When Things Die (Part Deux - see part one in the archives if you missed it)

We did not see the sign until two days later, when we were walking home from school. She saw it first, breaking stride suddenly, leaving me to walk alone. I didn’t notice immediately that she had stopped, and the realization of my sudden solitude brought with it a wave of anxiety, as if for a moment I was the victim of a prank on a hidden camera show.

“What?” I asked impatiently, looking back at her. She had her hand to her mouth, staring at the side of the plain brown mailbox, dramatically transfixed and obviously shocked beyond words. Everything was shocking to her. Three months earlier, she had overheard me laughing uncontrollably at a story my cousin Darryl was telling me behind the garage. She demanded to be allowed in on the joke. I wasn’t about to tell her that we had been laughing at – suffice it to say that it was the sort of story that is a lot funnier behind the garage than in the sanctuary at church, and featured an unimaginative play on the last name of the High School janitor, Mr. Woodcock. She insisted that we tell her. “What’s so funny? What about Mr. Woodcock?” She knew. She must have known. But she wanted to be invited to share in our private joke. Eventually, Darryl joylessly told her. She was shocked, until her shock melted into outrage. She pursed her lips and squinted judgementally, then turned and wordlessly walked away. Darryl shrugged at me, and smirked, as if to say “what are you gonna do?” but I felt sick at being found out, a nausea that quickly gave way to anger. I shook my head. “Who does she think she is?” I seethed. “Seriously, she begs us to tell her, and then she gets all uptight when we do. She should learn to mind her own business.” Darryl continued to smirk (he was trustworthy with a dirty joke, but less proficient in virtually all other areas of verbal communication), perhaps confused at the intensity of my reaction. “It wasn’t that bad,” I thought to myself. “She should learn how to take a joke.”

I expected that her tender constitution had been wounded by a naughty word scrawled on the side of the mailbox, or some similarly meaningless offence. When I stepped around the mailbox to see what she was pointing at, I felt a sudden rush of recognition. The picture was grainy, a white cat looking back over his shoulder at an unseen owner, and I knew that I had seen that face before, though by the time I saw it, it was much changed. The poster was taped to the side of the mail box, the once black ink from the once bold ‘LOST’ had faded and run like mascara mingled with tears onto the paper, now wavy and yellowed. We must have walked past the mailbox twenty times, but we never saw the poster before, or perhaps we had, but did not bother to remember it. One gets accustomed to seeing the sad little signs seeking lost pets; this one had not meant anything special to me. When I was little, I hated this sort of signs. I remember seeing one in the parking lot at the grocery store with a picture of a little ginger coloured spaniel called Stig. I was terrified on his behalf, imagining myself, unable to speak, wandering down unfamiliar streets, knowing only that I was lost. It was an entirely empty empathy. I did not think to look for Stig. I just moved closer to my parents, remembered that I was not lost, and let their presence calm and comfort me.

“What are we going to do?” she asked breathlessly, filled with an ostentatious concern that would otherwise have annoyed me – she was always certain that the world was waiting on her next decision. She had already decided that this was our responsibility. The possibility that the desiccated remains we had found were unrelated to this sign had apparently not crossed her mind.

“Shh, shh, I’m trying…” I do not know why I needed a moment. I pretended to read the description in the poster, and thought about Stig.

I wonder how scary it is to be a lost dog. I wonder if dogs possess enough awareness to know that they are lost, or if the situation is only really desperate and frightening for their owner. I wonder if it is just arrogance and anthropomorphism that makes us imagine lost dogs wandering pitifully through mall parking lots, listening sorrowfully for the familiar sound of the name they know belongs to them, listening for any kind word at all. I wonder if our pets realize how difficult it is to navigate the large city, or if they imagine that they are always within easy reach of home.

“What are we going to do?” she asked again, her voice still tremulous. I knew what she wanted me to do – that was the point of her repeated inquiries – but she still wanted me to act as if I were making the decision. Her delicate prodding drove me crazy. I knew that we would call the cat’s owner eventually, but I hated that she gave me no choice while still demanding that I be responsible for the decision.

I folded my mouth into a scowl Darryl would have been proud of and shrugged. “Well, I’m going to go home,” I said, turning toward home to emphasize my point. I didn’t look back; I knew that if I did, I would see her writing down the address and phone number in her day planner. I hated that day planner, too. She always handed her homework in on time, and sometimes deigned to remind me a couple of days before things were due. It would take her a few seconds for her to catch up, longer if I walked fast.

I thought about childfind posters. I thought about the picture I had seen of a five-year-old girl that had been kidnapped by her mother. The police had been looking for her for nine years. She probably doesn’t even know she is missing. A computer artist had artificially aged her picture. I would have been interested to find the girl just to see how accurate the artist’s anticipation was. How well can you predict what nine years will do to a little girl’s face? Who knows what she has lived through? Who knows what her face will betray of those years?

She caught up, and walked wordlessly a couple of steps behind me. “Did you write down that number?” I asked. She nodded; but I couldn’t see her. “We should call.”