In the grand scheme of psychic powers, hers is slight enough that many would say it doesn’t count. She knows dogs’ names. She greets them in the park with all the proper etiquette, extending her hand for them to sniff before anything else, and as they do, she hears the name. “Oh, Baxter,” a gentle caretaker sighs. “Dammit, Lucy!” an impatient groomer snaps. “Here, Charlie!” a playful child beckons.
A stray appeared in her yard once, gaunt and filthy. She watched as he scarfed down the stale remnants of a bag of kibble she unearthed from the back of her pantry, hearing only memories of a name: a deep baritone crackling with age, a quick syllable long gone. Once he’d licked the bowl clean he darted back down the alley, and though she hoped, despite herself, she never saw him again.
She hasn’t had a dog of her own in many years, not since Sadie. Once she knows the name, once she’s heard it as they hear it, day after day, letting go is too hard. Weekly visits to the dog park are all she can manage. It feels churlish to regret such a gift, given the deep love and unbridled joy dogs can bring. Some days, though, both the silence of home and the sounds of their names feel like too much to bear.
Nora E. Derrington has an essay in the anthology Fat & Queer, which is available now. Photo via.