hot summer. That’s when I found out I’m a distance runner.
After my run, I sat recoperating on the living room floor, watching Saturday afternoon TV.
My step dad burst in, angry, like usual.
“Boy, you let the dog run into the road and she got hit by a car!”
“What?! No!”
“Why did you let that happen?!”
“I let her off the chain to run with me like you said and she just took off!”
“Why didn’t you get a good hold of her collar?!”
“She never took off like that before. I didn’t think she would…”
“That’s your problem. You don’t think.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you go after her?!”
“She was too fast. I mean, I tried. I walked all around calling her name.”
I start anticipating the way he’ll pick apart my statement. He’ll say I should have ran, not walked. Should have used a leash, called louder, looked longer, known she was going to take off, be faster, be better.”
“You’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you? Well she’s out in the yard dying and its your fault.”
“Noo!”
I ran out to the yard where she lay on her side, with a blanket that my mom had laid over her torso.
Though the life was evaporating from her, she managed two heavy flopping wags of her tail when she saw me. It seemed involuntary,
She was dying and she still wagged her tail when she saw me. It seemed like a profound indication that I was special to her, which is the opposite of how I felt at my house.
I laid on the ground with her, petting her head and crying until she died.
I’ll never forget that tail wag. She loved me back. Even though I was fat.