Placid - A Short Story
As I was walking through the park on my way back home from work, I stumbled upon an odd scene. A few yards away from the walking path, I saw a man crouched below a large tree, staring at a small patch of grass and dirt. I thought that he may have dropped something and was looking for it, so I walked over to see if I can help.
“Did you lose something, sir?”, I asked him as I approached.
“Oh! No, not really”, he smiled in awkward surprise as he turned his attention to me, “this is where my dog was buried several years ago. I’m just visiting him.”
“Must have been a special dog, very close to you I guess”, I said.
“No…”, he said brusquely, “we had a weird relationship…it’s a long story.”
“I am a dog owner myself…” I spoke curiously as I crouched beside him, “not sure what a weird relationship with a dog looks like.”
The man smiled at me and said “I can tell you our story if you like, but don’t say I didn’t warn you about how long it is”.
“I promise I will not”, I chuckled as he turned his gaze away from me towards the patch of land where his dog was supposedly buried, and spoke, “Here’s how it goes…”
“On my 7th birthday, I urged my father to get me a dog. So, he went to the pet adoption center and found a beautiful, brown puppy. Excited, he rushed back home and as he opened his car’s door in the parkway to step out with the puppy in his arms, the puppy jumped off and ran across the street. So, my father bolted across the street to grab him, and in all his excitement stepped in front of a speeding car. For the next 3 months, I saw my father in pain and discomfort as he recovered from two broken limbs and a fractured rib. He insisted, however that we keep the dog and he named him “Placid”. He named him such so that the dog would always remind each of us in the family to be placid and calm, unlike my father who gave in to his reckless excitement in chasing the dog across the street. He would often joke that he could have caught up to the puppy three minutes late and avoided three months in bed if he had just kept his eyes and ears open.
Placid was a good dog - affectionate, loyal, friendly and always cheerful. My parents and younger sister grew extremely fond of him. But every time I would look at him, he would remind me of the horrible day when he caused my father’s accident, ruined my birthday, and caused pain to our family for the months that followed. So, while I adored his cuteness and friendly spirit and enjoyed playing with him when in good spirits, I also felt a deep-buried resentment toward him. And that resentment would often come out whenever I was upset or stressed. For some strange reason though, he seemed most fond of me. He would run around me wagging his tail, looking at me through the hopeful light brown of his eyes, always seeking playtime or a rub on the neck. And depending on my mood at that time of that day, he would be on the receiving end of either friendly playfulness at my best, or a kick to the groin and curses at my worst. During my teenage years, with my raging hormones and rebel-without-a-cause spirit, it would be fair to say that I was cruel to him more often than I was kind.
He died three weeks before my 18th birthday. Grief is probably too strong of a word for what I felt upon his demise, unlike my father who was heartbroken. But whatever sense of loss that I felt upon his demise was rather quickly replaced by the excitement of the used car that I got as my birthday gift. I rarely thought of Placid after that day for the years to come. And yet here I am today, sitting right where he was buried.”
“How long ago was this, when Placid died that is?”, I asked.
“Let’s see”, he said, “I am forty five now, so a little more than twenty seven years since.”
“That’s a long time ago”, I said, “Why come here now, then?”
The man remained silent, introspecting, as if unsure himself of his reasons for being there. And then after a few moments he spoke again, “I have had a good life for the most part so far - good career, fulfilling experiences, a family with a loving wife and two kids. But there’s always bumps in the road no matter who you are, life kicks you around, either through situations or through people you know. And every time it does, a part of you wants to hit right back - do something impulsive or aggressive, even if it is stupid and not in your best interest. Sometimes you may be able to control this instinct, and at other times you may give in. Something like that happened to me this morning, I gave in to my instinct, and reacted in a way I shouldn’t have. And it is not the first time that something like this has happened either. But lately, every time I have hit a bump in the road and felt the temptation to react, I end up thinking of Placid. The same thing happened today, and I felt this urge to come sit next to where he lies, hoping that sitting here will probably help me understand.”
“Understand what?” I asked with some hesitation after a few moments of silence.
The old man turned his face to look at me, and said “Understand that despite of all those times that I cursed him, kicked him, and was cruel to him…why did he never bite back? Not even a growl, why? I guess I want to know what made him, or what makes anyone…placid.”
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