A Puppy Called Beanie
On my 11th birthday, my mother brought me a gift, a little puppy in a wicker basket. I named her Beanie. She was a mutt with white coat and light brown patches.
I had very severe cynophobia as a kid. And my mother thought by giving me a puppy I may be able to overcome my fear, which my parents considered “embarrassing”.
The first day started quite intense: the needy little puppy was eager to seek company, while I had to climb up and down on couches, coffee tables, chairs, the piano and the dining table… Anything with the elevation over a foot, just to stay out of her reach. I was genuinely scared of her, even she was not much bigger than a guinea pig. She persistently held her head up, watching my every move, so to follow my trail. Then the inevitable happened — we finally made eye contact.
I have always been an introvert, I never felt comfortable talking to people while looking right into their eyes. And the constant humiliation and the physical abuse I received at home didn’t help either.
And there she was, staring at me, curious and enthused. We had an instant connection. I felt that I can somewhat trust her, so I got back on the floor and crouched down, and touched her ear, her head, then her back and her tail. She just let me, she did’t bite me or show any signs of aggression. Then I poured her some milk, she liked it and she liked me. But at this point, I was still skittish about having a dog following me.
In just a few days we became inseparable. She was always on my mind even when I was at school. I couldn’t wait to come home. To the 11-year-old me, my home was a place where I was being punished for my mere existence. I was scared to go home, but a home with Beanie in it, I can feel less trapped, and less alone. She was the only one I could trust at home as I know she would never hurt me or neglect me, she’s always there next to me, and she’s always happy to see me.
One afternoon, my father eventually came home from his trip. The next thing I knew Beanie was locked up in the bathroom while I got slapped and whipped in the living room. I still remember that Beanie was extremely anxious, wailing very loudly and clawing the door the whole time. And that only stoked my father’s rage, he struck me even harder for the “annoyance” caused by “the fucking dog”. The moment my father opened the bathroom door, Beanie ran towards me like a bullet, but still, before she was able to catch me, she took a kick from my father. “NO——”, I cried at the top of my lungs as I can feel her pain and so she mine. She nonetheless managed to get to my side. Then my father grabbed my arm and dragged me to my bedroom, while Beanie was sobbing and tagging along. We both were locked up in my room for hours. I held her in my arms, I felt so helpless that I couldn’t protect either one of us. She was so tiny, so quiet and so warm. She offered me so much yet I returned her so little.
I tried to keep my head down from there on, so my father would have fewer excuses to “punish” me, should he care to provide any justifications at all. However, he always came around to hit me and attempted to hurt Beanie. Every time he saw me playing with Beanie, having a good time, he’d complain about the noise, or just the sight of it. Being aware of the paper-thin ice I was walking on, I learnt to refrain myself from displaying any affection for Beanie at my father’s presence. That got us a few days of “peace”.
Then one day he found out that Beanie pooped on the carpet in his study, he immediately lashed out on me, beat me to the point that I had a panic attack, I felt tightness in my chest and my heart pumping so fast, I could barely breathe… However, instead of putting a stop to it and checking on me, he accused me of faking the condition to appeal to his sympathy so to escape my duly deserved punishment, then he doubled down, while blaming me for crying too loud, he tripled down. I blacked out. I even heard the collision between my skull and the cold hard granite floor, then I quickly regained consciousness. Exhausted, I just wanted my life to end at that moment. Beanie never stopped dashing back and forth between me and my father, as he was brandishing the antenna cable at her. And the whole time, my mother was just sitting there, watching and gloating.
Nobody cared. We had at least four neighbors who could hear us. But for thousands of times, nobody did anything. After all, even my own mother didn’t give a damn. And during those years, I rarely met any of my extended family members. I had a 6 pm curfew. I had to play the piano for two hours each day. I brought some friends over a few times, which resulted in my parents threatening to dump me with hobos. Looking back, I was terribly isolated. Shaming me incessantly and guilting me for everything, my parents really did their best to break me.
But I had Beanie. The two-month-old puppy was my only source of consolation at that time. I did the best as a 11-year-old could to take care of her, to clean after her, to get her out of the house as much as possible. Though there’s the one most important thing that I couldn’t do — to protect her from the monster. I felt sorry for her that she had to suffer along with me all the time. She deserved a free and happy life.
It was a Sunday, a month and half since the day I got Beanie, I took her with me to a department store. I picked the needed item, and was ready to pay and leave. Then the salesgirl in her early 20s told me that my puppy is very cute and she also has a dog, a 6-year-old female. It was almost closing hour, not many costumers around, so we had a chat. I found out that she lives with her parents, in a house with a big garden, next to a forest, meanwhile the fragmented images from the horrifying moments of my life were flickering in my head, I realized that I had to let Beanie go. Now. So I asked the girl, and she gladly accepted. I gave Beanie one last hug, then I left, with tears streaming down my face.
For the next few days, I couldn’t eat, nor sleep, I cried day and night; and for the next few weeks, I cried myself to sleep every night, I cried in the shower every morning… I lost a lot of weight, I was dehydrated, I developed stomach ulcers, I had constant low fever… Till I cried away every bit of my immense sorrow and grief, then one day, I finally stopped. I learnt to not feel as much anymore, I learnt to not care as much anymore. Then for a long time, I couldn’t experience genuine joy or grief, I believed that there’s something inherently wrong with me, that I deserve to be mistreated, that I am worthless, that I should end my life. There’s no worldly achievement, no love and admiration could justify my existence.
I trod through a very long, very dark tunnel, till I saw the light at the end. I survived, long enough to see the truth: they abused me not because I’m not good enough for them, it’s just they are evil, and most importantly, I deserve a free and happy life too.
Digression:
It took me longer to finish this blog than I initially expected.
It brought back a lot of memories, the good, the bad and the ugly, all vivid.
I went through significant emotional turbulence during the process, I couldn’t believe after such a long time those feelings are still living strong inside of me.
I moved across continents, left everything behind, and never looked back.
The only thing I have to remember her by, this photo of Beanie is a salvage from MSN Space, and stored in the dusty old MacBook Pro I used 10 years ago, which I just dug up very recently, with the OS X version 10.9.5, and that is after all the possible software updates. Quite an archeological adventure.
How far have I come, yet the marvelous journey continues.
The day I broke my chains, I became the captain of my own destiny.
I’m profoundly grateful for everything.
World peace begins at home. Let’s all heal.