By the time I was eight years old I did not ever remember being loved,
held or hugged by anyone, not even one single time. But that is just the
way it was when you have been locked away in a orphanage for the first
six of your eight years on this earth. I guess I thought that being
loved or cared about really did not matter very much because I did not
know that such a feeling even existed.
One day I was playing in the dirt pile, out behind the boys dormitory,
when I heard this strange noise coming from behind me. I immediately
jumped up very quickly and spun around because I thought I was in
trouble again, as usual, with the matron. When I stood up I saw the most
beautiful, kind and loving face looking directly at me. The eyes of an
angel were looking only at me, and my heart skipped a beat for the first
time in my young life. I placed both of my hands over my cheeks, took in
a deep breath, and with my eyes and mouth open as wide as saucers, I
backed up very slowly against the oak tree and just waited to see what
would happen next. She just stood there, like a statute, looking at me
and she did not say anything at all. My eyes rolled and rolled as I
looked her up and down from head to toe. I noticed the beautiful brown
and white coat that she was wearing. After a minute or so I reached out
and touched it very slowly and she opened her mouth, but then closed it
again without making any sound. I quickly withdrew my hand because I did
not want to get into trouble and I placed it behind me to show her that
I was sorry for touching her and that I would not do it again. Still she
did not say anything at all, so I sat back down in the dirt pile and
never made eye contact with her again. Finally she came over to where I
was sitting and touched me gently on the face. It was very warm and it
felt good to be touched by something that did not want to hurt me, for a
change. I just kept looking down at the ground because I did not want to
look her directly into the eye. You were not allowed to look anyone in
the eye, at the orphanage, because that was a sign of defying authority.
Finally I could take it no longer and I grabbed her around the neck and
I just hugged her as hard as I could until she let me know that she
really did like me, by licking me on the face.
That was the first and only dog we ever had at the orphanage and I had
no idea where she came from. Later that day we boys all named her
"Honey." A big old ugly looking bird dog who was brown and white. We
loved that dog and that dog loved all us and it was absolutely
wonderful. About two weeks later one of the boys came running to my
room, crying his little eyes out, and told me that Honey had been run
over by a car, outside the orphanage gate. I ran downstairs as fast as I
could and locked myself in the telephone-room. I stood there against the
locked door, breathing in and out as fast as I could, and I would not
come out not even for supper. I stayed in the locked telephone-room and
cried all night long. The next day I could not even go out the front
gate for fear of seeing Honey laying dead in the road, so I climbed over
the orphanage fence in order to get to school.
After school, Mrs. Winters, the head matron, called me to the office and
told me to go with old Mack, the black grounds keeper, to get a
wheel-barrow and pick up Honey out of the road. I shall never forget
that sight as long as I live because It was worse than horrible. Her
insides were all over the place and I shall never forget the look on
Honeys face as she lay there dead, with her tongue hangng out. I knew
that beautiful old dog would never ever love me again. I just stood
there and cried and cried the entire time and I tried not to smell the
odor of death. Old Mack, who was a very kind old man, told me not to
look at her. All by himself he moved her into the wheelbarrow and picked
up all the pieces and then took her some place to bury her. I don't know
where he buried her and I did not want to know where. Mrs. Winters,
never did like me very much and I really don't know why she did this to
me. I always bought her a statue of a horse, every Christmas, with the
two dollars that I got from the Jacksonville Jaycees. But I guess the
presents really did no good.
Those of you who are not orphans will not understand the real message
here. Having to clean up our own dead dog was not the point at all. The
fact that there was no one who gave a damn how we children felt. That is
the real issue. There was never anyone to hold us or to tell us that
everything was going to be al-right. There was never anyone who really
gave a damn if our little hearts were torn apart. All the orphanage saw
was a dead dog in the middle of the road, and "a bunch of whining little
bastards". Just another thing in the way....JUST LIKE US KIDS.
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.
|
