Wind-Up Toy
Since I was a little girl, it’s been a great wish of mine to have a pet. I love all animals indiscriminately, and when I realised that a girl in my kindergarten had a golden retriever, I latched on to her immediately, and we became best friends. I would go to her house after school and ogle with an admiration that was equaled only by a yawning jealousy, as her golden retriever bounded up to the gates to greet her with its endless, slobbery love. When we watched cartoons in her upstairs living room, she would sometimes lay her head on the dense, gold fur of her dog’s body. I’d rest my head on the side of her thighs, and in so doing, pretend that I had a share in some of that love, too.
In those days, I had no idea that we could not afford a pet, and so I badgered my mother constantly for one. Desperate, she came home one day with a little electronic dog that one of the other children in church had outgrown. It was small and hard, with a layer of fuzz over its plastic body, housing AA batteries and a mess of wires. When you flicked a switch, it would pant and vibrate on the spot, jump forward thrice, then do a violent backflip. I had nightmares about that dog. Yet my desire for animal companionship was so all-consuming, that I persisted in my attempts to love it. I named it, fashioned it a leash out of neon plastic string, and tried to bring it on walks. Three steps forward, one somersault back. It took an hour just to circle our flat once. And no matter how many cycles we went through, the panting, coiling tension as it prepared for each backflip infused my six-year-old self with anxious dread. A screwy, ticking sound would originate from somewhere deep inside the dog, getting quicker and quicker. My bladder would feel tight, my heart would race.
Finally it’d snap, and the dog would leap high into the air. Each time the dog flipped, I would exhale with relief (there it is!) and consternation (here we go!) as it started panting again. I didn’t understand why it couldn’t just move forward like a normal dog. During this time, I continued visiting my friend after school, wrapping both my arms around her rapidly-growing puppy, and pressing my face into its warm, heaving fur. Its body was so solid, so reassuring, so alive. One time, her dog reciprocated. It licked my cheek, and I wanted to explode.
Later, she broke up with me. She wanted to stay friends, but didn’t feel as if we were best-friend material anymore. I nodded and said I felt the same way, that there was someone else in my life too, but it wasn’t true. Back then, there wasn’t Facebook or Instagram or any of that, but the preschool grapevine was strong. I found out that her new best friend had a puppy as well, and that they would bring them out on playdates. It seemed right to me then, that they would be natural best friends, and that me, with my electronic, lithium-dependent dog, would not. When it eventually spasmed and lost its balance mid-flip, I didn’t replace its batteries. It disappeared from the back of my closet, no doubt handed down to another child in church, and we didn’t speak of getting a dog again.
I found myself thinking of that electronic dog recently. My partner has been talking about adopting, about getting a puppy together. Today, being a dog owner is his great wish. It isn’t mine. I live with a cat whose approval I desperately pursue, and with whom I cannot conceal my affection. All my bathtime threats ring hollow, and she can — and often does — have her way with me. We could have a life together, my partner and I, my cat, and his dog. We’ve been talking about getting a place too, after a good seven years together, about taking adult steps forward in our lives. I’m almost thirty and these are the things that people who are almost thirty do.
But I find this a difficult vision to believe in. Of late, I have been feeling as if I’m living backstage, peeking out from behind the curtains. Life feels like a trial run. The Internet tells me on a Monday to ramp up my productivity, on Tuesday to remember self-care, and on Wednesday that the impending recession will surely unmoor us from the routines and habits we have found security in, if the big bad virus doesn’t get us first.
I can’t see past my fingertips. I don’t know which country or continent I will be in for the coming year, the second half of my unfinished MFA dangling before me. My favorite top, the one my girlfriend’s mother hand-stitched as part of her bridal-party getup, sits in a polypropylene storage bag somewhere in New York City. I was asked to come on board for a new project, based in Singapore, and I said I didn’t know. I was invited to a wedding, pandemically postponed to early 2021; I said I didn’t know. We still don’t know about getting a place. The other day, my partner observed that I am the sort to be incapacitated in the absence of a plan, and I found myself agreeing. I feel a screwy, ticking sound originating from somewhere deep in me, but I don’t know what it’s counting down to. It’s getting quicker, and quicker.
