In the Doghouse
3.17.08

mommy doesn't love me
'cuz I made pee in my jammies
so I's left out on the streets tonight
'cuz mommy said, "if you pee like a dog,
you can sleep outside like one, too!"
so I's cold--so, so cold
I just wish doggies could wear coats in the winter
or socks for standin' in the snow

oh, mommy's gonna be loads, loads mad
I did it again: I peed in my jammies
'cuz I's just so cold that I didn't even feel it
and now she'll prob'ly make me sleep outside again
why, oh why can't I ever learn to be good?

4.11.08

Bitter wind whipped the thin material of his pajama shirt, hiking it up his stomach. Hurriedly, two small fists tugged it back down and wrapped his arms around his abdomen. Shivers danced up and down his spine almost giddily. If he closed his eyes, he could picture spiders racing up his back to the nape of his neck. Eyes flying open, his hands flew to where his shoulder blades met in the middle, slapping at the imaginary arachnids. Again, he shivered in a combination of chills and fear.

Through the dampness of his pants, the cold reached his legs even faster. After two hours outside already, he needed to go to the bathroom (again); but he didn’t dare, not after this. Shifting uncomfortably, he curled bright red toes, hopping from one foot to the other. In a feeble attempt to warm his body, he rubbed his hands rapidly across his arms. Oh, he wished winter didn’t get so cold. Although he always enjoyed playing in the snow, building snowmen, and sledding down hills, now he wished he’d never seen those frozen, white flakes. Standing out here in the snow barefoot didn’t help his condition or situation.

More than anything in the world, he wished he weren’t such a bad boy, wished he could learn to be good so that Mommy would love him. Because she didn’t love him, not one bit; of that he was sure. Oh, she loved him well enough when he drew her a pretty picture (“a scribble,” she would laugh in a mix of scorn and affection) or helped her bake cookies in the kitchen or when he hopped right under the covers when she told him it was bed time. Sure, she loved him then.

The problems came after bed – when he’d dream about taking a nice, warm bath… and wake up to find his sheets drenched. Like he had tonight.

When it would happen later in the night after the whole house grew silent, he would just go back to sleep. Sure, the wet sheets wrapped around his legs quickly became less than comfortable; but anything was better than Mommy finding out. Anything. Of course, she’d get a whiff of him the next morning; but then she would just purse her lips. Perhaps she figured sleeping in his own pee and humiliation was enough of a punishment.

This time, still awake, she’d heard his uneasy whimpers and burst through the door, throwing the room into light. Squinting, he sat up and watched his mommy’s face turn from healthy pink to furious red in a heartbeat.

Livid, she had dragged him from his bed, soiled pajama-bottoms and all. One thin arm clasped tightly in her grasp, she yanked him forward, eyes flashing darkly.

“You piss in the bathroom, boy,” she hissed without looking at the son she currently dragged behind her. “Not wherever you want, like some dog.”

Before he could wipe the dazed expression off his face, the front door fell open; and a blast of wind nearly knocked him off his feet. “Well,” his mother sneered, “if you pee like a dog, you can sleep outside like one, too!” The door slammed shut in his face.

Now, here he stood, having long ago squashed the false hope that Mommy would return and allow him entrance to the warmth radiating from her home. Arms slid up and down – pathetic, he knew, even as he continued the silent plea for heat. He wondered if God could hear him from all the way up there anyway. Or maybe God went to sleep in a nice, warm bed at night, too. And he bet that if one of the angels up there had an “accident,” God wouldn’t throw it out of the clouds and into the cold.

Then again, Mommy wasn’t God; and he was beginning to see that.

I wish doggies could wear coats in wintertime, he thought, shivering miserably. While thin pajamas were perfectly acceptable with the heat blasting in his bedroom and a fuzzy blanket to cozy into, it was not the most appropriate attire for where he currently stood, frozen in place (and he was positive that “frozen” was in the figurative sense).

Already he couldn’t feel his toes, numb and buried deep beneath the snow. Now, he was fast coming to regret his decision not to wear socks to bed. Bright pink, the digits wriggled; and icy, painful tendrils shot up his bitter-cold ankles.

A few more hours passed, but he dared not move to sit down, terrified at the thought of Mommy returning. “Who told you to sit down, boy?” he imagined her snapped before dragging him up by the hair. “Dogs wait for their masters to give them instructions, you little beast.”

And so he stood. He stood until the numbness crept up his spine, down his arms, through his fingertips. He stood until it grew more and more painful to hold still – and to move as well. Until every breath hurt. Until he thought he might burst from holding in his needs for so long.

Just as a grayish blue tinged the sky, his stomach clenched. His finger tips, frozen against his upper arms, squeezed weakly in anticipation. So cold. So, so cold. And suddenly, his eyes cramming shut, he felt the muscles in his abdomen relax. Warmth spread through his lower body. Though alone, realization made him flush with shame. As a strong stench rose from his pajama pants, tears of dread prickled at the backs of his closed eyelids and coursed down his cheeks. A tight knot of fear clenched in his stomach, and another grew in his throat. Oh, Mommy would be mad; she’d be so, so mad.

As if sensing the terror instilled in the boy, the door began to creep open. Trembling from the cold, his teeth clicked furiously together, eyes impossibly wide with trepidation. He saw her feet captured in fuzzy, white slippers. He heard her deep breathing, still calm and half asleep. The scent of the shampoo she used – lilac, he remembered so clearly now – reached his nostrils. Soon, she would see him and, more importantly, smell him.

Drying on his face, his tears were replaced with a fresh wave, these drying almost instantly as well. They left a strange feeling on his cheeks, chilling his face as the wind blew furiously. Like his face, his legs felt more frigid than before, causing the somewhat welcome warmth from his relief suddenly feel so cold. Wet pajama bottoms only made everything worse.

The door opened to reveal a face he dreaded.

Oh God, not again…

Author's Note: Please review. Please? I think the short story is better, but review and let me know which one you prefer.