"Does your dog bite?"
"No, he is a nice dog. He doesn't bite."
"What if someone kicked him? Would he bite?"
"He is a nice dog, so I would hope no one would kick him. He is a nice dog."
"I'm going to kick him and see what happens."
This was a conversation I had with a boy about 10 years old before a speech I was to give at a youth group for inner-city children. His words staggered me then, and his menacing voice is still in my head.
- I was terrified of this little boy. He was horrifyingly emphatic about his intentions.
- I was angry with this little boy. How dare he threaten the wellbeing of my precious guide dog!
- I was devastated for this little boy. He was not born with such evil thoughts. His world gave him those thoughts.
All through my speech, delivered with only half my mind present while the other half raced through scenarios about what I should do if the little boy tried to act on his words, I fought fiercely against what I wanted to do more than anything else: leave, walk right out of there, tell the volunteers serving these children from low income housing and homeless shelters that I didn't need this kind of torment.
After my speech ended and the question and answer session was over, I shakily climbed into the car of my friend who came to take us home, spilling out the story of this little boy in a trembling voice. She gasped and told me that when she walked in, a little child had been standing about two inches in front of Nacho staring at him. She said the child shifted a little closer to Nacho, and Nacho moved his foot back.
I will never know if the child standing in front of Nacho after my speech was that little boy, but I bet it was. I at least know where he is now: in my head, near my heart, on my lips as I have talked about him in three speeches already. I can't shake him. I can't release him, for somehow, even if only metaphorically, releasing would be returning him to a world that is equipping him to speak and likely act with more and more and more malice. He could be walking the streets right now or huddling in a homeless shelter. He could be witnessing violence that has predisposed him to consider lashing out at a gentle Labrador, or maybe he is enduring violence inflicted upon him.
I will never know what I both want to know and don't want to know about this little boy, but I know two things:
- He didn't kick my dog.
- I didn't leave.