Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-07-09 - 11:58 a.m.

Attaboy

I did a bad thing today. I hurt the dog. I didn't mean to; it just happened. We were playing with his tennis ball in the back yard, and somehow when he went to give it to me and I went to take it from him, I jammed my fingernail hard into the roof of his mouth.

It must have killed - it sure hurt ME. Bent the nail back and the finger has ached for an hour. But he didn't even say a thing. He picked up his ball, and dropped it immediately, staring at it as if to say, "Hey, ouch." Then he picked it up again and gave it to me to throw for him.

If that had been me, I'd have been kiyiiiyiiiyiii-ing around that yard for ten minutes.

Not Max. It hurt. Ouch. Now let's get on with the game.

People don't work like that. I think about my kids - if there's a mid-game accident that hurts them, and particularly if that accident involves a part of someone else's anatomy, look out. There will be tears and loud accusations of intent. There will be inspections for telltale blood, and plenty of wounded sulking. The party of the second part will be so busy slapping together a loud defense that there won't be any room for concern or compassion.

But they're kids, so in ten minutes they'll be back playing with the tennis ball.

If I get hurt by accident, I can be viciously magnanimous. I know you didn't mean to do it, but perhaps you had better think about what you say next time, or cut your damned fingernails, or whatever. Mine is not a no-fault state, baby. I will lose all interest in playing ball - today, and maybe for a long time, it depends. There will be soul-searching, and inspections for damage, and much rinsing with peroxide. I may decide that it is not safe to play with you at all, or to play with anyone with fingernails. Or appendages on which fingernails are likely to grow. Perhaps all games that involve throwing things are to be avoided. Or maybe all small round items with fuzz on them lead to grief.

Max has a better approach. "Hey, that hurt my mouth. Throw my ball again, wouldja?" The game was fun before it happened. It will still be fun afterward. There's still breathless anticipation, and flat-out pursuit, and all those minor triumphs to enjoy. I'm sorry I hurt him, but he doesn't need me to be sorry. He's not figuring out whose fault it was - he's just waiting for me to get over it and throw his damned tennis ball.

He's a good boy, Max. Has his heart in everything he does. Lives in the right now. Doesn't have to forgive, because he doesn't blame. Maybe he's not much of an intellectual, but he's going to play more happy ball games than we will, I think.

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