ex-expat: beast of burden

by Zoe Benedict

I have two small charges — that term fits them as well as an affected British accent on a Long Island art collector — but I can’t call them my own because one belongs to my brother, and it certainly isn’t as though either of them sprung from my loins or any other part. Nonetheless, I do feel in charge of them. I feed them, bathe them, and clean up their number twos; I cuddle and play with them; they get all wiggly at my liberally-poured accolades and stand at attention when I admonish them.

They are my Sweet Baboos: Zas and Bucca. I hesitate to call them dogs, because I’ve recently been clouded by a fog of denial on that minor issue. For example, this was the first year in history that I did not dress up for Halloween, because I didn’t want to outshine Zas and Bucca in their costumes. Letting go of childhood aside, there comes a point where you’ve been looking at someone — or in this case something — so hard and so deep that it no longer seems to be what it is. I think of Bucca as a sea lion; she has a sleek black coat that always looks like she came right out of the ocean and a snouty face and a bark that comes from deep within her barnacled chest. Zas is like a fawn, slender and lithe, with his ears perked in constant expectation; he has long spindly legs that precariously dance his torso across the grass.

Today I decided to take my charges to the park. There is a renovated park in our neighborhood, really it’s a large field surrounded by trees on two sides and busy streets on the other two. I used to go there with my aunt when this neighborhood was a slum, and since then everything has gotten a face lift.

Zas and Bucca can be a little contrary on walks; Bucca pulls ahead and Zas has to stop and pee on every tree and surface that Bucca has visited to cover up her scent — this is a vast improvement over when he used to pee on her. As we approach the park, both of them pull relentlessly ahead, knowing their destination. I release them from their fetters and bounding they go into the wide enclosed green. The park has three baseball fields that bring to mind the possible dangers of simultaneous little league practice.

The two are in unbridled ecstasy tearing through the park. It occurs to me that they would look so cute in little jogging costumes; they’ve become indifferent to dressing up at this point. In a flash they find a squirrel to chase, a great test of endurance for them considering they’ll never actually catch one, but kids will be kids.

As I languidly follow them with my eyes I realize that they are no longer playing the funny ha-ha let’s chase the squirrel game, but they are truly hunting this small animal down and have caught it in a pickle between them. My thoughts race from how clever they are to holy crap they are going to kill this thing!

I am not a fan of the squirrel or any other rodent but I am even less a fan of my dogs becoming cold-blooded killers. I rush to the scene and scream at them to stop; Zas backs off a bit but Bucca is deafened by blood thirst. Soon enough Zas is back in the mix and it is a tornado of feet, paws and tail fur. The squirrel doesn’t stand a chance, nor do I in my attempts to thwart the beasts by nudging them away with my foot. I finally accept my defeat and turn my back on the scene.

Zas and Bucca toss the squirrel to and fro until they eventually break its spine, at which point they collapse to the ground, panting and admiring their kill. I sense the ritual has come to an end and I collect my two charges, fetter them once again and walk them home. Bucca does not pull and Zas does not pee; a cloud comes overhead and muffles the silence.

You may ask what this has to do with being an ex-expat and I will answer you this: dress it up, fetter it, take it on a long trip, sooner or later you will come home and confront the nature of your beast.

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