A Messy Apology

I’ve earned a reputation, I guess, and it’s not a good one. First thing you need to know about me is I’m no good—a bad seed, if you will. I’ve still got my looks, sandy brown hair and big brown eyes, and that still gets me out of trouble occasionally. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, I’m sure you’re not that bad. But, I am. If I told you the things I’d done, your hair would stand on end. I’m sitting outside, head down, wondering how she’s gonna find it in her heart to forgive me again. How many more times until someone you love finally gives up on you? She’s got to be running out of hope for me to change after all these years. I know I have. She knew what she was getting into, though. I was a scoundrel when we found each other and I still am.

I try, I really do. But, old habits are hard to kick. And sadly, I’ve got quite a few. No matter how long it’s been, I always return to “the thing” in the end. Back to the streets in search of more every time. My insatiable appetite is never satisfied. When I’m searching, wanting, I’m at my worst. Maybe it’s just who I am, my personality, my identity. No, it can’t be. I’m better than this, aren’t I? But if she stops believing in me, then it’s over for me. After years of bad boy behavior, the kids have finally given up on me. They wanted to see me change overnight. They thought some rehabilitation would help. A specialist working with me for months. Well, it didn’t work. It was a waste of time and money. I remained unchanged, and they were out of hundreds of dollars. I’m unteachable, is what they said. If they only knew how much I wanted to change and how sorry I was after “the thing” was done.

I worry it’s only a matter of time before she kicks me out. I can’t go back to living on the street. It’s a hard life out there. I learned that from my mother. She took care of us well enough, but the constant struggle to survive brought out the worst in her. It wasn’t until she turned on my brother, acting like she didn’t know him at all, that I ran away from all that I knew. Street life was all she knew, always stealing and running. Let’s just say I’m never going back. Ever. But this time, I really screwed up. She hasn’t looked at me once in two days. I don’t know what she’s thinking and I’m going crazy not knowing. There was a look in her eyes that burned into my memory when she caught me with it all over. For a second, I knew she was thinking about being done with me for good. That last time might really have been the last of us. That was three days ago.

The memories aren’t all tainted, though. There’s been times over the years where I knew she was proud of me. I could see the look of joy in her eyes when I’d be playing with the kids in the backyard or taking them for walks around the block. But they’re older now and I just can’t seem to give them the one thing they want. An apology. I want to say I’m sorry. More than they’ll ever know. But I just can’t. The words don’t come, even if they are in my heart and I feel them to the depths of my soul. I try to show them with my eyes. I’ve been told the eyes are windows into the soul. If that’s true, I think mine are big glass sliding doors. But the kids don’t make eye contact with me anymore. I know they’re avoiding me because they won’t even look at me or say hello.

To be fair, the kids are the ones with the worst memories of me. They were at home with me when she worked all day at the office and then the nights she went to school. They were the ones that found me in the alley, delirious and hungry. Ingesting so much that I vomited over and over. They cleaned me up and helped me get home every single time. Then I started to be recognized by others in the neighborhood. The law knew me by name and I had a record as long as a cat’s tail. One more time and I’m going to be locked up for good. After the last rampage through town, knocking cans over and leaving a mess everywhere, the kids were embarrassed to be seen with me. We stopped the walks and outings to the park. It was too humiliating for them and me.

She’s the only one who still cares for me now. She’s older now than when we first met. I was young and careless. She was level-headed and mature. She had the kids before I met her and it was hard on her being a single mom. I know she hoped I’d be good for them. I thought I was…for a while, anyway. Then one day I discovered “the thing.” I was still fairly young. We were taking a walk together and the smell of it hooked me in. I’d left the house later with one thing on my mind. She looked the other way every time. Gave me excuse after excuse. Saw the good in me I didn’t even see in myself. She tried all kinds of distractions and ways to help me. Sometimes we didn’t leave the house for weeks, but I always went back to “the thing” in the end. I think we both thought I’d stop, so we didn’t take my problem too seriously. Big mistake. Looking back, I should have tried harder to be better for her. She deserved the best, and sadly she got the worst.

Staring at the concrete, I hung my head in shame. Wait a second, the back door is open just slightly. I don’t see her behind it, but I know it’s no accident it’s cracked open, doors don’t just open on their own. I slip in through the door like the shifty low life I am. She walks over to the living room, plops down on the couch. She seems so…defeated. Dare I? I creep over towards her, afraid to breathe. The tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife. I slowly settle down by her side. She sighs. I look at her, begging her to look into my eyes and see down into my pathetic soul. I’m sorry, I say, without saying it, laying my head in her lap. She hesitates for a moment, but then scratches gently behind my ear. We sit like this for a good twenty minutes and suddenly she seems lighter than before. “Who’s a good boy?” She says, a weak smile spreading across her face. Not me. I keep that to myself. But I look up at her and wag my tail, anyway.

I can’t promise her I’ll stop. But I’ll continue to try because I love her, even if I barely love myself. Sometimes, that’s enough, right? No matter what happens, I know I’ll always love her and she will always love me. Every time the scent of a neighbors trash overtakes me and I feel like I’m losing my resolve, I’ll remember that I’m loved. I’ll think of her instead of sinking my teeth into an old sandwich or pawing through the contents of a baby diaper. The kids might have lost their trust in me, but not her. Hope is not lost. Maybe, just maybe, this old dog can learn some new tricks after all.