Woof

Woof.

To the average person, it is just the sound a dog makes. To me, it does not exist.

There are arou, grarr, gyep, harr, and agraw.

There is no such thing as woof.

I was playing with my neighbor's dog earlier today. I got into a heated game of tug-of-war using his light blue Kong Wubba. But all of a sudden, I felt him change. He thought he was hunting. I was still in a play-fight kind of mindset.

Max's grraw  brought me back to reality. I responded with a call of my own--garhar grarr. In English, I said, "Calm it, Max. Your Basenji lineage doesn't get you a free pass to hunting humans." But all of that was down to two short words in dog.

With Tessie, I enjoy myself in a different way. She doesn't like toys, so we use Beggin' Strips instead. I break one into ten or more pieces, and my calls in her native language tell her what to do to get a bite.

But Max isn't Tessie. Tessie's a quiet scenthound. Max is a hyperactive sighthound mix.

Yet they share a language.

If only humans had canine intelligence.

When She Was Good

When she was good, she was very good indeed, but when she was bad she was horrid.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, There was a Little Girl

I first read this poem while on fanfiction.net, a place where the average person can post work they've written based on existing literature, TV shows, and movies. It struck me. It reminded me of myself.

The summer before eighth grade. My aunt took me to Boston for a day trip, and we went on the Duck Boats. I loved it. Even though there was the occasional loud noise, I loved it. And to top it all off, the guide called me the "Google Girl," claiming you could search me and find a better answer than the search engine would provide you.

I answered every question he asked. For example: In World War II, why was the golden dome of the Massachusetts capital building painted gray?

Answer: To ward off bombers.

This kind of thing happens so often. I've had to learn not to do it when I'm in public, unless I'm specifically asked. Otherwise, people may actually say I am somewhat horrid. And I would have to agree.

I'll be posting more parts of this another time. But for now, go ahead: ask me any questions you would like in the comments, and I'll try to answer them without Google.

Family Ties

Even in my family, I'm not alone with having a different mind.

Both of my brothers fit into "categories" like I do. My sister doesn't, but that in itself makes her different among the four of us.

My oldest brother, N. for privacy, grew up when ADD was just being classified. He was one of the first in America to receive the diagnosis. He could have been who they based the concept of ADD on, for that matter. Even today, only two things keep his attention--sports and music.

A. was next in line. He was a very smart, energetic preschooler. But he hated any sort of stimulation. Especially light and touch. A. and I got along on that point quite well. And even though he could ride his bike at three years old, he struggled with learning to drive years later. After some recent research, I think he might have some form of Sensory Processing Disorder.

C. is one of my best friends. She is the most average of the family, but she does have some slight difficulties with social interaction on occasion. For her, though, she can ignore it. She plays sports year round, and was the only girl allowed on the boys' baseball team in middle school.

Then came the youngest, almost fourteen years after C. and twenty after N. I was so different from everyone else in the family, I'm always surprised that I wasn't recognized as very different from the whole population earlier on.

Autobiographical

Autobiographical is a big word that not many people know.

Eidetic isn't so big, but even fewer people know what it means.

Photographic is the least impressive of the three words, and we all know what it means.

But all three of these words have been used to describe my memory.

Even in kindergarten and before, I could remember lots of things. I could see an eleven-word spelling list once and not think twice about getting eight words right later in the day. I still think nothing of it.

But my peers do.

I've stood out ever since they realized that I could remember like that. I just accept it. It's never been any different. My siblings are all so much older than me, I was different from the start.

But as I've grown, I've wanted friends. School is not as much fun as it used to be. It's a place where I truly am an outcast, with writing that my teachers swear is college-level and math skills that have gotten me into algebra a year early. School is no longer the best place in the world--it's nothing nearly as good as it once was.

So I remember.

I remember my early childhood, my mom getting my brother the exact same gloves he already had for his birthday when I was three years old. I remember kindergarten, when I nearly skipped school over finger painting (I hated it.) I remember first grade, my mystery obsession, when I first read Cam Jansen and realized that other people were like me. (Of course, for a while, I thought everyone was like me....) I remember second grade, when I finally accepted that I was different. I remember third grade, when bullies and music were all I knew. I remember fourth grade, when I first learned that not all stories could take place in our world. I remember fifth grade, when I first opened Microsoft Word with the intent to write a novel (even if it was still childish). I remember sixth grade, when I started to deal with bullies again, and took refuge in my own mind. I remember seventh grade, standing up for myself after watching Temple Grandin in health class, realizing that in no way was I really all that different.

I remember.

I remember five verses of Samuel Butler's translation of the Iliad, completed in 1901. I remember all three verses of O Captain! my Captain! which I first learned for Social Studies. I remember the first three verses of The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe, and how my English teacher couldn't recite even the first without stumbling through. I remember a large portion of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, which I started reciting on a fifth grade field trip to Boston, much to our guide's surprise. I remember 84 digits of pi after the decimal point, resulting from an unfinished competition with a fellow nerd in school. I remember the first four lines on page 347 of The Complete Sherlock Holmes (long story, but it's in Silver Blaze, the most inaccurate story Doyle ever wrote.)

I remember.

And I am proud of that fact.