Jack the Dog
Aaron Acuna
Hello. My name is Jack. I’m a dog. You don’t have to be my friend, but I would like it very much.
I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and my owner’s kids are super scared of me. My owner is a painter and he loves painting nature. He loves painting red skies. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? You can’t see it, but try imagining it. It’s beautiful—especially in Barrow where the sun never goes down. He paints and his children stare at me from behind the window, and—and they keep me chained outside and the snow is cold and brown and I’ve never played catch with anyone. I don’t get lonely, though. Did you know? Dogs can’t get lonely. Whenever I meet new people—Oh, I love meeting new people. A group of kids on a four-wheeler borrowed my owner’s bicycle. The bicycle never came back. My owner scolded me for not protecting the bicycle. I didn’t say anything. I can’t talk. I’m a dog. Whenever—whenever I meet new dogs, I say—well, I try to say—“Hi!” And they look at me and they keep their pups with their puffy jackets behind them as they walk by. The jackets are purple and they look comfy. I have one, too. That’s where I can hide and feel safe and where I can whisper to myself, and when I do whisper to myself, the voice that comes out of me says, “They don’t care about you.” And it keeps repeating and repeating; it gets softer and more demanding; it becomes an alarm—a warning—and I fall asleep on top of the snow and under the snow and—and—and the snow keeps my company. Dogs that live in Barrow can’t get lonely. That’s why everyone chains us up outside, right? We can’t get lonely.
Sometimes more dogs walk by. They look like dogs I knew from “before.” Lots of my past friendships ended badly. It’s not necessarily because they’re bad dogs or because I’m a bad dog, or… I think it’s because I’m just incompatible with other dogs. That’s because I’m not just a dog! I’m also Jack. I’m part -Jack. I’m Jack the dog. There is no one else like me. I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and my owner’s kids are super scared of me. There is no other “Jack the dog” from Barrow, Alaska, whose owner’s kids are super scared of him. My owner is a painter and he loves painting the sky. I’m alone, but I’m not lonely.
I can socialize with other dogs, but I have to be fake when I do it. Do you ever feel that? It’s no problem for me. I swear it’s not. I don’t get lonely, remember? I can be fake. I just don’t like being fake. I don’t like talking to other dogs, which is—it’s very dumb of me. I’d like to be friends with other dogs, but I don’t put in the effort. When I’m on the verge of achieving a new friendship, I pull away. I pull away like my owner pulls his brush away from the canvas. And when he pulls his brush away, a sky is there. A red sky. It’s red because of the sun. He pulls away, and so do I, and… I don’t know why I do it. My owner pulls his brush away from the canvas because his painting is finished, but I do it because… It’s either because they’re not good for me or because I’m not good for them. And whenever I’m being fake with others, I tell them enough about myself that they think they know something about me. They don’t, though. They only know that I’m Jack the dog and that my owner’s kids are super scared of me. You know that my owner is a painter and he loves painting clouds in his red sky. What do you know about me from that statement? You know nothing. You only know that my owner loves painting the sky. You only know that the skies he paints are red. You only know that dogs can’t get lonely.
And those other dogs—they might know that I used to have an owner whose name was also Jack, and I think he was half-wolf and was put down for having rabies. That’s who I think he was. My owner was half-wolf. He enjoyed jazz because he was a drummer, but he quit because of his depression, which he didn’t know he had for sure because he was always too scared to go see a doctor. That’s who Jack used to be. I don’t know where he is. I’m just his dog—well, I used to be his dog—and now I have a new owner and, and my new owner’s kids… sometimes they look at me from the window. I can see my reflection in the window. It looks like—it looks like I’m there inside with them. That’s why I’m not lonely! They’re here with me, even when I’m not there with them. The only time they aren’t scared of me is when they’re looking at me from the window, and they stare at me like I’m their friend. And I know I’m not, but I like to think I am. It keeps me from being lonely.
No one knows how much my new owner terrifies me. With his paintbrush in his hand, he’s a monster howling at nothing and he has a red neck and white fur. I think of his golden necklace as a crown—a crown that’s too big for his head. He wears his crown when he paints his red skies. The crown gives him an understanding of life that I’ll never comprehend, and I don’t think I’ll ever know why he ever picked me in the first place. Why take care of a pet that you don’t have the ability to care for? Why get a dog if the only reason you’re getting one is because it just seems right? Why have children if you’re never here for them? I’m the only one that’s here when they want to play. They look at me the same way I look at you, and, well—I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and I’m super scared of you. You keep me chained outside and the snow is red. My chain is red. Your neck is red and something is wrong with me. I have never wanted to be here, but now I don’t want to leave. See? You feel that? Dogs can’t get lonely, but I don’t feel like a dog. You don’t feel like my owner. You paint your skies red and you wonder why everything you touch bleeds. You punish me for running inside the house and knocking everything over. It was the only time I’d ever been inside your house, and it was so warm and the carpet was so nice… I smelled food I’d never smelled before, and my feet were dry for the first time in my life, but… but none of it was for me. I’m a decoration for the outside of your house. I give your canvas some color. It’s not even my house; it’s yours and yours alone. It’s not your children’s house; it’s not your wife’s house; it’s yours because you pay for it and if they don’t like it, they can get the fuck out and freeze for all you care, because you’re a good man and it’s your house. It’s your house. The sky is red because of the sun and the snow is white because of your fur, and you scolded me for not protecting the bicycle. Well, it wasn’t my bicycle. I can’t touch anything else you own—why would I touch your bicycle? I don’t need your bicycle. I’m not lonely.
I leave other dogs before they can leave me. It started as a defense mechanism to keep me from getting hurt, but now it keeps me from forming any kind of meaningful relationship. I pull away, just like you do with your paintbrush. I think I am you and that I’m being punished. I’m scared of being hurt by others and so I hurt myself. That’s why we paint our sky red. If our skies are red, it’s better that we’re the ones who paint it, right?
I don’t want to be alone. I keep rubbing my collar against my neck, and I keep staring at my owner’s kids as they stare back at me through the window from the warmth of a home that isn’t theirs. It was never theirs. It will never be theirs. Maybe it’s mine because I’m protecting it, but… it’s not.
“They don’t care about you. Not really. That’s just the way it is.” But I care about them. I want them to be safe. I’m glad they stare at me to forget what their dad is like. Or maybe they stare at me because I remind them of their dad, and they enjoy the fact that I’m chained up outside where I can’t get to them, because that’s what they’d like to do to him. They’d like to chain him up. That’s what I think. That’s what I’d do. But I shouldn’t. I would never do it. Not really. That’s just the way it is. I don’t need them. I’m not lonely. Don’t you remember? Dogs can’t get lonely.
I’m a dog. You don’t have to be my friend, but I would like it very much.
I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and my owner’s kids are super scared of me. My owner is a painter and he loves painting nature. He loves painting red skies. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? You can’t see it, but try imagining it. It’s beautiful—especially in Barrow where the sun never goes down. He paints and his children stare at me from behind the window, and—and they keep me chained outside and the snow is cold and brown and I’ve never played catch with anyone. I don’t get lonely, though. Did you know? Dogs can’t get lonely. Whenever I meet new people—Oh, I love meeting new people. A group of kids on a four-wheeler borrowed my owner’s bicycle. The bicycle never came back. My owner scolded me for not protecting the bicycle. I didn’t say anything. I can’t talk. I’m a dog. Whenever—whenever I meet new dogs, I say—well, I try to say—“Hi!” And they look at me and they keep their pups with their puffy jackets behind them as they walk by. The jackets are purple and they look comfy. I have one, too. That’s where I can hide and feel safe and where I can whisper to myself, and when I do whisper to myself, the voice that comes out of me says, “They don’t care about you.” And it keeps repeating and repeating; it gets softer and more demanding; it becomes an alarm—a warning—and I fall asleep on top of the snow and under the snow and—and—and the snow keeps my company. Dogs that live in Barrow can’t get lonely. That’s why everyone chains us up outside, right? We can’t get lonely.
Sometimes more dogs walk by. They look like dogs I knew from “before.” Lots of my past friendships ended badly. It’s not necessarily because they’re bad dogs or because I’m a bad dog, or… I think it’s because I’m just incompatible with other dogs. That’s because I’m not just a dog! I’m also Jack. I’m part -Jack. I’m Jack the dog. There is no one else like me. I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and my owner’s kids are super scared of me. There is no other “Jack the dog” from Barrow, Alaska, whose owner’s kids are super scared of him. My owner is a painter and he loves painting the sky. I’m alone, but I’m not lonely.
I can socialize with other dogs, but I have to be fake when I do it. Do you ever feel that? It’s no problem for me. I swear it’s not. I don’t get lonely, remember? I can be fake. I just don’t like being fake. I don’t like talking to other dogs, which is—it’s very dumb of me. I’d like to be friends with other dogs, but I don’t put in the effort. When I’m on the verge of achieving a new friendship, I pull away. I pull away like my owner pulls his brush away from the canvas. And when he pulls his brush away, a sky is there. A red sky. It’s red because of the sun. He pulls away, and so do I, and… I don’t know why I do it. My owner pulls his brush away from the canvas because his painting is finished, but I do it because… It’s either because they’re not good for me or because I’m not good for them. And whenever I’m being fake with others, I tell them enough about myself that they think they know something about me. They don’t, though. They only know that I’m Jack the dog and that my owner’s kids are super scared of me. You know that my owner is a painter and he loves painting clouds in his red sky. What do you know about me from that statement? You know nothing. You only know that my owner loves painting the sky. You only know that the skies he paints are red. You only know that dogs can’t get lonely.
And those other dogs—they might know that I used to have an owner whose name was also Jack, and I think he was half-wolf and was put down for having rabies. That’s who I think he was. My owner was half-wolf. He enjoyed jazz because he was a drummer, but he quit because of his depression, which he didn’t know he had for sure because he was always too scared to go see a doctor. That’s who Jack used to be. I don’t know where he is. I’m just his dog—well, I used to be his dog—and now I have a new owner and, and my new owner’s kids… sometimes they look at me from the window. I can see my reflection in the window. It looks like—it looks like I’m there inside with them. That’s why I’m not lonely! They’re here with me, even when I’m not there with them. The only time they aren’t scared of me is when they’re looking at me from the window, and they stare at me like I’m their friend. And I know I’m not, but I like to think I am. It keeps me from being lonely.
No one knows how much my new owner terrifies me. With his paintbrush in his hand, he’s a monster howling at nothing and he has a red neck and white fur. I think of his golden necklace as a crown—a crown that’s too big for his head. He wears his crown when he paints his red skies. The crown gives him an understanding of life that I’ll never comprehend, and I don’t think I’ll ever know why he ever picked me in the first place. Why take care of a pet that you don’t have the ability to care for? Why get a dog if the only reason you’re getting one is because it just seems right? Why have children if you’re never here for them? I’m the only one that’s here when they want to play. They look at me the same way I look at you, and, well—I was born in Barrow, Alaska, and I’m super scared of you. You keep me chained outside and the snow is red. My chain is red. Your neck is red and something is wrong with me. I have never wanted to be here, but now I don’t want to leave. See? You feel that? Dogs can’t get lonely, but I don’t feel like a dog. You don’t feel like my owner. You paint your skies red and you wonder why everything you touch bleeds. You punish me for running inside the house and knocking everything over. It was the only time I’d ever been inside your house, and it was so warm and the carpet was so nice… I smelled food I’d never smelled before, and my feet were dry for the first time in my life, but… but none of it was for me. I’m a decoration for the outside of your house. I give your canvas some color. It’s not even my house; it’s yours and yours alone. It’s not your children’s house; it’s not your wife’s house; it’s yours because you pay for it and if they don’t like it, they can get the fuck out and freeze for all you care, because you’re a good man and it’s your house. It’s your house. The sky is red because of the sun and the snow is white because of your fur, and you scolded me for not protecting the bicycle. Well, it wasn’t my bicycle. I can’t touch anything else you own—why would I touch your bicycle? I don’t need your bicycle. I’m not lonely.
I leave other dogs before they can leave me. It started as a defense mechanism to keep me from getting hurt, but now it keeps me from forming any kind of meaningful relationship. I pull away, just like you do with your paintbrush. I think I am you and that I’m being punished. I’m scared of being hurt by others and so I hurt myself. That’s why we paint our sky red. If our skies are red, it’s better that we’re the ones who paint it, right?
I don’t want to be alone. I keep rubbing my collar against my neck, and I keep staring at my owner’s kids as they stare back at me through the window from the warmth of a home that isn’t theirs. It was never theirs. It will never be theirs. Maybe it’s mine because I’m protecting it, but… it’s not.
“They don’t care about you. Not really. That’s just the way it is.” But I care about them. I want them to be safe. I’m glad they stare at me to forget what their dad is like. Or maybe they stare at me because I remind them of their dad, and they enjoy the fact that I’m chained up outside where I can’t get to them, because that’s what they’d like to do to him. They’d like to chain him up. That’s what I think. That’s what I’d do. But I shouldn’t. I would never do it. Not really. That’s just the way it is. I don’t need them. I’m not lonely. Don’t you remember? Dogs can’t get lonely.
I’m a dog. You don’t have to be my friend, but I would like it very much.
Aaron Acuna is pursuing a Baccalaureate of English.