Have you ever seen something that your brain refuses to recognize?
I live in a rural neighborhood. On the state route where I live, on a half-mile stretch there are seven houses. I’m not overly friendly with my neighbors, but I know them by sight. We get along all right.
Today I’m sitting on my patio, which, by virtue of being off the side door of my home, allows me a good view into a couple of my neighbor’s yards. Of course, this isn’t the reason for sitting there; I’m not a voyeur. I do enjoy being outside.
The usual sounds that come from my neighbor’s yard are children at play. This is pleasing and not overpowering.
It’s kinda fun looking up and seeing them hose the summer heat away. I remember being a child. I remember innocence before I even knew what it was.
But mostly I tune them out. I light another cigarette and turn the page in my latest gardening magazine.
I notice that the neighbor children have all gone into their home, lunchtime probably. They had been playing with their next-door neighbor, a 4-year-old girl whom I’d spoken to only once when she came to visit me with her older sister.
The little girl is as beautiful a child as you’ve ever seen — long blonde hair and big blue eyes. The one face-to-face meeting that I had with her was fairly recent; I’d asked her name and she looked up at her big sister, wanting her to answer the question. I’ve forgotten her name. But I remember thinking, “What a beautiful, sweet little thing.”
I idly page through the catalogue of roses, irises and such and, in my peripheral vision, catch a glimpse of the little girl still playing in the now-deserted yard. She’s picking up something and throwing it down. Hard.
Taking very little notice at first, my mind tries to identify the object she’s throwing. It looks to be perhaps an old baby doll with dishwater blonde hair.
For some reason, I stop turning pages and focus on the child at play. Then I see that, no, this isn’t a plastic doll, but perhaps a stuffed animal. Its legs are all floppy when it’s thrown up in the air.
Just as that thought registers, she picks it up again and throws it forcefully on the blacktopped driveway. I realize with shock that the child has repeatedly thrown a ginger kitten.
My brain becomes paralyzed. I want to jump up and stop the child. But as a relatively new amputee, that’s not an option. I want to yell, but horror freezes in my mouth. I watch as she lifts it gently off the blacktop and places it on the grass. Then she skips lightly up to the door and knocks.
Out come the two little boys who live there. They retrieve their now badly injured kitten and take it in the house. Soon the boys’ mother comes out the door, talking on a cell phone. Is she calling the vet?
One can only speculate as to the girl’s motive for such cruelty. Was she upset because they all went inside and left her alone to play? It’s obvious she knew she was doing wrong, because she went for help after the fact. Was she just calling for attention in the only way she knew?
Or is this a person who’s lacking empathy for living creatures, the emotion I call, “that caring thing”? Should I say something? I worked in the mental health field for a couple of years, and I’m fully aware of the psychological profile of children who torture animals. If I approach the parents, would they believe me? I’m well acquainted with parents who turn on the messenger instead of the message.
The mom and the boys, minus the sweet little girl, load up in the van. I turn my walker toward my kitchen door and go inside.
I wonder: Will this child eventually be a teenager living in my neighborhood? Will I be afraid 15 years from now when I’m older and possibly more disabled?
I lock my door.
This article appears in Jun 21-27, 2006.