milkbone
by Emma Whittington
[WARNING: Contains violence]
They didn’t tell me that on the first day after surgery, all my teeth would feel loose, the colourful world would suddenly be dull and beige, and light would hurt like a bitch. All my senses are on high alert, and the smell of the hospital is worse than ever. Every breath makes me want to gag.
My head hurts so badly. I can feel it pounding. I want to give in to the drugs they feed me, but I can’t.
I just want to go home and they won’t take me home. You’d think after brain surgery they’d be more sympathetic, but no, they want to monitor me. It’s like they’ve never spliced a human brain with a dog’s before.
Oh wait– they haven’t.
Fun fact about me: there was a tumour in my brain– right in the middle, like a little matryoshka egg inside my skull. So they took it out, only there wasn’t enough of my brain left to go around, so they experimented.
So right now I have half of a dog’s brain melding with my own.
A nurse comes in and adds another bag to my never-ending IV. She says something to me, but it sounds like she’s underwater. I think she’s the nice one because she mimes falling asleep when she realises I can’t hear her. They’ve given me sleeping meds. That’s kind.
When the nurse leaves, I lie alone, waiting for the meds to kick in so I can stop feeling my brain and the dog’s brain attaching. As I fall asleep, something presses at my skull.
I wonder if the tumour’s gone.
i don't know yet that i am not a lapdog
please don't kick me off the bed yet, i can be a good boy
is this my new home? welcome home,
this is home now, good boy.
stay.
When I’m finally allowed to go home, my body feels too small, I’m shaky, and I can’t tell if I’m malnourished from the shitty hospital food or off- balance because half of my brain got replaced. Whatever it is, it’s messing with me enough that my mom lets me spend a month in bed. The perks of surgery, I guess.
I spend my time sleeping. My boyfriend Isaiah visits every couple of days. So does my friend Rose, who brings cookies she made me. I don’t remember any of it but I’m glad they came.
When it’s time to go back to school, I enter the bus just like before. Everything is the same as it was… except me.
My head hurts with every bump. I almost want to cry. Rose sits in the seat behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. Isaiah gets on the bus at the next stop. He falls into the seat next to me and pulls me close and I swear my headache disappears as I rest my head on his shoulder. His skin smells like oranges.
“Hey, sunshine, how are you feeling?” he asks, and I melt.
“Better now.” Isaiah makes everything better.
He kisses my head. “I love you so much.”
I feel safe for once.
Maybe going back to school won’t be too bad, together.
i’m a good dog
a good dog protects its owner
a good dog is loved
a good dog listens and a good dog stays
i’m a good dog, i promise,
my isaiah.
It probably wasn’t smart to assume school would be okay, because it isn’t. The worst part isn’t those who interact with me, it’s the whispers I hear around corners and the stares I can feel on my back.
Their words are punctuated by sharp laughter that hurts my ears. Isaiah walks me to class; Rose gives me her headphones to try and block them out. But I can still tell that everyone is talking about me, looking at me, whispering and gossiping with gaping mouths and staring with their wide eyes. I feel worse at school than I did alone at home.
I tell Isaiah at lunch that I want to go home and he looks at me sadly.
“Oh, sunshine, has it been that bad?”
I can’t even talk, I just nod and collapse into his arms, turning up the volume in my headphones to make it go quiet.
It doesn’t work, but it’s a little better.
By the end of the day, my headache is back, and by the end of the week, it’s still not gone. My teeth feel loose and I feel like throwing up all the time. Rose and I went shopping for my own pair of headphones, and Isaiah walks me everywhere at school now. I don’t think I’ve learned a single thing since I’ve been back, but at least I can block everyone out.
People bark at me sometimes. Or… it might be in my head. Whatever it is, it’s the only thing that cuts through my music and the blissful silence of the noise-cancelling headphones: sharp, loud barks that make my heart race and my stomach turn.
When I told Isaiah, he frowned and said to just ignore it, that they were idiots, that it would get better— I tried to ignore it, but it hasn’t gotten better yet, and I don’t have the heart to tell him or complain again. So I steel myself, turn up the volume, and take it. What else can I do?
good dogs don’t cry in the night and wake
their owners
complain about walks in the rain
bark and make a fuss
only bad dogs wake up from nightmares
bark and whine, complain
i’m a good dog, i can take it
i’ll take it i promise.
I start going over to Isaiah’s after school, mostly because I can’t handle going home and hearing my mom ask “How was your day?” And having to answer back with some basic “Good, it was fine.”. Isaiah’s parents are rarely home, but they like me. His house is big enough that unless they check on us, there’s space between everyone, so we hang out by ourselves.
I have a lot of bad days, so I like the break. Today is different, though, because Isaiah’s silent on the way home. He doesn’t joke or try to make me feel better, just leans on my shoulder and closes his eyes.
I nudge his shoulder. “Hey, you alright?”
He comforts me so much, it’s only right that I return the favour.
Isaiah shakes his head.
I kiss him. “What’s on your mind?”
He sighs. “I’m so sick of everyone giving you shit. You don’t deserve any of that, like—you could have died, and you didn’t, and now they’re giving you hell for it? I don’t get it.”
His shoulders start to shake. I didn’t know this affected him so much.
“It’s okay,” I start, even though it’s not. “Please don’t let it get to you. You don’t need to protect me.”
“Thank you, sunshine, but I’ll always protect you.” He gives me a watery grin.
I smile down at him. “I’ll always protect you, too.”
When we get to his house, we sit in the living room and watch YouTube and kiss and eat candy. It’s the most normal I’ve felt in ages, and I’m proud of myself for helping Isaiah.
It’s been a good day.
you had a bad day
curl up with me at your feet
i’ll lick your wounds
kiss them better in my own way
tender shepherd, tender shepherd, watching
over all his sheep
one in the meadow, two in the garden, three
in the living room fast asleep
I get home that night and immediately go to bed. My dreams have been wild lately, and tonight is no different: I fall asleep fast, slipping under the soft waves of dreams, and surface at a tea party. The seats around me are empty. There’s tea and cakes, so I start to eat. I begin to feel comfortable, so I pour myself some tea.
Suddenly I choke.
The teacup falls from my hands and shatters. Something sharp and pointy forces its way down my throat. I claw at it, but it stays. I wake up thrashing, and I still can’t breathe. I run to the bathroom and collapse onto the floor. I reach as far as I can down my throat, pulling and yanking at this thing. It comes up in a rush of bile. Saliva drips from my fingers as I stare at the pearly offender in my palm.
It’s my bicuspid.
Panicking, I run my tongue over my teeth, counting. They move under the pressure, and I hold back a scream as my tongue hits something wickedly pointed. I scramble up off the floor to stare at this change in the mirror—and lo and behold, lodged in the pink expanse of my gums is a tooth that isn’t mine. It looks like a puppy’s, small and needle-sharp. What is happening?
I go back to bed, sure I’m hallucinating. I dream of running underwater, catching pearls in my mouth.
When I wake up, the pearls turn into teeth. I spit them out, wiping away tears that sneak out when I’m not looking. Maybe I’m crazy, but there’s no point in being late.
On the bus, I show Isaiah my puppy teeth. Then he kisses me. He tastes like clementines, but I guess I don’t taste like my chapstick because he pulls away.
“You taste metallic, sunshine,” he says, touching a hand to his mouth. “Did you bite your lip?” He examines it to no avail. “That’s strange.”
We get off the bus at school and he kisses me again, but he’s worried. “You’re really okay?”
I kiss him back. “Yep!”
When I smile, it feels like I’m baring my teeth.
dog smiles aren’t real smiles
for you it’s a treat
for us, a threat
you smile at us and we cower
we smile at you and you coo
shouldn’t it go the other way?
Isaiah asks if I want to stay over that night. His parents are out and he doesn’t want to be alone, so I text my mom to ask if I can. She says yes, so we take the bus to his house.
“Thank you,” he says, unlocking the door.
“What do you mean?” I follow him inside and drop my bag. “I didn’t do anything.”
He smiles at me. “For being here when I asked you to. I can trust you.”
“You can always trust me,” I say, taking his hand and following him to his room. We sit on his bed next to each other, gazing out the window, hand in hand as we rest. Things are looking up, I think.
We don’t do a lot that night. We spend a little while gaming, eating and chatting. Then it’s time for bed.
Isaiah gets ready faster since I’m still getting used to brushing these stupid teeth, and when I walk back into his room, he’s curled up in bed waiting.
“Hi, sunshine,” he says, voice thick with sleep. He looks so comfortable that I can’t help smiling.
“Hi, lovely.” I slide into bed next to him and curl up under the covers. “I love you,” I say, settling in for what I pray is a dreamless sleep.
He wraps an arm around me. “I love you, too.”
dogs run in dreams
chasing squirrels, free and wild over green
green grass
dogs run in dreams,
but humans talk and laugh and cry and
scream
much more complicated than
the simple pleasures of
squirrels
wild and free
over green green grass.
Isaiah rolls over. “Morning, sunshine,” he yawns, grinning lazily.
“Good morning,” I try, but it comes out rough. He stares when my mouth opens, eyes fixed on my teeth again. “What is it with you and my teeth?”
“They’re just… different,” he says. “Want a kiss good morning?”
I can’t say no to that, so I nod happily. He reaches for the curve of my jaw, and I feel something stir in my chest, something different than the usual feelings I get when we kiss, but I shake it off and let him kiss me. It’s nice, and I start to feel normal again, letting my hands settle in his hair. I bask in this feeling: for once, I’m not the dog-boy; there’s no brain tumour; I’m nothing except me.
I bite his lip and he pulls back. Blood drips down his chin.
“I’m sorry!” I scramble for a tissue.
He takes it from me and dabs at his mouth.
“It’s okay, sunshine, I just didn’t think your li’l puppy teeth would be so… sharp.” He smiles, putting the tissue down.
My head feels heavy and I can feel my heartbeat in all my limbs. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Isaiah takes my face in his hands. “Hey, sunshine, look at me.”
I do, reluctantly, and through a haze of tears, I see he’s smiling despite this.
“It’s okay. I’m not hurt, see? I’m perfectly fine.”
“Are you sure?” A whimper slips out of my throat.
He kisses my forehead gently. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” I kiss him again. I start feeling comfortable, but…his lip is still bleeding. That feeling rises again, and my vision blurs.
I don’t have the reflexes to pull away, so I fall forward into Isaiah’s arms. He kisses the top of my head gently. “You’re okay. Don’t worry about it, sunshine.”
He sounds like he’s underwater. I hide against his neck, trying to catch my breath. My mouth still tastes like blood. My vision won’t stop blurring, and I whimper.
Isaiah looks down in surprise, but he moves too fast and my reflexes kick in and the puppy teeth he’d called “li’l” just a minute ago sink into his flesh.
Blood bubbles up into my mouth as I tear into his throat. Pieces of viscera drip into the sheets. His eyes are frozen in fear and pain, tears dripping down his face and onto the gaping hole in his esophagus.
Everything is so red and my mouth is full of things that make me feel sick. I scramble backwards, spitting out muscle and skin and tendon, sobbing, scraping at my tongue.
I desperately try to remember anything I learned in first aid, but there’s nothing. I press balled-up sheets into the wound, trying to help as I whisper, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I love you.”
It takes me twenty minutes to realise he’s dead, and then it’s too late.
When his mother comes home and finds me curled at the foot of the bed, sheets spread with gore, she calls the police. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say anything, but tears spill from her eyes like rain. I can hear her thinking I did it on purpose.
I can’t tell her otherwise. At some point between waking up and…this, I forgot how to speak. The last thing I remember is thinking, I didn’t protect him.
bad dog.