Mikayla Dancy. . .

Adopt, Don’t Shop

by Mikayla Dancy

It’s always something, with Jude’s mom.

“What’s wrong with you?” The question caps off a long tirade about whatever Jude did to piss her off this time: a common trend. She always says it like she’s asking it for the very first time. Like it’ll somehow dig up an answer that the last fifteen attempts didn’t.

As if by reflex, Jude is roused from the fog they let themself fall into, the conclusion of their mother’s rant like the sweep of a lighthouse over a lost vessel—or the jarring honk of a horn from some stranger who just had to let you know that that you should have started moving two-fifths of a second ago, you selfish prick

Even after surfacing themself in the present, it takes Jude a moment to remember their offending action this time. Their arms squeeze around something soft as they begin their reflection, and then—oh. Right. The dog.

A dead one, mind you, they’d never tear apart a happy family like that, and a taxidermy to boot, because as far gone as Jude’s mother seems to think they are, they are not a grave robber. They can't even drive to a cemetery, plus it’s been raining so they’d get all gross and muddy. Eugh. They adjust their grip defensively and glare at their mom through their bangs. “No one was gonna buy it. I wanted it.” Nobody gets angry at good Samaritans for rescuing random strays from poor conditions. What’s the difference between a stray and a taxidermy dog that no one cares to glance at? One moves and one doesn’t? It doesn’t make sense to Jude. They’re both dogs. People are supposed to love dogs. Jude does.

Their mom tenses up all over, some parts of her shaking, and every time she pulls this Jude wonders if she’s gonna have a heart attack. Maybe she is having one each time and she just drags herself from the claws of death with sheer willpower to continue chewing Jude out. They wouldn’t put it past her. “I took you to that shop for you to return the last thing you stole! It cost a hundred and fifty dollars, did you know that? I bet you didn't. You can give thanks to God that the owner was so nice.” She makes a whole show of shutting her eyes, putting a long-nailed hand over them, sighing, tapping her foot. Jude secretly thinks she counts down the seconds in her head.

While their mom indulges in her closed-eyed, contemplative ‘what-am-I-gonna-do-with-this-child’ theatrics, Jude sneaks a look down at the man or girl or gender-unaffiliated-being of the hour. It’s a chihuahua, fur short and reddish-brown, sunbaked tomato. A lot of taxidermists don't get the eyes right; they sort of bulge in separate directions, or they’re tinged a jaundice-yellow, or they exude a sort of constant existential distress. This one isn't like that. Its eyes are big, but typical-chihuahua-big, and still retain a little spark within them--almost anticipatory, like it was frozen in the instant right before its owner tossed the ball. Jude imagines this scene taking place in a park within some nondescript town, grass still wet with dew from a morning shower and the sun barely awake but doing its best to reward the folks who had gone out so early to bask in its light. It reminds Jude of a field trip they took to the town’s only zoo; without the funding for a proper enclosure, their resident tiger did nothing but pace the length of its tiny home, panting and staring through the viewing glass. Its eyes weren’t full of longing. They were empty. It seemed to Jude that the tiger was no longer capable of discerning its view of the outside world from one of its prison’s blank walls. They picture the chihuahua in similar conditions and shudder, suddenly queasy. No, this one is meant to be free.

“Mom?” They say.

“Oh God, what?”

“It was on sale.” They swallow, throat dry. “It’s cheap, no one was even looking at it, I promise.”

Jude keeps their eyes fixed on the dog so they can't see what face their mom is making. A sigh comes from above. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?” There's resignation there, and it gives them a flicker of hope. “Go upstairs. Don’t come out of your room until I call you. And—” Jude can hear it before she says it, ‘leave the dog’, but then she doesn't say it and the spike of dread that’d been waiting to pierce their heart pulls back in shock. “Just go upstairs, Judy.”

The pit in their stomach shrinks, though it’s more akin to a suspiciously squinting eye than a sigh of relief. Still, time alone means time to think of more convincing arguments. Unwilling to spoil the moment, Jude cradles their brand of warm tomato sunlight to their chest and goes.