An Old Habit For a Young Boy

5:30 am.

That's what time the stupid damn dog gets me up at. 5:30 am. Everyday. Of every week. 

“Come on, ye stupid dog. Get outside.”

But I know he’s at the door already, I ain't even gotta look. I didn't want the damn dog, never did. For my twelfth birthday I wanted a motorbike, the big neon green ones that you could drive through off-wheeling in the woods. But no, here's a dumb dog for you, Sawyer, that you have to take care of Sawyer, that you have to feed and walk and train and look after so you can’t hang out with those no-good boys you hang out with Sawyer. Here, have a dog as your friend instead, a stupid dog that eats your socks and steals your underwear and stops you from playing outside with them boys because you have to play outside with him first. It’ll be fun Sawyer. It’s way better than a motorbike Sawyer. It ain't.

“Hurry up, Calbert. I ain't got all day.”

The morning is hot, as it always is in the summer in Texas. So goddamn hot and so goddamn humid. I don't say that out loud though. Pa says I shouldn't cuss, he says it ain't right. But that don't stop him from slinging out them words every minute of every day. So, I don't see how that's fair, it ain't goddamn fair. Still, I don't say it out loud.

“Come on Calbert! Hurry up!”

Calbert always takes so long to pee. God, it’s like he’s got to sniff up and down every blade of grass twice. And it’s always the same ones he’s sniffed before, like the smell changes that much overnight. I walk farther out into the grass, lookin out over the farm. It ain't one of them fancy farms with the million-dollar horses and the pretty white farmhouses. No. Pa’s farm is dirty, with loud dairy cows callin' for food in their fields, dirt roads travelin' along every which way, and grass dyin’ in patches from the heat. The house ain't much better, tho. It’s small, a bedroom for Pa and a bedroom for me, filled with old clutter and dust that makes you think you stepped back in time when you walk through the door. It’s all ugly and old and rustin’ and mine. Mine and Pa’s.

I look around but don’t see Calbert, the ruddy dog always runnin’ off. He couldn't just pee and go back inside. No. No, he has to run off in the goddamn dark of morning to just goddamn relieve himself. I march further into the fields, grass scratching at my boots. Not one mornin' could Pa take Calbert out. No, not one mornin’. Cause this is your responsibility, Sawyer. He’s your dog Sawyer. Even though you never wanted him, Sawyer, he’s yours.

I hear a yip and I start headin' in that direction. Because this dog don't ever stop movin'. Not once. Not when I get dressed and ready before school. Not when I milk and feed the cows in the afternoon. Not when I mow the lawn or burn canned beans and sausage for dinner, or try to do half my stupid math homework and quit, or ask Pa to go see the new Indiana Jones movie. 

“Can ye’ take Calbert with ya’?”

“No.”

“Then no. Look at him, Sawy, he's all riled up, if he can't go with ye’ then ye’ can't go.”

So I spend every day, every goddamn day, from the moment I wake up, to the moment I get off that hot dusty school bus, to the moment I go to bed, with Calbert. Stupid, ruddy Calbert. 

I keep walkin' through the field, but it’s too dark to see the ruddy damn dog. I guess he aint that bad. I mean, he’s bad. But not that bad. I guess there was this one time, I was takin’ him for a walk down the road, when them boys showed up. I used to hang out with them, popin' firecrackers behind the Mart with Coca-Colas in hand. But I ain't got time for that no more, not with Calbert. Not now that I'm old enough that I gotta help Pa on the farm more. And Calbert don't like loud noises, so I can't go with him neither. But anyways, them boys I guess didn't like that too much, that I can't hang. That I was blowin’ them off. They started shoutin' and shovin', callin' me “‘dog boy”' and much worse things. That's when Calbert starts barkin' and snarlin' at them, and just like that they're gone. Sweet, sugary Calbert, who ain't never even harmed a chicken on Pa’s farm. Cal was ready to attack, just for me. I guess that was pretty cool. I guess a motorbike can't do that. 

There was this other time Pa had yelled at me for mixing up the feeds for the chickens, and then I missed my bus home after school and walked home in the freezin' rain, and all that after the name “dog boy” started to stick that day at lunch, when I sat alone. And so I came home and cried. I don't cry. I’m a man and men don't cry. I know that, alright. I cried this once, alright. Just this once. And Calbert, stupid, ruddy Calbert sat with me, his head in my lap on the floor, and we just sat there for a while, me and Cal. We sat there until the rain stopped and the ache in my chest stopped achin' so much. I still remember the weight of his head, the comfort of his fur. And it was nice, alright. It was a bad day, and it was nice to have Calbert. Stupid Calbert. 

I keep walkin' towards the noise, the sun slowly creepin' up in the sky, turnin' them clouds purple and pink, but I still don't see Calbert. Oh, when I catch this damn dog, makin' me walk through the fields in my good Superman pajamas. This goddamn dog. 

This goddamn dog that I’m always with. Every day on the farm. Everyday feedin' cows and chickens. Everyday plowin' the fields and sweatin' and cursin' (not out loud) and workin'. Me and Calbert. Just me and Calbert. And when Pa tells me I’m done with my chores, and the sun slowly goes down, and Pa is makin' dinner in that small, cramped kitchen, me and Cal play in the fields. And I guess it’s nice. 

But I reach the fields. I reach the yips, and it's just a calf, yipping and makin' an awful lot of noise. Somethin' small' catches the corner of my eye, and I turn to face it. And reality hits me so hard that I swear a brick just broke my ribs. And I can't breathe, and my old habit breaks as the memories flash in. And I stare at it. The wooden cross. The cross Pa put in the freshly turned ground last night where he lays. Where Calbert lays. And I stand there.

I stand there-

In the bloody hot field-

Because I never wanted the goddamn dog-

And he was just supposed to go pee-

And I rake in air-

And I remember the car that came by the fields where me and Cal were playin’ yesterday. And Cal gettin’ too close to the road. And he didn't see the car. The goddamn car. But I did. I saw the car.  

And I can’t breathe-

And my eyes water, alright-

And I try to breathe-

But I just sink down-

My good Superman PJs now gone-

Because I never wanted him, but he wasn't supposed to go-

I didn't need him, but he was my friend, alright-

My best friend, my god damn best friend, alright-

And he wasn't supposed to go-

That goddamn dog-

That ruddy good dog-

Stupid, goddamn good Calbert-

And I can't breathe-

And my tears burn my eyes-

And I’m a man, alright-

But he wasn't supposed to leave-

He wasn't supposed to leave-

He wasn't supposed to leave.

And I never wanted him in the first place, but I wanted him to stay.