Henry writes on injustice

Henry maintains his own category, “Henry Writes,” on Lit Bits and Pieces.

Dear, dear Readers (if you are still out there, and haven’t abandoned Me, yet),

I write today out of great offense, so great that I can no longer keep silent.

Never did I see such a thing coming.

Never could I imagine a thing so, so—demeaning, so insulting.

I am, in fact, still in a state of utter disbelief.

I am not even sure I can bring Myself to voice it. My toenail trembles so against the keys as I type this that I continually have to backspace to correct My errors (if only My forepaws had the span and flexibility of People’s! What I could accomplish if I could use more than one toe at a time!).

I have been told [—shudder!—] that I am . . . I am . . .

overweight.

[Heavy sigh].

So said the veterinarian immediately upon entering the exam room at my last check-up. The very first words out of her mouth: “How much are you feeding him? He’s going to have to drop some pounds.”

She didn’t even pet Me first, and I have such gloriously silky fur.

My dignity is not merely in shreds. It is entirely evaporated. Gone. Nonexistent.

Poof.

It didn’t really matter what was done to Me after that, as I couldn’t care, so deep was My hurt. I figured My People would surely console Me with a TREAT when we got home, as I work hard to bring out their generous nature and their sympathy. If I am especially winsome, I can usually finagle two TREATS out of them.

But a most egregious fate awaited Me.

My breakfast and dinner were DRASTICALLY REDUCED and I got no TREATS for days! Then, at last, when I saw I was about to receive a TREAT, I momentarily lost My cool (quite striking) head and threw Myself into near-convulsions of ecstasy . . .

Abject disappointment.

Readers, it was the size of a gnat. No, a flea.  

This couldn’t possibly be a treat, this barely-existent bit of almost-air.

“Here you go, Boy,” said My She, “it’s just five calories! You can even have another!”

If you aren’t aware, Readers, two times nothing is still nothing.

I am, after all, a strapping, stunning creature in the absolute prime of My life; I give away all the joy and love My being can muster; I do not deserve this treatment.

All because a veterinarian questioned My weight.

I question the validity of that framed diploma in her office.

I will leave it to you, My dear, dear Readers—is this not the most appalling picture of injustice you’ve ever seen?

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Beautiful child

At a recent meeting of educators, I heard a woman speak of her child’s transition to a new school. The child came home bubbling with excitement on Day One:

“Mom, my teacher looks like me!”

This is the first time her child ever had a teacher of the same race, the woman said. In fact, she went on to say, with quick finger quotes for emphasis, her child was “the only ‘beautiful’ child in the class last year.”

I understood what she meant: Her child was the only one of their race in that classroom.

I’m a mom. I know the protective, fiery love for one’s own, above all else. A proverb comes to mind: “There’s only one beautiful child in the world and every mother has it.” This mom didn’t say there’d been a problem at the previous school but as an educator I know that a sense of belonging and identity are vital to learning. I know that every school and classroom should strive to value, support, empower, and celebrate each child (as well as the adults). For that is how children learn to value, support, empower, and celebrate each other. That’s humanity at its best.

Which is why, as a human being hearing these words from another, a mother and educator, I came away with one heavy, lingering question:

Aren’t ALL children beautiful?

Henry writes

Dear Readers,

First of all, hello.

I didn’t realize you were out there. Apologies.

I was only sniffing around to see what She is doing all the time on this, this . . . annoying Electrical Thing. I am forced of late to spend a great deal of time sitting on the kitchen rug by her chair instead of on the sofa where She will cuddle with Me. Granted, I can cuddle with a He (there are three from which to choose), but, as She has the warmest lap, She makes the best pillow.

I cannot figure out what’s so compelling about this Electrical Thing, other than, as I’ve just discovered—having inadvertently hit a movable part—there being a story here about ME.

Well. I don’t know what to think. And that accompanying photo of me-! I am aghast.

Do not tell Her this but I tried getting rid of that unflattering story. I confess that I don’t know how to make it go away. But I am, if I don’t say so Myself, a quick learner, as you can see, although it is taking Me a while to tap this out with one nail.

I do have stories, some that you might need to know, and others from long ago that—well, I prefer not to talk about long ago when I was found living on the streets. It brings a shudder even to this day. If I seem, ahem, needy [air quotes], there are reasons: I have loved, lost, and been lost.

-Hang on. She’s supposed to be sleeping. Must check. Be right back.

[clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick . . . 

clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick]

Gracious, how loud My nails are on the hardwood floor when the house is quiet! I’ve been in trouble yet again for biting them, but, HELLO, it’s time for a pedicure, if Anyone cares.

In the interest of time, before They All wake up: Rest assured that I will be vigilant about policing what is said about Me here, as vigilant as I am over what that abhorrent, slobbery yellow monster out back is doing, the foul fiend that She talks to so nicely in the voice meant for Me and ONLY ME, that incessant barker, copious shedder (My own hair, very, very fine, just comes off in wee, hardly perceptible amounts), that, that ANIMAL whose story has, unbelievably, won some kind of recognition, if My ears didn’t deceive me whilst pretending to be asleep during recent conversations.

-Egregious.

Happy to make your acquaintance, however. Until next time, I leave you with a far better image of Me, bedecked in My holiday finery:

Fondly,

HRH (Henry Rollins Haley)

Paterfamilias, Dominus, Master of the House